“It’s not that big of a deal,” I say without looking up. “Besides, it’s not like I’d win.”
“That’s a great way of looking at life,” Iona says sarcastically just as Ford walks up.
Ford rolls his eyes at Iona. “How about another museum date this weekend?” Ford asks me.
“Kitsy probably doesn’t think museums are important,” Iona says to Ford, who gives her a confused look.
Picking up my vase, I sigh and say, “I’ve had enough for today.” Without a good-bye, I walk across the room, set my vase down to be fired, and leave.
At my school, if you’re a cheerleader and you date the quarterback, you’re popular. But being popular only means you get invited to all the parties and no one bugs you at school. It doesn’t mean that kids don’t talk behind your back. And just because you’re always around people, it doesn’t mean that you have a lot of real friends. I never even had a best girlfriend until Corrinne.
Walking back home after the Iona-scholarship incident, I dial Corrinne. If I’ve ever needed a friend, now’s the time.
“Hey, Kitsy!” Corrinne says, whispering. “I’m hiding in the camp’s shower house. I’m not supposed to have my phone, but I was in Facebook withdrawal. Of course, I picked up when you called because I’d break any rule for you.”
“Thanks, Corrinne,” I say and ready myself to confess everything I haven’t told her about New York.
But then Corrinne squeals, “Holy Holly Golightly, Kitsy, I’ve had a personal life revelation. One of my cocounselors, Cory, is the hottest guy ever and I’m pretty sure he’s going to have a big influence on my life.”
I swear I’d be a millionaire if I had a dollar for every time Corrinne called a male the hottest guy ever.
“Of course, he barely knows that I’m alive, but that’ll change,” she says. “How’s the art-making? Have you moved into MoMA and pitched a tent?”
Looking down at the cement, I wonder if I should tell Corrinne about everything that’s going on. After all, she’s been beyond kind to give me this whole experience. It’d be completely rude of me to tell her how I squandered my chances for a scholarship and I haven’t even been back to MoMA.
All of a sudden, I’m so overwhelmed that I can’t ask Corrinne what I really need to talk to someone about. So I lie: “I’ve visited lots. You were so kind to get me the membership. I’m just calling to say that I can’t wait to see you at my show.”
“Thanks, Kitsy,” she says. “I love you, but I gotta go—my cabin needs to practice our lip sync. I can’t believe I’m at some rugged camp, and you’re in the city. Talk about total role reversal. It’s like a Miley Cyrus movie. Love ya.”
“Love you, too,” I say and I hang up. I still think that Corrinne’s “rugged camp” is probably still pretty luxurious. After all, exaggeration is Corrinne’s favorite accessory. A big emergency there is probably deciding which pair of riding pants to wear to dinner. I don’t want to weigh her down by making her deal with my drama.
I walk into the front door and drop all my things in a defeated heap when I realize Maria is there.
“Hello, Kitsy!” Maria says as she wipes down the counter.
I carefully pick up my things off the floor. “Hi, Maria,” I say. “How are you doing? I loved the chilaquiles. You’ll have to give me the recipe. I do most of the cooking at my house.”
“Your mother doesn’t cook?” Maria asks.
“No,” I say, hoping Kiki has had at least a few meals that didn’t come out of the freezer since I’ve been gone.
“She’s just like Mrs. Corcoran,” Maria says. “She doesn’t cook either. Kitsy, did you notice that the orchid is starting to bud?” she asks, pointing to the plant on the windowsill.
“Wow,” I say, admiring it. “I hope that I’m here to see it bloom.”
“If not, you’ll be back and that plant will still be here. It’s a survivor. Oh, Kitsy, I have an invitation to my daughter Esperanza’s quinceañera for you and the Corcorans,” she says and places a beautiful, handmade invitation on the counter.
I only know a little about quinceañeras, a special tradition for many Spanish-speaking girls’ fifteenth birthdays. A few of my classmates in Broken Spoke had them, but I’ve never been invited to one.
