I cross back through the gate and give Iona a hug. She only holds it for a second; then she pushes me off.
“See you at the exhibition tomorrow,” she says, already heading down Hudson Street.
Walking into the garden of the Church of St. Luke in the Fields is like opening a treasure chest. In the middle of this concrete jungle, there’s a lush green sanctuary where an archway of cherry trees creates a tunnel for you to pass through. It’s “ah-mazing” as Ford would say.
I don’t see a single person as I sit under an ivy-covered tree and listen to a sparrow as he feeds from a homemade birdhouse. Admiring the flowers that come in as many varieties as there are people in New York, I think about having a Georgia O’Keeffe moment and sketching a solitary flower, but then I begin to draw a subject I’ve never dared to try: a self-portrait. I do it entirely from memory.
After I finish my portrait, I impulsively decide to text Tad to see if he wants to meet up at the Empire State Building to say good-bye. Even though the scene at the Mercury Lounge hurt, it would be worse not to see him one last time.
Tad texts back right away.
I’ll see you there!
I leave the garden and try to pretend that I’m not nervous.
While I’m waiting on Tad near the Empire State Building, I think about what Annika said. Should I feel lucky that Tad liked me as a friend with no strings attached? The more I think about it, the more I realize she’s right. Although it would’ve been nice to have a song written about me.
“You just love getting high, don’t you?” Tad’s voice whispers in my ear.
I whip around and shake my head at him.
“I’m sorry about the scene at the lounge,” Tad says. “I acted like an asshole.”
“Forget about it. It’s in the past.” And it’s true. Just like whatever feelings I had for Tad. I was just as sweet on Tad’s being a New Yorker and interest in art as I was on him. I think that made my heart wires cross.
I look up at the Empire State Building. While I’ve seen it, this is the first time I’ve been this close to it.
“We’re going up. It’s my treat. I’m in the money. I just sold my song,” Tad announces and does a little dance. “That’s what I was doing in Midtown. I’m sure it’ll end up a Justin Bieber remix or something, but still. Pretty sweet feeling, I must say.”
“But I thought you were going to sing it? It’s your song!” I try but can’t imagine anyone else singing Tad’s lyrics.
“The important part for me was writing it,” Tad says seriously. “I don’t care who sings it. Honest. It’s about my dad, so I don’t know if I could get through it without crying. Sometimes, you can actually be too close to something.”
His dad? Of course. I feel like a total idiot right now. His dad was his buoy. I want to burst out laughing at my own stupidity, but I hold my breath and tell him honestly, “Congratulations. I’m sure your dad would be proud of you.”
“Thanks, Kitsy,” Tad says. “You always know what to say. Now let’s go see New York from over a hundred and two floors up. By the way, did I ever mention that I have acrophobia? You might have to hold my hand.”
I put my hand in his without regret because I know it doesn’t mean anything, and there are definitely no Tad tingles when our palms touch.
On the way up, my ears pop. That’s how high we are.
At the observation deck, I spot a dozen giant binoculars you can use for a quarter.
I start digging through my purse when Tad gently slips a quarter into my hand. “Growing up in the city, my parents taught me to never leave home without a quarter to make a call. Of course, this was all pre–cell phones, but I still do it out of habit.”
Sliding the quarter into the slot, I smile and thank him.
As I turn the binoculars toward Central Park, my view transforms from a glob of green to a clear picture of tiny people moving around the park. The people look like chess pieces in the game of life. Seeing through the binoculars reminds me of looking through a camera and how I finally realized that the hardest job for an artist is to choose the right subject. For me, the best one turned out to be in my backyard. Who knows what my next subject will be?
“Are you coming to my show tomorrow?” After the Annika thing, I wasn’t sure if Tad would still come to my show, but I did have a few fantasies of him showing up and realizing that photographs on the wall weren’t of him.
“Unfortunately, I can’t. I’m sorry, Kitsy, but I have a contract meeting about the song.” I can’t read his eyes. “I’m sure your project came out great though. What did you decide to do it on?”
