In my new fairy tale, the girl is brave. Not because she figures out how to get away, but because she realizes that she needs to return home. There’s no sense in spending your life running from yourself—or the truth. Happily ever after is not a place: It’s a state of being, and you have to work at it every day.
Boarding the plane to Dallas late Friday night, I think back to Annika telling me how it’s not easy to go home again. But I’m not Annika. If I were her, I would have five more inches, a TV show, and Tad. Now I know that those aren’t things I want.
I text Hands I’ve got a surprise for you! before the flight takes off. I know that I should be more excited to see my boyfriend, especially after three weeks, but I feel like I’m wearing three barrels on my back.
During the flight, I sleep like I’ve been awake for weeks. There must be something like New-York-City-induced fatigue that occurs once you are off the island. But I’m glad for the rest because it keeps me from obsessing over why I’m heading home.
As the plane approaches Dallas, I’m relieved to see huge pastures of grass and a skyline that seems tiny in comparison to New York’s. I don’t think I realized how much I missed the palette of Texas, where there’s every shade of Mother Earth. New York definitely has the monopoly on a lot of things, but Texas owns the rainbow.
Corrinne’s grandparents pick me up from the airport early Saturday morning. They are the Grandparents of the Century. Mr. Houston even taught Corrinne how to drive a pickup with a stick shift, which must’ve required the bravery of a cowboy and the patience of a saint. It’s funny to imagine that they are glamorous Mrs. Corcoran’s parents, but families don’t always match up like you think they would.
When I climb into the cab of Billie Jean the Third, Mrs. Houston turns around in the front seat and brushes a hair out of my face.
“You must be beyond exhausted, Kitsy. I sure know that we are always bushed after a few days in New York. Even the dogs seem to walk faster there.”
I nod. It’s not just New York that can be exhausting. Broken Spoke and family can be, too. Ditto for high school.
“Well, honey,” Mr. Houston says, pushing his cowboy hat down to block the sun and shifting gears as we’re getting onto the highway. “Tell us about your favorite New York experience, and something about your art class.”
“I made a clay vase that exploded on my class,” I tell them, laughing. “And my favorite New York adventure is . . . well, I had the best time when Corrinne was there.”
Mrs. Houston shakes her long, silver hair and says, “I just hope she didn’t get a good girl like you in too much trouble.”
Oh, I did plenty of that on my own, Mrs. Houston. Out loud, I say, “My favorite memory by myself was definitely when I went to a diner at three in the morning!”
“Mercy,” Mr. Houston says. “Out at three a.m. and alone? The twenty-first century terrifies me.”
Mrs. Houston surprises me by smiling and nodding. “I think that’s wonderful, Kitsy. Sometimes, we forget to reflect back on all the great times we had by just ourselves. You can be your own best friend, you know.”
And your own worst enemy, too, I think. I really wasted my time on that Hipster Hat Trick “project” and now I have no idea what to do for my portfolio that’s due next week.
“Rest, child,” Mrs. Houston says. “I know you’re tired. Before we go to your house, we’re going to stop by the scrimmage. Kiki is watching Hands play. Did you hear about that new quarterback who moved to town? I think Hands will pull through, though. He plays with a lot of heart.”
She’s right. He does. I was way too dismissive of Hands and what he cares about when I was in New York. He’s just as passionate as me even if it is about other stuff.
As Mr. Houston talks about Hands fighting for his spot, I think about how when you live in a small town, your struggles and your triumphs are everyone’s business. Right now, I’m thinking that’s a good thing. It’s comforting to have people on the sidelines rooting for you when you’re winning and there when you fall down.
When I wake up, we’re driving down Broken Spoke’s strip. There’s not much to see—a Chinese restaurant called Chin’s, a Sonic, a grocery store, and a hardware store. Rumors are we might be getting a coffee shop, too. Not a Starbucks, but those are overpriced anyway.
I always thought that Broken Spoke didn’t have much to it, but now I realize that it had everything I needed. I wonder if I’ll have time to have an egg roll at Chin’s (which are way better than any I had in New York) or drop by Sonic to work out my schedule for the fall. Feelings of belonging and familiarity wash over me.
