Once I’m outside in the hall, I stop holding the tears in my eyes. It’s too hard. They fall quickly and smear my makeup.
“Kitsy. Wait!” I hear Annika call from the doorway. The pack of smokers turn to look at her. Their eyes fixate on her like wolves on prey. She ignores them and walks up to me.
“Annika, I thought there was something called Minnesotan nice,” I say impulsively. “Isn’t, like, everyone from Minnesota supposed to be nice?”
“No, they aren’t, Kitsy,” she says slowly and keeps some distance between us. “Just like not everyone in New York is an asshole.”
“You knew I liked him,” I manage to spit out.
Annika shakes her head and takes the last cigarette out of her pack. “Nope, you never said you liked him. And even if you had, that doesn’t matter. You have to look out for yourself because no one else is going to, Kitsy. Besides, you’re going home in a week. You’re not here for some boy,” she says, speaking more softly than before. She gestures to my camera.
“So you did me a favor? Where I’m from, we don’t call that a favor. I don’t know how they say it in Minnesota, but in Texas, we’d call you as crooked as a barrel of snakes.”
Annika rolls her crystal-blue eyes. “You’re on vacation, Kitsy,” Annika says, looking back toward the lounge. “This is a temporary break from your life. You get to go back. Why don’t you go home and confront whatever you’re running away from?”
“I thought you told me to never go back,” I say. “You kept telling me to look forward, not look backward.”
All of a sudden I don’t even care about Tad or Annika anymore. I’m just really, really confused.
“We’re different, Kitsy. I see that now. I can tell that Tad cares about you, but he thinks of you as a kid. Because in the grand scheme of everything, you are. I can’t remember any guy liking me without thinking he’s going to get something for it.”
It’s time to go home. I turn around, and say, “Maybe you should go back to being a brunette. I bet you had gorgeous brown hair.”
“My hair color isn’t up to me anymore . . . and Kitsy, if I had to do it all over again, maybe I would’ve never come here.”
When I start walking toward the subway, I hear Annika call after me. But I think she’s talking more to herself than she is to me.
Chapter 13
Taking Care of Baggage
WHEN I RETURN TO THE Corcorans’, I’m ready for a long bath in Corrinne’s giant bathtub. I need to be alone and spend some time reflecting on what just happened. I expect the apartment to be empty, so I’m startled when I see Mrs. Corcoran in the kitchen sitting on a counter stool and sipping a glass of wine.
“There you are!” Mrs. Corcoran exclaims. “I’ve been hoping you’d come home because I wanted to know if you’d like to go to the quinceañera with me tomorrow.”
If Mrs. Corcoran notices my smeared, definitely-not-waterproof eyeliner, she doesn’t mention it.
I stiffen my back and give the biggest smile I can muster. “I thought you couldn’t go,” I say, remembering the disappointment on Maria’s face when she read a note from Mrs. Corcoran saying just that.
“I couldn’t,” Mrs. Corcoran says. “We had a company dinner to attend, but I backed out at the last minute. You’re able to juggle so many balls and always have your priorities straight, so I thought I should take a page from you.”
Normally, I’d agree with Mrs. Corcoran, but the scene back at the Mercury Lounge is making me think that I wasted a lot of my precious time and energy on a project—and a person.
“I’m not sure that’s true,” I admit. “But thank you for thinking that.”
“So you’ll come?” Mrs. Corcoran asks hopefully.
Although I would much rather crawl up into a ball and stay there, I nod. It would mean a lot to Maria and Mrs. Corcoran if I did attend.
When I get home from school on Thursday, Mrs. Corcoran is waiting for me and shoos me with her hands. “Go ahead and change quickly. We’re already running late!”
When I change and return to the kitchen, Mrs. Corcoran has some of my older photographs of Hipster Hat Trick lying out in front of her on the counter. I wish she’d put them away. I hate seeing Tad looking up from his guitar at me. The photographs look even worse than the first time I saw them. Professor Picasso was right—it really is hard to take pictures of people performing. They look like they’re playing rockers in a low-budget movie. No emotion looks genuine.