“I’m finished for the day,” Maria says, heading for the door. “I hope that both you and the Corcorans will come.”
“I’d love to,” I call out after her. I doubt with the Corcorans’ busy schedule that they’ll be able to make it.
I guess there is more than one way for parents to be absent. Maybe Corrinne and I have that in common.
I fumble through my bag and pull out my cell phone to call Ford to see if there’s any way he’s up for another museum date right now. I need to get out. Good Kitsy is back in the driver’s seat. I see one new text.
Hey, Texas! It’s Annika. I have an event. Do you want to go for an hour then do something fun?
Maybe a date with Annika is exactly what I need. If anyone knows how to make it in New York from a small town, it’s her.
Me: Sure. What should I wear?
Museums will be here tomorrow.
Annika: Just look hot. Be at 42nd and 5th at 8.
I rush to Corrinne’s closet and pick out a yellow jersey tank and a pair of black silk shorts. Quickly, I heat and eat a prepared supper, a chicken potpie from the fridge, and give myself a once-over before I head out. I’m not sure I look hot, but I know I don’t look like myself, a feeling that I’m getting used to.
One hot and sweaty subway ride and a transfer later, I’m standing at Forty-Second Street and Fifth Avenue in front of a library. But it doesn’t look anything like Broken Spoke’s public library, which is a one-story brick building with the word READ painted in large bubble letters.
The New York Public Library is a white stone building that looks like it should house jewels, not books. Three huge archways, flanked by six columns, lead into the library. Above each column is a statue representing a “useful knowledge.” Two marble lions guard the entranceway.
I recognize it as where Big and Carrie almost got married in the Sex and the City movie and from the opening scene of Ghostbusters. Quickly, I snap a few pictures and text them to Kiki. He’s going to freak.
Feeling a hard slap on my butt, I spin around and find Annika. Her “hot” constitutes a dress the color of her skin that nearly makes her look naked, and a blowout that only a professional could do. She doesn’t look small-town at all. I hope someone will say that about me one day.
“Love your makeup,” Annika says.
Well, if all fails, I can always go back to blushing and bronzing.
“So what’s your event?” I ask.
“It’s a party hosted by a magazine to highlight young people in the arts.”
“You work at a magazine?” I ask, having a hard time even imagining Annika behind any desk, even one at a fashion magazine.
“Gawd, no. That would probably require a college degree, and I gave up that when I, well, technically dropped out of high school.”
“You dropped out of high school?” I try not to wear my shock on my face, but isn’t high school necessary for most everything?
As we get closer, I notice a zillion cameramen lined up on the library’s steps, and there’s a red carpet in front of the entrance.
Annika turns to me and says, “Hey, Kitsy, do you want the short or the long story about me?”
“I think we only have time for the short,” I say as she loops her arm into mine.
Breathing in, Annika begins to speak. “Okay. Here it goes: I went to Mall of America last summer before my senior year. A talent scout was hanging out by the food court where I was eating at a Dairy Queen, an establishment this city is sadly lacking. Blizzards are mad good. Blah, blah, blah, blah, he was looking for an unknown to star on this new show. And, tada, I’m now that girl. The pilot got picked up a month ago, and we start filming next week. The show’s totally unrealistic. It’s suppo
sed to take place in Wisconsin, and the plot is how all the girls spend their days chasing hockey players. Except it’s stupid because in real life, girls in the Midwest play hockey, too. Basically, I have to swoon over pretty boys pretending to be hockey players when at twelve I could’ve outskated even the stunt players.”
“Wow,” I say. “You played hockey?”
Annika smiles. “And that is why I like you, Kitsy. After all of that, you just want to know if I actually played hockey. You’re so not New York.”
I smile and eat the ten million questions I have for her about what it’s like to be an actress.
“I don’t even know how to ice-skate. We don’t have a rink in Broken Spoke. Hands”—I hesitate, realizing I’ve never mentioned him to Annika—“he’s my friend in Texas,” I lie coolly. “He skated once when he visited his second cousins in Houston, and says it kills your ankles. My brother, Kiki, would die to do it because he’s obsessed with the Mighty Ducks movies. I’d love to try, too, and I think I’d be good because Rollerblading seems similar, and that’s how I serve my customers at Sonic.”
