A small crowd has congregated around Iona’s series of figurative self-portraits. Only Iona would have the confidence for this project. In each drawing, she’s making a different unattractive face, which is my favorite part. In one, she’s sticking out her tongue defiantly. It’s as if she’s looking at the viewer and saying, “It’s okay. You’re not objectifying me. I’m in control because I’m the artist.”
“Provocative,” remarks a well-dressed woman, probably someone from the real art world.
I’m thinking how Iona would love to hear that, when I realize she’s come to stand next to me.
“I thought if art is about revealing yourself, I might as well do just that. I also think it’s a nice reversal on society objectifying the female,” Iona says. “By the way, I looked at your photos earlier. They have a lot of heart.”
“Thanks, Iona,” I say.
“Stop hanging around here,” she says. “Go show off your art.”
I round the corner where I installed my project and see the Corcorans. I stand back for a minute and I watch them take in my photographs. Seeing my art on the wall makes me feel both proud and exposed at the same time.
Pointing to a shot of a farm silo at sunrise, Mr. Corcoran says loudly enough for me to overhear, “J.J., is this Broken Spoke? It’s breathtaking. How come you never mentioned it was so beautiful?”
“It’s not,” Corrinne starts to say, then gets distracted by a new photograph. “Well, it’s usually not.”
Mrs. Corcoran doesn’t say anything, but she gazes at a panoramic picture of Broken Spoke’s strip. I edited the photo so that only the storefront’s American and Texan flags are in color, and the rest is black-and-white.
“American by birth—” Mrs. Corcoran starts to say.
“And Texan by the grace of God,” I finish for her as I finally approach them.
“Holy Holly Golightly!” Corrinne says, hugging me. “These are amazing, Kitsy. I didn’t realize that you knew how to take photographs. I mean, how did you get Broken Spoke to look so good? No offense or anything.”
“I just tried to see it from a different angle,” I answer, looking back at the wall covered in scenes of Broken Spoke.
The photo of the football field at dawn with mist rising off the grass. The first car at Sonic in the morning. Mr. Chin sweeping outside his restaurant. A photograph of the view out my bedroom window. I don’t think I figured out how to make a political statement or anything, but I do think I finally figured out how to make my art about me and about more than me.
I notice a few older, well-dressed people approach. Instead of sticking around, I leave and let my work speak for itself.
“Let’s go get free cheese,” I say to Corrinne. I know that we don’t have much time together and I want to make the most of it.
“Okay,” Corrinne says, looking at the photographs one more time. “These are making me miss Broken Spoke. I need to plan a visit. You’ll have to give me the football schedule because I definitely want to go to a home game. I’m in need of a good field party, too.”
“You know what? I kind of miss it, too.”
“Really?” Corrinne asks me.
“Really. It’s still home at least for another year,” I say. “And it’ll always be part of me even if I’m not living there.”
As we round the corner, we run smack into Iona.
“Hi, Iona!” I say. “Of course, you know Corrinne.”
I give Corrinne a look and she forces her frown into a small smile.
“Kitsy,” Iona says, motioning to a man and woman standing next to her. “These are my parents. Mom and Dad, this is Kitsy, the girl—I mean my friend—from class I keep telling you both about.”
Iona’s mother and father, who look nothing like her, nod knowingly. Her mother, dressed in a pencil skirt and cardigan, gives me the same look Iona gave when I first met her. She’s definitely analyzing me, but I’m okay with it. I’m proud of who I am.
“So nice to meet you,” I say. “Iona’s been very kind.”
After a few polite moments with Iona’s parents, Corrinne and I excuse ourselves. She whispers to me, “Tell me you didn’t become BFFs with Iona.”
“Not BFFs,” I say. “You are my only best friend . . . but Iona’s cool. You might try to get to know her.”
“Remind me not to leave you alone in Manhattan next time,” Corrinne says, rolling her eyes and tossing a cheese cube in her mouth.
I’m glad I spent some time here alone. I don’t think I would’ve figured out so much about myself if Corrinne had been in New York all summer.
