“Kitsy!” the voice calls.
I spin around to find Tad at my heels.
“A cupcake!” he exclaims and reaches out for it. “For moi? That’s so nice.”
“Hi, Tad,” I say, instinctively clutching my cupcakes close to my chest. “I tried to find you, but I couldn’t, so I settled on something sweeter instead.” I don’t know where those last words come from. I know that they don’t sound like me.
Tad pauses for a second. Did I cross the line?
Putting his arm around me in a big-brother type of way, Tad says, “I just got back from MoMA. Jealous much? How was school? Didn’t anyone ever tell you that only the dorks and burnouts go to summer school? Okay, to be fair, I went to summer school, too.”
“Well, somebody did warn me to stay away from musicians who try to get you to play hooky,” I say, ducking out from underneath his arm.
Not to mention, my boyfriend, Hands, instructed me to stay away from all boys in New York. Actually, all people in New York.
I pop the entire mini Funfetti into my mouth and chew it slowly to buy myself time.
“So how about coming to see the Hipster Hat Trick practice in Brooklyn?” Tad reaches toward my Oreo cupcake and swipes some frosting off with his finger.
“Can’t,” I say, looking at my watch. “I have a meeting.”
Tad looks at the frosting as if he’s debating whether he should lick it off his finger or not. Finally, he does, and then he casually licks the side of his mouth with his tongue. Holy Holly Golightly, it doesn’t make me feel casual at all.
“A meeting or a band rehearsal? Do you even need to think about that decision? Do you think the artists hanging in MoMA learned to do art by going to meetings?”
Tad doesn’t wait for my answer; he continues on. “Besides, you have to see art to make art. Not that I’m calling Hipster Hat Trick art. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not that conceited or delusional. But c’mon, Kitsy, live a little.”
Tad spins me then dips me. I cling tightly to my cupcakes and umbrella.
“Sing with me!” Looking up at the clouds where the sun is trying its hardest to peek out, Tad dances in a little circle around me and snaps out the rhythm and sings: “I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day. When it’s cold outside, I’ve got the month of May.”
Before Tad can get to the “My Girl” chorus where things will get even that much more confusing, I stop him and surprise myself by saying, “Okay, okay, I’ll go.”
I’m not getting the scholarship anyway, and I definitely need to learn to live a little. It’s just a band practice, after all. The whole group will be there, including a kid from home, and absolutely nothing will happen.
And that’s how I end up on a subway Brooklyn-bound despite Corrinne’s warning that everything I need is in Manhattan.
Chapter 9
The Thing About Good Girls
THE THING ABOUT GOOD GIRLS is that just because they are good, it doesn’t mean they don’t ever consider being bad. On account of having a mother who isn’t exactly Nick at Nite material and having a father who hasn’t been spotted in six years, I pay plenty of attention to how people perceive me. All my life, I have sat in front rows, led cheers, and dated the nicest boy in school so that people would know, without a doubt, that I’m good. But now that I’m out of my area code, I find myself thinking what it would be like to be different. Not to be bad, necessarily, just to be different.
Sitting next to Tad on the L train heading toward Williamsburg, I realize I don’t even know if Tad has a girlfriend or what his last name is. I just know it feels exciting to do something that surprises even me.
“So then,” I say, recounting, “there was, like, clay everywhere. Like, even on the ceiling fan.” New Yorkers love exaggeration.
Tad laughs and shakes his brown hair. I try not to pay attention to how cute he looks when he does it.
Tad jumps up as the subway lurches to a halt, grabs my hand firmly, and pulls me up from my orange bucket seat.
“This is us,” he says. I love the way “us” rolls off his tongue. Even though the only us I’m supposed to belong to is Hands and Kitsy.
When we make it up onto street level, Tad takes my hand and we walk a few blocks east past restaurants, dingy bars already full with customers, and bodegas. There are entire blocks void of people, and there just seems to be more room to breathe. This is totally not Corrinne’s scene with its rough edges, and lack of department stores and chic cafés, but I love it here.