I stop the Kitsy Monologue when I become pretty sure that Annika isn’t listening. She’s scoping out the scene.
“People will take our picture up there because I’m starting to get recognized. Everyone wants to be the one who finds the new ‘it girl.’ All the new ‘it girl’ actually means is that you aren’t anyone yet.” Annika uses huge quotation gestures each time she says “it girl.”
We get in line behind other people, who are way more dressed up than either Annika or me.
“Let’s put in some face time and find something better than this,” she says.
I’m standing on a red carpet with an almost celebrity, and there’s allegedly something better than this?
When we walk near the entrance, I hear someone ask, “Isn’t that the girl on that new Iced show?” and another yells out, “ANNABELLE!”
Annika turns her head around, puts a hand on her hip, tilts her knees together, and pops her butt. She opens her mouth, not so much in a smile as a pout. Her pose immediately drops ten pounds off her already slender figure. Freezing like an ice sculpture, she holds her pose while a rapid series of lights flash. Only when it finally becomes dark again does she relax and drop the pose.
“How did you learn that?” I ask her once we’re inside. “And how come that guy screamed ‘Annabelle’?”
“The pose is a variation of the sorority squat that my sister taught me. As for the name, my agent thought Annika was too ethnic or too small-town or not enough of something. I like Annabelle way better but sometimes I just forget to introduce myself that way. Try to call me Annabelle if you can remember.”
I think of my own name, and I wonder if I’d have to change it to make it in New York. Would anyone want to buy a Kitsy original? Even though I was named after my mom’s first doll, I like my name.
“That’s kind of how it is at the salons here,” I say, thinking back to Corrinne and me at Spa Belles my first day here. “I told the nail tech that I liked her name, Joy, but that’s actually her fake name. Her real name is Phung, but they all take American names to make it easier.”
Annika/Annabelle laughs. “Nothing here is authentic. You can be anything here since nothing’s genuine.”
I’m not exactly sure that’s a good thing, but I guess Annika knows a lot more about it than I do.
When Annika approaches the bar, a sea of boys and men getting drinks part to let her through.
“I’ll have a vodka soda,” she says. “Do you know what I miss from Minnesota?”
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says with a shrill laugh.
As much as I love New York, I can’t imagine not missing at least parts of Broken Spoke. But if you want to make it, maybe that’s how it has to be.
A lady in a fuchsia skirt with a tangerine blouse taps Annika.
“I’m with W magazine. We’re taking some sound bites from this party for our magazine. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure,” Annika says politely and motions for me to stand by her.
“What’s it like for people to say that you are the next big thing?”
“Flattering,” Annika says and gives a smile I haven’t seen before. It’s more controlled, as if she’s hiding something.
“How’s it having to hang out with hot guys all day?”
“Well, luckily, we spend most of our time in an ice arena, so that helps me keep my cool.”
The lady laughs a little too hard. I imagine that’s not the first or last time Annika will use that line.
“I read that you were discovered at a mall. You must be a natural since you’ve never studied acting.”
Annika immediately freezes up and bites the corner of her lip. “I believe the scout saw potential. I have been taking acting classes with Stella Adler Studio for over a year, so I feel pretty confident in my abilities. Thank you so much for interviewing me.”
The lady finishes writing down her notes, her photographer snaps a picture, and they both walk away.
Annika faces back toward the bar and finishes her drink in three big pulls through a tiny straw. “That’s the thing about being an actress—you never stop acting. You always have to maintain that persona. Annabelle is Annika now,” she says. “Acting’s really the only way to get through New York. Trust me, I used to be just like you.”
I try not to take that as an insult. After all, of everyone I’ve met in New York, Annika and I probably have the most in common. If she knows the road to success here, I’m ready to listen.