Mrs. Corcoran sees me looking and stops flipping through the photos. “I hope you don’t mind, but I saw these on the desk. They’re really good. When I modeled a million years ago, half the photographers I worked with didn’t have half the sense of light that you already do.”
“Thanks, but it was a stupid project,” I say. I know that it didn’t come close to anything original. Tad was totally right; taking photographs of an almost band is nearly as much of a cliché as being an almost band.
“I’m going to find something new,” I say out loud. I thought about it all last night and today. Saying it to someone out loud feels like a relief.
“Well, you’re very talented. I’m sure whatever project you pick next will reflect that, and, ideally, you, too.” Mrs. Corcoran rummages through her purse and pulls out eyeliner and shakes the tube. “It’s been a while since I’ve worn any fun makeup. And since you are Miss Estee Lauder, I wanted to get your help.”
“Sure!” Even after a bad night, something about doing makeup feels cathartic. I apply my dotting trick to give Mrs. Corcoran a serious feline eye.
“I used to wear this all the time as a teenager,” she says, admiring herself in the entryway mirror. “This is going to be fun.”
Before we leave, I grab my camera off the counter. Maybe I’ll find my new project tonight!
We take a cab to Coney Island and, after a long trip, we’re dropped off in front of the Shrine Church of Our Lady of Solace.
“First, we’ll attend a Mass, then go to the party. Quinceañeras are not just parties to celebrate turning fifteen, but they are also a religious event,” Mrs. Corcoran explains.
“This is way different from that MTV show My Super Sweet Sixteen. I don’t imagine Esperanza will land via helicopter at the church.”
“Thank God for that,” Mrs. Corcoran says. “Some of Corrinne’s classmates’ parties were sickening in their excess. One boy received a Hummer even though he lives in Manhattan and doesn’t have his driver’s license. It all becomes a total competition between the parents to see who can throw the best party.”
“A little different from parties at the field?” I ask.
Mrs. Corcoran smiles. “I loved hanging out at the field. I still miss it.”
“I miss it, too. I’m actually looking forward to parties there this fall,” I add. As exciting as New York nightlife is, there’s something special about partying with green grass under your feet.
After Mass, Maria finds us on the church’s steps. “Fiesta time!” Looking at Mrs. Corcoran with a smile, she adds, “Thanks for coming. It was such a wonderful sorpresa. I think of you as family. I still remember Corrinne crawling all over while I cleaned. It’s too bad that she couldn’t come, but she sent a great replacement in Kitsy.”
We walk behind the giant group of Maria’s family and friends a few blocks to a large banquet hall called Manny’s. Inside, a small mariachi band plays and a DJ is setting up. Hanging from the ceilings are beautiful pink and blue paper lanterns, in the same tones as Esperanza’s blue taffeta dress. The smell of Mexican food wafts through the hall, and my stomach audibly growls.
Mrs. Corcoran takes my hand and says, “Let me introduce you to Esperanza.”
We walk over to where Maria, her husband, and Esperanza are greeting guests. Mrs. Corcoran hands Esperanza a thick envelope, and I feel embarrassed that I don’t have a gift.
“Kitsy,” Mrs. Corcoran says, “meet Esperanza.”
Politely, we shake hands. “I love your dress and tiara,” I say be
cause I really do, not just because it’s part of some routine of mine.
“Thank you! I hope you’ll take a lot of photos of my party. My mom keeps telling me how good you are at photography. She wants me to get a hobby. All I hear is Kitsy this, Kitsy that,” she says with a laugh.
“I’d love to photograph it. It’ll be my gift. This is all so beautiful, I’ve never been to anything like it.”
“Don’t worry, J.J.,” Maria says, looking at Mrs. Corcoran. “The whole family pays for the party, so I’m not bankrupt. The godmother pays for the dress and cake, my family pays for the band and alcohol, and we pay for the food, but I cooked most of it. Of course, I’m always up for a raise.”
Mrs. Corcoran blushes. “You know that I just gave you one, Maria.”