“What do you mean?” I ask with a half grin. I never told Tad how I switched portfolio subjects.
He loops his arm in mine and pulls me over to get a closer look at the view.
“I knew that you would eventually find something else that would be more Kitsy,” Tad says.
“You’re right,” I admit. “My project is on Broken Spoke. There’s nothing like your hometown, right?”
Looking down at the city below us, Tad nods his head in agreement.
“My hometown is pretty awesome,” he says, gesturing around to the spectacular view.
“Okay, okay, there’s nothing like New York,” I correct myself.
Tad shakes his head and turns to face me. “There’s nothing like Broken Spoke either, Kitsy. Just because you’re from a small town doesn’t mean that you’re small. Don’t ever think anyone’s more important than you are or has more valid experiences.”
“For a while,” I admit, “I do think I was worried about that, but I’ve realized there’s something special about making art that reflects you and where you came from.”
“I totally agree,” Tad says, nodding. “Trust me, I’ve done enough cover songs to know that the best kind of music to play is your own. I’m finished singing other people’s songs. I told the guys to go on tour without me so I can focus on my writing. I’ve got to admit that you’ve helped me refocus my energy. There are people here for both the right and wrong reasons. You helped me reevaluate mine.”
Goose bumps grow on my arm, and not from the breeze. “I have a question. When something happens to you, do you think about how to use it in a song?”
Tad points toward the view. “When I look at anything,” he says, “all I see are notes and lyrics. I bet you see everything in angles and colors.”
“I like that,” I say and mime taking pictures. I realize if I learned anything this summer, it was to trust my own artist’s eye.
Tad sighs. “Whatever guy that ends up with you, Kitsy, is lucky. I just want you to know that. I love how you see this city, but even more, I love how you see people.”
“Thanks, Tad,” I say. Maybe I didn’t imagine everything between us, but I’m still happy that nothing actually happened. I want to remember this summer as being about art, this city, and me.
“Hey, Tad. Can you do me a favor?” I ask, pulling out my phone. “I want a picture of me here for my little brother. King Kong is his all-time favorite movie.” I know my camera’s phone won’t do the view justice, but I’ll make sure to describe to Kiki just how amazing it was.
“Sure,” Tad says and snaps a photo of me. He looks at the image on my camera a long time before he finally hands it back to me. Maybe he’s trying to figure out where I fit into his life.
When we get on the elevators, I turn to Tad and say, “If you’re ever coming through Texas, look me up.”
“Are you on Facebook?” Tad asks. “I feel lame-o even asking that.”
“Let’s leave it up to chance,” I say as we step back out onto the ground level. I’m only a little bit dizzy.
“Good-bye, Kitsy Kidd,” he says as we near a crosswalk. “I hope you make it back to New York soon. You definitely added something to my city.”
“That’s my plan,” I say, realizing that I can do something if I work at it. I made it here once, so I definitely think I can do it again.
Tad gives me
a quick hug and one last smile; then he gets swept up in a crowd crossing the street. I can’t spot him any longer so I don’t even know if he’s looking back at me. I’m still not sure why Tad came into my life or what he means to me. Some things I’ve learned are only clear in reverse. Of course, Hollywood never tells you this. If this were a movie, I’d end up with a guy, but this isn’t the story of a girl and two guys. There’ll be no credits because the truth is that this is the middle—not the end—of my story.
(On the back of one of my photographs of the Statue of Liberty)
Dear Dad,
This is a picture I took. Yup, I made it to NYC—just like we talked about. Cool, huh? I’ve also resolved to stop running from anything anymore—the past or the truth. I hope that you’re okay and that you stop running one day, too. You know where to find us.
Love,
Kitsy
Chapter 16
Que Será Será
WHEN I WAKE UP ON Friday, it feels like everything is both happening and ending at the same time. Maybe that’s what growing up feels like. By this time tomorrow, Corrinne will be home from camp, school will be over, the scholarship will be awarded, and I’ll need to start packing to head home to the Spoke.