He doesn’t need to tell me why because I see it: a spectacular view of Manhattan.
“Wow, I can’t believe the best view of Manhattan is here,” I say, glancing around the much less glamorous Brooklyn.
“I think sometimes you’ve got to get out of a place to be able to take the whole thing in. When you’re in it, you only see what’s in front of you. You should come back and sketch it from this view,” he says. “I’m jealous that you can make a memory or an experience into something tangible.”
“I love how you think about art,” I say, half to myself because Tad’s already heading back away from Kent Avenue and the river. I’m not sure he even hears me.
When we reach a building with a marquee reading MUSIC HALL OF WILLIAMSBURG, Tad extends his hand and says, “After you, Kitsy.”
“You practice here?” I ask, walking in and admiring a large stage where I notice Rider and another guitarist tuning up their instruments. I’m used to people practicing in their parents’ garages, not at actual venues with a stage and a stocked bar.
“Yeah, a guy I know owns the place, and lets us practice here on random afternoons. It’s got great acoustics, and some pretty amazing bands have played here,” he says.
Rider, wearing a cut-off jersey tank, sees me approaching and stops fiddling with his guitar.
“You’re a long way from home, Kitsy Kidd,” he says. I see him do a double take from me to Tad, back to me.
“I could say the same to you. A little different from playing at the Broken Spoke High gym, huh?” I tease, being bolder than the Kitsy I know, the good one.
“Let’s just agree to not mention the words Broken Spoke for a while,” he says before turning back to his guitar. “There’s a reason we’re both in New York for the summer: It’s called ‘getting away.’”
“Fine by me,” I say loud enough for only me to hear over the stringing of the guitars. I’m glad that Rider isn’t part of Hands’s huddle in the Spoke. It’s nice to have a little divide between here and there, which is pretty easy since it seems that everything in the world divides the two.
“You okay hanging by the bar?” Tad asks before he climbs onto the stage. “I know the bartender, Cooper, over there. He’ll hook you up.” Tad gives a nod toward the tall, bearded guy pouring out a shot. Actually, now that I look around and think back to our walk here, it seems almost everyone is bearded in Williamsburg. Well, at least the guys.
Did I come all the way here to hang out at a bar alone?
“No problem,” I manage to choke out even though I feel totally deflated. It’s not like Tad misled me though; he invited me to his band rehearsal and I accepted. My only question is why I did, especially since Tad admitted that his own band is lame. I can’t believe I skipped a meeting for a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship, however far-fetched my chances were, for this. I’m well acquainted with being disappointed, but it’s a new feeling to be so disappointed with myself. Maybe being different isn’t so great after all.
I take a spot at the bar, one stool away from the only other girl there, a leggy blonde in a green romper. She definitely fits into Corrinne’s categories of a person who wants to be a model, who was a model, or who is currently a model. If I had to sketch her, I would have to shade her cheekbones in for about ten minutes to accurately show how defined they are.
“What’ll you have?” asks the bartender, Cooper, and I rip my stare away from the maybe-model next to me.
Looking down at my watch, I notice it’s four t
hirty p.m. The scholarship meeting is over, so I guess I’m officially here. Might as well settle in. Who knows, maybe this isn’t a mistake. I need to wait it out and see.
“I’ll have a Coke,” I answer. I don’t want to be any more uninhibited than I already am acting, so I stick to my signature drink.
“In that case, all your drinks are on the house. And even if you do decide to go stronger, they are still on me. Tad and I go back.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say, wondering about Tad and his life a little too intently.
I text my brother, figuring I should do something that Good Kitsy would do.
Can’t wait to see you, Kikster. Bringing you home tons of stuff.
The bartender places a large Coke with a straw in it for me. I’m disappointed when I quickly taste that it’s actually Pepsi.
The beautiful blond looker peers over at me with curious eyes.
“Taking it easy?” she says. “Don’t worry, I had a big weekend myself. I should be taking it slow, too.”