They both laugh.
I think it’s really cool how the whole family chips in; it reminds me of community (usually football-centric) events in the Spoke.
The DJ announces that the dancing will begin, and the guests gather around the perimeter of the dance floor.
Esperanza, along with eight boys around her age dressed in tuxedos, perform three original dances. It’s like High School Musical but with way cooler outfits and Hispanic Zac Efrons.
Then the boys leave the dance floor and Esperanza dances to a final song with her best-loved doll, a very worn Raggedy Ann Doll.
Maria comes over to Mrs. Corcoran and me and whispers, “This is the symbolic moment where she crosses over, leaves her toys behind, and becomes a woman.”
During that very sweet last song, I see both Maria and Mrs. Corcoran wipe away tears. I wonder if Esperanza feels any more grown-up tonight than she did before. I know I’m starting to feel different after my summer in New York; it’s definitely made me realize a lot. Even though I’ve always considered myself mature, this summer has pushed me to grow up even more.
After everyone applauds Esperanza’s performance, the song “Empire State of Mind” comes on and everyone rushes the dance floor. In less than a second, the party begins to resemble the typical party I’m used to. I guess our worlds aren’t that different after all.
Mrs. Corcoran laughs and goes to get a glass of sangria, and I start taking some photographs of the dance-floor scene.
Maria comes up and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to miss having you around.”
“And I’m going to miss your cooking!” I joke, snapping a photo of her laughing. I have a feeling that my photos are turning out really well tonight. Nobody’s performing—including me.
“That better be a good picture. I’ll miss you, Kitsy—and your art. I saw some of it when I was cleaning up. You have a gift,” Maria says. “You seem so very grown-up, Kitsy. You already know what you want to do. That’s unusual. Sometimes, you remind me of me. Keep following your dreams even if you get off course.”
“What was your dream?” I ask and wonder how many years it can take someone to finally catch it.
“I wanted to come to the United States, and now here I am—an American woman with an American daughter. Just listen to this music that my daughter picked out. My childhood dream to live, raise, and educate my family here in America is complete. The best dreams are the ones we have as children because they’re most pure.”
I nod, thinking about how my dream has always been to be an artist and how I need to always remember that, even when I’m older.
“Thanks for everything,” I say to Maria. “But quit entertaining me. Go dance with your daughter. She’s growing up right in front of you.”
As Mrs. Corcoran and I are preparing to leave the party, a cousin brings in hot White Castle cheeseburgers, which I have never had.
“Let’s get some and eat them in the cab!” Mrs. Corcoran says giddily. She seems so much more relaxed here than she does in Manhattan.
Maria comes up to us and gives us hugs.
“White Castle?” Maria shakes her head and laughs. “Maybe Esperanza’s becoming too American. What’s wrong with churros?”
In the cab, Mrs. Corcoran and I are both wearing huge smiles and clutching Mexican candy from the piñata. Tonight turned out to be a whole lot better than I thought it could be after last night. I’m so glad I came. Moping doesn’t help anything.
“That was so much fun,” Mrs. Corcoran says. “It’s sad, but I rarely ever have fun at parties anymore. These days, they’re more like obligations. You looked like you were having fun, too. I saw you dancing with that boy.”
“José? He’s Esperanza’s cousin. He told me it was a pity dance for the Texan. He said Mexico and Texas are neighbors, so he should be hospitable.”
“You can charm anyone,” Mrs. Corcoran says, laughing. “Some people come to New York to find themselves and end up losing who they are. You’re still the same sweet Kitsy.”
I’m glad that she thinks this. While I wanted to grow in New York, I didn’t want to change too much. After walking in on Tad and Annika, I started to seriously doubt some of my decisions this summer.
“Want to know a secret?” Mrs. Corcoran asks.
“Sure,” I answer, resting my head on the window.
“Dusty, my high-school boyfriend, visited me after I moved out to New York. That’s when we broke up. Everyone thinks I dumped him, but that’s not true.”