After I hang my photographs in the school’s art gallery, I run home—literally. It’s strange how I find myself calling the Corcorans’ apartment “home” now. But who says you can’t have more than one place where you feel like you belong? Luckily, I’m wearing my tennis shoes, so I make it to the apartment’s courtyard just as Ivan’s town car is pulling up. As it turns out, Waverly is waiting for Corrinne, too. I guess if you can have two places that feel like home, you can have two best friends—two very different best friends.
When Corrinne rolls out of the car, both Waverly and I gasp a little bit. She’s wearing a pair of grass-stained jeans, a T-shirt that reads CAMP HOPE: WHERE NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE, and her hair is either very messily braided or matted to her head.
“Um, what happened?” Waverly asks as she gives Corrinne a side-hug.
I go for the full bear hug since I’m already sweaty and I’m just happy to see her. I don’t care what she looks like. I just know I’ve missed Corrinne so much.
“I had the best time of my life. That’s what happened,” Corrinne says, then gestures to Waverly and me. “Well, minus my times with you girls, of course. Those memories are priceless, too.”
“Earth to Corrinne! I repeat: What happened to you?” Waverly asks again. “You look like you lost a battle with a circus.”
Corrinne laughs. “I think you’re referring to a rodeo, Waverly. And basically, I did. I had to rush from the campers’ award ceremony at the horse ring straight to the car to make sure I made Kitsy’s event. Do I look like I’ve been crying?” Corrinne asks.
“About what? Your reflection?” Waverly asks seriously. “It’s okay. I can work some of my style magic on you. You should’ve seen the number I did on Kitsy!”
Maybe I will just have to go into fashion with Ford. Seeing the look on Waverly’s face at our debut fashion show at Lincoln Center would make it all worth it.
Corrinne rolls her eyes at Waverly. “No, Waverly. I’m a wreck because I bawled all the way home after saying good-bye to my campers. Seeing kids who have disabilities get up on a horse for the first time is amazing.” She looks down at her outfit and adds, “As for my clothes, you’re right, I need a serious wardrobe change, stat. If I don’t wear jeans and a T-shirt ever again, it’ll be too soon. Oh, and at camp everyone wore these hideous beaded bracelets. I ‘accidentally’ left mine behind.”
Waverly and I both laugh.
“We’ll have a Bloomie’s date soon. I need to hear about the hot cocounselor! Did you guys make out in a teepee?” Waverly teases before moving to the front door. “It’s too hot for me outside, so I’ll get the details later.”
“Wait, Corrinne,” I say, confused. “I thought you were at horse camp doing that horse dancing thing.”
“Dressage?” Corrinne asks. “No, it wasn’t a dressage camp at all. I helped kids with physical and mental disabilities learn how to ride.”
“How come I didn’t know that?” I ask her, genuinely curious why she didn’t tell me.
“Because you were busy following your dream,” Corrinne tells me with a hand squeeze. She takes one enormous bag from Ivan and hands another monster one to me. “I’ll tell you all about it later. I must say it’s awesome to have a bunch of little kids listen to your every word and tell you how they want to be you. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I found myself thinking about being a teacher!”
“Really?” I ask with an incredulous smile, trying to imagine Corrinne with a room full of screaming kindergartners and finger paint. But then I remember how Corrinne’s always supported my art dream, so I add, “That’s so great.”
I start moving at a snail’s pace to the door, slouching under the weight of Corrinne’s two-ton bag. “Thanks for everything you did for me this summer, Corrinne,” I tell her.
“I was in Virginia at horse camp. I didn’t do anything for you,” Corrinne says seriously. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Waverly told me you were at a totally exclusive fashion magazine event. That’s T.M.F.G.”
In Corrinne-speak, T.M.F.G. means Total Material For Gossip.
All I can say back is “It was a weird summer.”