When we pull up to the field, Kiki starts running toward Billie Jean the Third from a quarter of a mile away. Seeing him is the best homecoming I could ask for.
As soon as I open the car door, Kiki flies into my arms. I hold him tight.
“Where are my presents?” he yells. “Is Slimer in your bag? Does he feel oozy?”
I finally release Kiki from our hug and pat him on the head. “I missed you, too,” I say. “I’m only giving you one present now. I’ll bring more treats when I come next week.”
When I pull out the iconic I ♥ NEW YORK T-shirt I bought from the airport store before I boarded, Kiki squeals in delight.
“I’m wearing this on the first day of third grade. And the second day, and the third day, and the fourth day.”
Mr. and Mrs. Houston start walking toward the football field and wave at us to follow.
“C’mon, Kitsy,” Mr. Houston says. “Let’s see how hard you’re going to need to cheer next year.”
From our distance, I see Hands catch a tight spiral and run. There’s my number 18. When Hands sees me, he keeps running past the goal post and into the parking lot where I’m standing. With one (large) arm, he picks me up and kisses me on the mouth.
“I thought it was you!” he says, laughing. “But why are you home?”
“I need to deal with something,” I answer as best as I can. He doesn’t stop looking at me. How do I explain that I’m doing this now? “Amber,” I say simply.
Hands raises his eyebrows in a way that I know means he thinks she’s crazy, but hey, she’s the only parent I’ve got.
The guys are calling for Hands from the field to get back to the scrimmage. Reluctantly, Hands lets me down.
“Field tonight?” he asks me with a wink.
“I’m leaving tomorrow. I really want to see you and talk to you, too. Pick me up after dinner?”
Hands grows a little more still and asks quietly, “Sure, but is everything okay, Kit-Kat?”
“It will be,” I say. I give Hands a hug and move back toward the Houstons’ truck, where Kiki’s hopping up and down in his New York shirt, which he already slipped over his head. Mr. and Mrs. Houston ask me if I’m ready to go home. I nod, not sure if I actually am.
After I profusely thank Mr. and Mrs. Houston for the ride, Kiki and I go inside the house. Part of me braces myself for a scene out of that show Hoarders. Taking out the trash, washing dishes, and basically doing anything domestic has always been my responsibility. Before I left I taught Kikster how to do dishes because we don’t have a dishwasher, but I wasn’t exactly depending on a nine-year-old to hold it all together.
Releasing my breath, I’m amazed to see that the house is completely habitable—although it could definitely benefit from a good Swiffering and a dose of Lysol to mask the smell of cigarettes.
“Amber?” I call out.
I didn’t expect Amber to be waiting with open arms, warm milk, and a platter of Toll House cookies, but I was hoping that she’d at least be expecting me.
“You made it!” I hear Amber shout back from her bedroom.
“Yup,” I say to myself, awkwardly.
Amber comes out from her room. She’s wearing her robe, but I can tell that she curled her hair and put some lipstick on, which means it’s a good day in Amber terms.
Then she does something that surprises me: She embraces me ev
en tighter than Hands did, and he’s the bench-press champion at Broken Spoke High.
“Kitsy,” she says. “You look so much older and sophisticated than before. I can’t believe that you’re my baby girl.”
Sometimes I can’t either.
“Are you now going to tell me why you came all the way home?” she demands impatiently. “What’s going on?”
I know I need to speak directly with Amber. I’m home for this.
I’m realizing for the first time that I can measure home in both physical and mental distances. I feel so tired from traveling them both.
“Wait a minute, Kitsy,” she whispers. Then, a little louder, she says, “Hey, Kiki, do you want to watch one of those movies I rented? I’ll put some popcorn in the microwave. Me and Kitsy need to talk for a minute.”
Amber throws a bag of popcorn into the microwave. Then she slides a DVD of Miracle on 34th Street into the player.