“What do you mean?” I say, sitting up straight. Mrs. Corcoran, or Jenny Jo as she was known back then, dumped Dusty, Bubby’s dad, after moving to New York City. It’s a Broken Spoke fact.
“That’s what people assumed, and Dusty was too nice to set them straight. He dumped me.”
“He hated New York?” I ask.
“No, he loved New York. He didn’t love Jenny Jo, New York–style. I left Texas to be a model, but somehow, over time, I lost me. I don’t think that’ll ever happen to you, Kitsy. You should be impressed with yourself for staying you and growing at the same time. I’m still learning how to do that.”
“Thanks,” I say. We spend the rest of the cab ride in silence, but my brain is running full speed. If I grew up as much as I feel like I did this summer, then there’s something I have to do.
When we’re back up in the apartment, Mrs. Corcoran and I kick off our heels seconds after entering.
I look at Mrs. Corcoran and realize that I need to tell her now.
“Mrs. Corcoran. Can you change my airline ticket? I need to go home tomorrow night. I’ve been running from something, but it’s not right. I’ll go pack up my things. I’m sorry about this,” I apologize, feeling my eyes start to well.
“Are you sure it can’t wait, Kitsy?” she asks, putting her hand on my shoulder. “You’re going home in a week.”
“Maybe it can wait,” I say. Then I shake my head. “But it shouldn’t. It’s too important.”
“Okay, Kitsy. If there’s an emergency, I can get you on a plane to Dallas. But I want you to try to come back here as soon as possible and finish what you’ve started. I’ve already cleared my schedule for your portfolio show next week, and it would break Corrinne’s heart not to see you.”
“Thank you so much,” I say. “It’s not an emergency, but . . . it’s been going on too long and I finally need to deal with it. I just can’t go into it right now. Do you think I could leave tomorrow night and come back late Sunday night? That way I won’t miss any school. I promise I’ll pay you back, a little bit each month.”
“If that’s what you need,” Mrs. Corcoran says, “I’ll call the airline right away. But I’m not letting you pay for the ticket. We have plenty of miles to use, so there will be no reason to pay us back. But first, let me apologize to you.”
“For what?” I ask. I feel like I’m the one that needs to apologize for wasting the Corcorans’ money and picking such a silly project.
“I haven’t been here for you as much as I thought I would be. When I was in the Spoke last fall, I was convinced that I had changed and that I wouldn’t ever get so wrapped up in New York again. But then I came back, little by little . . . I guess what I’m trying to s
ay is—”
“That it’s possible to be two different people in two different places?”
Mrs. Corcoran stops and looks at me appreciatively. “I guess you understand what I mean, Kitsy. It’s okay to just be your best self though. Change doesn’t always mean growth.”
She gives me a big hug. “Will you take some pictures of my Spoke? I want to make sure that I always have a bit of home with me. The things that matter the most in life.”
“Of course,” I tell her.
I wish Mrs. Corcoran good night and go back to my room to pack. It’s time for me to finally deal with some of the baggage I’ve been carrying around since I got here.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: Friday August 3
Subject: Where are you?
Have you gotten my last few emails? Have you abandoned me for cooler New Yorkers? (You know that’s a trick, right? There isn’t anyone cooler than me. Please don’t tell me you’ve been spending time in Brooklyn. Not now.) Stuff with Cory’s going well but . . . he’s a bit serious. I mean, what happens at camp stays at camp, right?
Chapter 14
Can You Never Go Home Again?
CINDERELLA HAS ALWAYS BEEN MY favorite fairy-tale heroine. As a child, I dressed up as her for three Halloweens straight. Many nights, I dreamt that my life could also change with the swish of a magic wand or a kiss from a prince, just like Cinderella’s did.
By coming to New York, I got to realize my fantasy: to escape and end up someplace magical. But after living my own fairy tale, I don’t think of Cinderella as a hero. Instead of confronting her evil stepsisters and stepmother, she hightailed it to the palace and left her father and friends behind. In a sense, she left Cinderella behind, just like Annabelle did with Annika. What’s so heroic about running away?
A Long Way from You (Where I Belong) Page 18