I’m flattered that this Bright Young Thing thinks that I’m the type of girl who could have a big weekend in NYC. And I guess, in a way, I did.
I recall each detail from Saturday in my mind as if it were a movie rather than my actual life. I almost forget that I’m upset with Tad for abandoning me at the bar and upset with myself for being here.
“Late night on Saturday,” I say.
She raises her shoulders. “What night isn’t in New York.”
Especially when you are modelesque, I add mentally, and I imagine her at a club surrounded by champagne on ice and adoring men. I wonder what she’s doing here and not posing in couture for some glossy magazine cover.
I think that our little conversation is over, so I look toward the stage, where the band’s started practicing a rendition of the eighties song “Jessie’s Girl.” Tad gives me a wink and my palms sweat.
My phone vibrates and I almost drop it because my hands are so slippery.
Hands: You are my favorite. Call me tomorrow. I know that you are there to do your art.
The word art runs guilt through my veins, and I sip my Pepsi to get the taste of lies out of my mouth.
The blond girl looks back over at me as I check my phone and try to remember if I ever felt sweaty about Hands. I’m hot all the time in Texas, which makes it difficult to figure if I’m sweaty because of Hands or the humidity.
“Aren’t phones annoying? It’s like you can’t spend a few moments enjoying music. It’s pretty sad,” she says before motioning to the bartender for another as she sucks down the last of her clear drink.
Quickly, I tuck my phone away in my purse, realizing at the same time that I forgot the Corcorans’ umbrella on the subway. I get angry with myself for being so irresponsible. I’ll have to try to figure out where to buy another giant umbrella and how to afford it with my dwindling Sonic savings.
I pull out a dollar for the bartender. I’d never stiff anyone after all my time working at Sonic.
Setting the money on the table, I swivel my stool to face her.
“Yeah, phones are annoying,” I agree. “People expect you to be in constant contact even when you’re trying to get away. It’s like everywhere you are, you aren’t just there; you have to be somewhere else electronically as well. It’s especially hard when you’re just trying to enjoy being somewhere amazing like this. I’m Kitsy Kidd, by the way.”
I reach out to shake her hand when she says, “Not from around here.” It’s not said like a question.
“The handshake gave it away?” I ask as she reaches her long, manicured fingers to meet my chipped canary yellow nails.
“No, it’s just that all I hear is accent. I got asked the same question when I first moved here. It always embarrassed me. I’m Annika.”
Apparently, last names aren’t required in New York, even in Brooklyn. I think I know most people’s middle names in the Spoke and I could draw their family trees for generations back.
Smiling, I say, “Pleased to meet you. Where are you from then?” I imagine she’ll answer Sweden, Russia, maybe even Brazil like Gisele Bündchen.
“Let me see if you can guess.” Annika pauses and takes a breath.
Changing her voice from her soft Marilyn Monroesque tone, she says in a nasal octave, “Gee, Kitsy. Pleased to meet you. Dontcha know where I’m from?”
My mind flashes to that weird movie Fargo about that small town in the Midwest. . . . Where was it again?
“Minnesota?” I guess on a long shot.
“You betcha,” she answers. “But up north, it’s pronounced Minn-Ah-So-Ta.” Switching back to her first airy, whisperlike voice, she says: “Land of ten thousand lakes. The home of the Vikings, the Twins, and the Wild. And of course, Paul Bunyan.”
“It was the blonde that gave it away. Plus, I saw the movie Fargo. Are you from St. Paul?” I ask, recalling my state capital knowledge from elementary school.
“Gawd, no,” Annika answers as she reaches for a fresh drink. “That’s an actual city with buildings, even though they’re teeny-tiny compared with the ones here. I’m from Fergus Falls, population ten thousand. Home of the largest otter statue. And Kitsy, I’m not a real blonde. We’re not all blondes back home. I’m not sure who started that rumor. Maybe the Chamber of Commerce trying to attract more male visitors?”
I laugh. I reckon every state gets stereotyped, for better or for worse.
“You’re joking about the otter, right?” I ask.