“Speaking of weird,” Corrinne continues, “I saw a picture in Us Weekly of this new ‘it girl,’ and there’s a girl in the background who looks just like you, but a New York version. You either have a lot to fill me in on or you must have a doppelganger.”
“That is strange. We definitely do have a lot of catching up to do,” I say, relieved that Corrinne’s here. “I can’t believe everything that happened in just four weeks.”
Corrinne moans a long “ahhh” every time I bring the makeup brush to her face.
“I really loved camp,” she says, eyes closed. “I really did. But this feels so good. There’s only so much natural beauty in the world. I’m happy to get a little help from Chanel.”
I add the last touch of blush and say, “Ta-da. You look gorgeous.”
Corrinne inspects herself carefully and then winks at her own reflection.
“Are you sure you don’t want to do this for a living? Just teasing,” Corrinne says, pointing to her face. “I know you’re on your way to being a famous artist. By the way, my mom sort of mentioned that a lot has been going on with you. You know that I’m always here for you even if we aren’t in the same place.”
“Hopefully, one day we’ll both be here,” I say. “I’m definitely not done with New York. I do have a ton to tell you about Amber and Hands and everything, but I’ve got to run to my class meeting before the show tonight.”
“All right, well, we’ll have to talk later,” Corrinne says as we make our way into her bedroom. “Are you sure you don’t want to borrow a dress for your big night?”
Slipping my red Charlotte Russe dress over my head, the one I got in Texas bargain-shopping with Corrinne, I shake my head.
“Thanks, Corrinne, but I think I’ll feel my best tonight if I’m wearing my own clothes.” My dress might not be couture, but I feel like me when I wear it.
Taking my front-row seat next to Ford, I turn and look around the classroom. Whereas the first day, it was a sea of intimidating faces, now it’s a small group of faces I know well, who were there with me from day one of the shocking nudes to my disastrous clay explosion. Maybe we’ll meet again in art school, or in a gallery one day. The door opens and Professor Picasso enters grandly one last time.
“I think students sometimes forget how attached we teachers become to them. Thanks for being such a great class,” he says, looking out at us.
Ford coughs and mutters under his breath, “Picasso has emotions? That surprises me.”
He does have a point. You have to pass through a lot of curmudgeonly layers before you get to the supportive Professor Pi
casso, but I’m so glad I did.
Professor Picasso gives Ford an icy stare. “You should know that your successes are our successes, too, so don’t be strangers. I want to vicariously live through you all as you change the art world. On day one, I said this wasn’t summer camp. But I still hope you did make a few friends and had at least a little bit of fun. As for the exhibition in a few minutes, don’t be nervous. Even if the art world doesn’t love you, I’m sure your family still will. Que será será,” Professor Picasso says.
I look back to Iona, who’s wearing her signature boots with a white lace dress. I raise my shoulders. She mouths back, “What will be will be,” and winks.
I like that. Maybe I’ll start learning French on the internet. If I can do New York, I can definitely do Paris, and I read Parsons has a program there.
Professor Picasso continues: “The judges will circulate like everyone else at the showing. At eight o’clock, the scholarship winner will be announced. After that, you’re free to take your pieces with you, although I do ask that you might consider donating one to the school for display. That’s it, class. Have a great rest of the summer. Thank you.”
For a few minutes, we all sit there in silence. It’s nothing like the last day of regular school, when students fly out of their seats like they are on fire. I’m thinking about how special this summer was and how lucky I was to have it. I don’t know what anyone else is thinking about, but I can tell everyone has something on their mind, too. Finally, everyone quietly gets up and walks together to the school’s gallery, where friends and family have already begun to gather.
I walk slowly through the gallery and check out my classmates’ work. First, I stop by Ford’s project. He’s photographed mannequins wearing designer clothes and contrasted those images with photos of real people wearing the same clothes. I think he definitely made the statement he was trying for. “I want to show that real people, not anatomically impossible mannequins, wear clothes best,” his artist statement reads.
A Long Way from You (Where I Belong) Page 21