I look around at the waiters passing around fancy, unidentifiable appetizers (or hors d’oeuvres in NYC speak) and a marble staircase that must lead to levels of the party that we haven’t even seen yet. By the time I turn back around, Annika’s heading out the door. With one more glimpse, I reluctantly follow her outside.
Annika lights up a cigarette, and I’m glad that she smokes a different brand from Amber.
“Kitsy,” I hear someone cry out and turn around to see Waverly, dressed like it’s prom, albeit a Gossip Girl–style prom, waiting in the line to get in.
Annika raises her eyebrows at me.
“Hi, Waverly,” I say and walk the distance to meet her.
“What are you doing here?” The you is definitely accented; perhaps Waverly didn’t mean to do it—although I’d wager she did.
“With a friend,” I say, pointing toward Annika, who waves her cigarette.
Waverly gives her a look of recognition and judgment.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, purposely accenting the you.
“My mom’s magazine had extra tickets, so she gave me some.”
“Great,” I say. “Gotta go, we’ve got another event. Crazy night,” I lie, taking Annika’s advice about acting. This Kitsy persona is not intimidated by Waverly, who is currently looking at me with a shocked face.
I turn away from Waverly and ask Annika, “Where to?”
“Anywhere but here,” she answers as she stubs out her cigarette with her stiletto.
“Do you care if I text Erik and Tad to meet up?” Annika asks in the cab. Her only direction to the cabdriver was “Take me downtown and quickly.”
I’m saved from answering when my phone vibrates in my purse. Annika watches me closely. “Is that home calling?” she asks, and I know, without checking, that it’s probably Hands, Kiki, or Amber calling.
“I’m sure it probably is,” I admit.
“Don’t answer it,” she says. “Give yourself a break for the night.”
I do feel like I need a rest tonight. I’ll check my phone later just to make sure nothing’s really wrong. “Annika—I mean Annabelle—can I ask you something? If you don’t miss anything about home, why do you hang out with Erik?”
“Because he thinks home sucks, too,” she says. “We’re the only two people from there who know that life didn’t begin and end in high school. We never talk about Minnesot
a. I only told you about it because I could tell that you’re new to this whole New York thing. I wanted you to trust me. I promise I’ll help you blend in here.”
Mrs. Corcoran rarely mentions the Spoke either. Maybe the best way to move forward is to not look back.
Leaning into the front seat, she says with confidence to the cabdriver, “Bleecker and Thompson.”
Hard to imagine she ever lived in a small town where a large otter was the main attraction.
“Okay, here’s the deal. They’re at a bar called The Back Fence,” she says.
“That sounds great, except I don’t have an ID. I’m not exactly legal,” I say, remembering that Annika knows even less about me than I do about her.
Annika slides her French-manicured hand into her clutch and pulls out an ID. “Duh, I’m not legal either. Good thing that we’re not playing ourselves tonight.
“Here, you’ll be Kirsten Fox. She’s my older sister. She’s away at University of Minnesota–Duluth becoming a nurse like my mom. I was planning on going there, too, before I got saved.”
If being saved means leaving a small town, will I be doomed if I stay in Texas?
Examining the ID, I see a slight resemblance between Annika and Kirsten. Or, rather, I catch a slight glimpse of what Annika must have looked like before she became Annabelle, future “it girl,” star of Iced. I wonder if the bouncer is going to notice that I’m not a brunette like Kirsten, and that I’m five foot five, not five nine.
Maybe Annika notices my concern because she says, “Just watch the ‘y’alls’ when you talk to the bouncer and maybe throw in a ‘yabetcha’ or two. By the way, Erik is with Tad, so I hope you meant it when you said you didn’t care.”
I shouldn’t care since I do have a boyfriend, I think. But I can’t bring myself to say that out loud. The guilt of calling Hands “my friend” earlier tonight makes me feel like I ate mud.
When we reach the bar, there’s a line out the door. The whole bar seems only about the size of the Corcorans’ kitchen and live music booms into the street from inside.
A Long Way from You (Where I Belong) Page 15