“He’ll only watch movies about New York,” Amber explains to me as Kiki plops in front of the TV. “I think it makes him feel closer to you.”
Looking out the front window, Amber smiles and says, “Looks like the sun is almost setting. Days are getting shorter again. Let’s go sit outside.”
I haven’t said anything. Where did the old Amber go?
Sitting down on an old folding chair, Amber lights up a cigarette. Before she takes a drag, she says, “So what’s up, Kits? I know you wouldn’t just come home from your big adventure for nothing, right? I know this trip meant a lot to you.”
I reflect back to all my planning and poring over New York books at the library. My trip didn’t end up being anything like I thought it would be, but turns out that that’s part of what I love about New York—the unpredictability.
“What’s it like?” Amber asks after a moment. “Have you really not seen any celebrities?”
“This isn’t about New York. Well, it is and it isn’t. While I was there, I realized that I wasn’t really all there. I kept worrying about you and Kiki. And I know now that if I don’t confront this—what’s happening here, at home—that it’s going to haunt me.”
Amber buries her face in her hands. “I know I haven’t been the perfect mother. I’m sorry,” she says, peeking out.
The only time I’ve ever heard Amber use the word sorry before was when she called my dad “a sorry piece of a human.”
Amber breathes in, takes her face out of her hands, and continues.
“When you were first gone, I didn’t know what to do. The house started to get to be a mess, and Kiki was getting all worked up about how he missed you. The Houstons and Hands kept showing up at the door, acting like they weren’t sure that I could take care of him. After a while, I realized they were right. I haven’t been caring for Kiki. You have. You’ve been caring for all of us, but not taking care of yourself. It isn’t right.” She wipes a tear from her eye.
I reach into my pocket and give her a Kleenex. I’m used to carrying them around on account of Kiki’s permanently runny nose.
I try to remember for a second if Amber had always been . . . messy. In more ways than one. I can’t remember if my dad left because of the drinking or the drinking happened because my dad left. But it was Amber who stayed and that has to count for something.
“Oh, Amber,” I say, wiping her eyes with the Kleenex. “I don’t mind doing housework and I love hanging with Kiki. You know that. I understand that sometimes you really struggle. And obviously, nothing’s been easy for you since Dad left. It’s just I worry about your health and if you’ll be able to do all this on your own if I ever leave. After this summer—well, I’ve decided that I really want to go to art school, which means leaving you and Kiki for at least a few years.”
Amber puts out her cigarette in a bowl next to us and shakes her head. “I’m not a good mom now, but I’m going to try to become one. I know what it’s like to feel stuck, and I don’t ever want you to feel that way.”
Her words mean a lot to me, but I know this won’t be easy. We’ll need to face this head-on if it’s really going to work.
I scoot my chair closer to hers and soften my voice. “You being able to handle Kiki on your own isn’t just going to happen magically. It’s not that simple. You’re going to need help from professionals. I’ve had this DVD in my room for a long time. It’s about a wellness center at a medical facility. If I give it to you, will you watch it and think about it? We need a plan and a promise.”
“Yes,” she chokes out. “I’ll watch it and give it some serious thought. I want you to be able to follow your dreams. Every mother wants that. I was in your room looking for something, Kitsy, and I saw some of your sketches. They’re really good. I remember you being a talented artist as a little girl, but of course all moms think that. But I realize now that you have something special. I guess I’ve been looking at you without really seeing you. I’m going to change, Kitsy. I promise.”
I rub Amber’s back. “I’ll help in any way I can,” I say. I’m surprised how well Amber is responding. After a while of living a certain way, you figure it’ll be that way forever. You hope otherwise, but you never expect anything. “Thank you so much for talking to me about this. I know it can’t be easy.”
“No, thank you, Kitsy, for all your help and support. It’s about time that I start acting like the adult, and you start acting like the teenager.”Amber stands up and wipes the last of her tears. “We will talk more about it before you leave. But right now, how about a family supper?”
I stand up next to her and put my hand on her shoulder. “That sounds nice, Mom,” I say before I realize that I didn’t call her Amber.