“I’m negative-forty-degrees-below-with-wind-chill serious. We have the largest otter statue in the country. Otters were my school mascot, too. They built the statue with some hopes for tourism, but the thing is people are more interested in visiting the largest twine ball, which is in Darwin, Minnesota, and two hours away. Basically, no one visits, so now it’s where local kids take prom pictures and get drunk.
“Evidence: Exhibit A,” she says, pulls out her iPhone, and scrolls to a photo of her and the otter statue. Not to be mean, but it’s pretty cheesy.
“Oh,” I manage, still in disbelief that this girl hails from a town as small as Broken Spoke. “My town doesn’t even have a statue. That’s a way cooler mascot than the one at my school. We’re the Mockingbirds.”
I don’t even know why I say “Mockingbirds” like that. I’ve always liked the Mockingbirds as our school mascot because it’s original. Most other schools are the Tigers, the Wildcats, or the Mustangs.
“Where are you from?” Annika asks and sounds genuinely interested, unlike most people.
“Broken Spoke, Texas,” I answer. “It’s kind of like Friday Night Lights.”
Annika’s eyes light up. “I loved that show. I’m a Tim Riggins fan all the way. Somehow, he pulls off long hair unlike anybody else.”
I fiddle with my straw. “Yeah, it’s a great TV show, but it’s a little less fun if it’s your life, if you know what I mean.”
Annika shrugs. “They always make places look better on TV, even New York. In movies, small-town girls come here and get swept off their feet and have amazing adventures. That doesn’t happen. If you want anything here, you’ve got to work for it. The small-town act doesn’t get you anywhere.”
I nod, wondering if I’ve been naïve all this time. If I really want to make it, should I be acting differently? Less like myself? But aren’t I already doing that by skipping a scholarship meeting and following Tad around Brooklyn?
Pointing to the stage, Annika says, “That’s Erik. He plays the drums. He’s from Fergus Falls, too. We met in the hospital the day we were born. We’re seven hours apart.”
Erik, Rider, and Tad are standing together looking over some line notes.
“So is he your boyfriend?” I ask. Although Erik is okay-looking in his plaid shirt and unusually-tight-for-a-male jeans, I really can’t imagine him and Annika as a pair.
“Gawd, no,” she says, a bit of her Minnesotan accent slipping through. “Erik and I just go way back. We both feel the same way about Fergus
Falls, so it’s good to have each other to lean on since we don’t relate to anyone back home anymore.”
Tad, Rider, and Erik disperse back to their old spots onstage.
“Do you go back often?” I ask.
Annika pauses. “No,” she says and shrinks a little. “I did a couple of times, but things change.”
Then she grins as if she can change her mood with the press of a button. “The weather in New York is tropical compared to Minnesota, so this is home now. So what about you and Tad, little missy? Are you two an item?”
“Gawd, no,” I say, mimicking Annika’s expression, and she laughs.
“I like you,” she says. “I think you have what the French call a certain je ne sais quoi.”
My faces flushes, and I hold back the urge to tell her my life story from birth to my conversation with Iona this very morning about je ne sais quoi. Then I remind myself what Amber always says: “Folks only know what you tell them.” And in this case, if some glamorous girl thinks I have a certain something, there’s no need for me to be yakking about my insecurities, art related or otherwise.
“Erik told me that Tad’s working on something new that’s really great and original. I’m sure you know, but Tad was almost famous until everything that happened . . . happened.”
With every pore of my body, I want to implore her to tell me what “everything that happened happened” was, but I don’t. Sometimes the past doesn’t need to enter the present. It’s not as if Tad knows everything about me.
“Nobody thought that Tad would start writing again. Apparently just last night, he called a practice to work on something new he wrote. Erik told me to come today because it might be something big, although everyone in New York is always saying that.” Annika stands up and watches the boys.
It seems like something big is always happening in New York, which is amazing. In Broken Spoke, it seems like the same things just happen again and again.
A Long Way from You (Where I Belong) Page 13