When we sit around the table for supper, three no longer seems off balance.
Later that night, after Kiki and Amber have gone into their rooms, Hands picks me up in his truck. Driving down the dirt road sounds like more than a familiar soundtrack. It feels like a lullaby.
Hands drives to an empty cul-de-sac, the very first place we drove when Hands got his license. On the trip there, I fill him in on Amber. He tells me how glad he is that she is finally “taking her place on the starting line.” Hands describes everything in football terms.
When we arrive, Hands turns off the ignition and wraps his muscled arms around me in a big hug. “Tell me everything. Are you ready to leave me for Gotham?”
Oh yeah, Gotham is code name for New York in Batman.
“Here’s the thing about New York. It’s nothing like the movies. Glamorous or wonderful things don’t happen there every day, but somehow you feel like they could. There are so many opportunities.”
Hands nods. “I just wish following your dreams didn’t mean you have to leave the Spoke but it seems like more often than not, it does.”
“That’s just it! When I was there, I felt like I could be someone more than Broken Spoke’s cheerleading captain. I don’t want to stress you out, especially since I’m only home for the night. But I need to ask you something. Why are we together? And please don’t say because you asked me to dance back in the sixth grade.”
In New York, I started to think that the reason that Hands and I were together was because it made sense. I’m the cheerleading captain and he’s the football captain. Maybe that was enough for us earlier on in high school, but what about now?
“Kit-Kat,” Hands says, drumming his left hand on the steering wheel. He looks a little nervous. “I didn’t just happen to ask you to dance. I’d been waiting to since kindergarten. It just took that long for me to get up my courage and for the right situation. I have been sweet on you since you wore pigtails with one pink bow and one purple bow when we were little kids on the playground.”
“That’s the kindest thing,” I start to say. I watch a montage of Hands and me growing up together in my mind. We do go way back.
“But you didn’t let me finish, Kitsy. I’m with you because you feel like home. I know saying that could get me beat up by the boys, but you’re home to me. I feel the best when I’m with yo
u. I swear state on it.” He knocks his state championship ring on the dashboard for emphasis. “If someday, you want to move to New York, I’ll try to get there as soon as I can. I’m sure New York could always use a few big guys like me to bounce thugs out of bars.”
The image of Hands in New York makes me smile. He’d hate it; the football field is his favorite place in the world and I didn’t see one my entire month in New York. It’s not fair for him to plan his life around me. Just like it’s not fair for me to plan mine around him.
I hesitate. “You’re my best friend, Hands,” I say finally.
“This doesn’t sound good.” Hands looks like he’s been tackled without warning. “I’m sorry,” he spits out, “if I wasn’t supportive enough about your trip and your art, I’m sorry. I was just scared of losing you.”
“Stop,” I say and hold up my hand. “I couldn’t have left Broken Spoke if it wasn’t for you. You helped keep me sane knowing that someone was looking after Kiki. And of all people, you’ve been the most supportive of me and my art.”
“Is it another guy, then? Because I promise you no one ever will love you like I love you. Or actually, I’m sure a million guys would, because it’s you and you’re so amazing. But if you’re breaking up with me, please know that I’ll think about you every single day for the rest of my life,” he says in a shaky voice.
Hands hangs his head, waiting for an answer. And the answer is no, it really isn’t another guy. I would give back all the adventures with Tad for my memories with Hands. This is about me.
“There’s nobody else, Hands,” I say to him earnestly. “We can’t get lost in confusing what we do in Broken Spoke with who we are. You might want to play football in college, but I don’t want to cheer there. I want to study art, so I’m probably going to leave Texas . . . for at least a while. It’s time for me to focus on myself.”
“Haven’t I always been telling you to do that?”
“Sometimes you can’t be told something, Hands,” I say. “You have to learn it for yourself. What happens after this year, I have no idea, but I want to make sure that we both choose our own futures. I couldn’t have made it this far without you, but I want to make sure that I can make it on my own, too.”
A Long Way from You (Where I Belong) Page 19