Professor Picasso walks up to the podium and taps the microphone. As much as I keep trying to ignore that this exhibition is also a competition for a scholarship, it does keep popping back up in my mind.
“Hello, students, family, friends, and patrons of our program at Parsons. I hope you’ve enjoyed the exhibition. I know that I’m most certainly impressed by this crop of young talent and I hear that they have a wonderful teacher,” Professor Picasso says. He pauses and waits for the polite laughter. “With many thanks to an anonymous donation, we’re proud to grant a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship toward an art education to one promising student.”
“I didn’t know there was money on the line,” Corrinne whispers. “I would’ve totally helped you suck up to the judges. Flattering authority is an extremely important skill of winners. If you want to win, you have to play the game, Kitsy.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Art’s not a game to me,” I whisper.
“I’ll have one of our judges, the esteemed potter Maureen Arden, announce the recipient. Thank you all for coming tonight,” Professor Picasso says and smiles, which is definitely the first time I’ve seen that happen.
“My mom has one of her vases,” Corrinne hisses. “It’s awesome.”
My shoulders slouch because I can’t help but assume this means the scholarship will go to someone who works with clay. But I don’t regret doing photographs, because it changed how I saw art. It made me into an active creator rather than someone who just copies what she sees.
“Thank you, Professor Picasso,” Ms. Arden says, looking out at the crowd. “All of the art was impressive both on technical and artistic levels. If this is what these teens can do now, I can’t imagine where they’ll go next—especially if they are afforded a great art education. The recipient of this year’s scholarship was chosen for her ability to capture simple landscapes that we can’t rip our eyes away from. It might be the photographer’s technical facility, but there’s something else, something intangible, going on there within the film that’s so beautiful.”
Corrinne is nudging my ribs so hard that she’s going to leave bruises. “It’s you,” she keeps whispering in my ear. “It’s you.”
I refuse to let myself believe it until Ms. Arden pronounces, “This year’s recipient is Kitsy Kidd for her landscapes of small-town Texas.”
Then I hear applause. People are cheering for me. Corrinne is loudly whistling and hollering on as if we were at a Mockingbird football game rather than in an art gallery. For the first time in my life, it’s not me who’s the cheerleader. Instead I’m the one being cheered for. It feels really good to be on the other side.
Awkwardly, I walk to the podium to accept the award from Ms. Arden and shake her hand firmly. “Thanks, y’all,” I say to the crowd, where the anonymous judges must be.
In a blur, a bunch of my classmates come up and congratulate me.
“Where are you going to apply for school?” a girl who wore paint-speckled coveralls nearly every day of class asks me.
“I’m not sure yet,” I say honestly. “I’m keeping my options open.” I have a year to figure out how far or how close I’ll stay to the Spoke. This year, I’m going to focus on working overtime at Sonic so I can buy a camera of my own. All I know is that wherever I am, I want to be doing art.
“Congratulations, Kitsy,” Ford exclaims as he pushes through the crowd and gives me a kiss on th
e cheek. “I guess this means that you’re going to become a famous photographer, and you’ll be too busy to start Ford and Kitsy.”
“Hey,” I say, giving Ford a pinch on the cheek. “You said it would be Kitsy and Ford. I’ll probably be busy with my photography, but I’m always happy to be a highly paid consultant for whatever fabulous fashion line you start.”
“How about I pay you in clothes?” Ford says.
I reach out my hand so we can shake on it.
“I’m going to look for my family,” Ford says. “So I guess this is good-bye?”
“Never,” I say. “You need my color savvy, and I need your sunnier outlook. Whenever I’m down, I’m going to remember to hear the good stuff, just like you told me.”
“I bid you adieu. Until next time, Kitsy,” Ford says, giving me an air-kiss.
I watch Ford blend into the crowd until I lose sight of him, but I know that, like New York, he’ll be in my future.
When I meet back up with the Corcorans, they all give me huge hugs.
“See, you’re a great investment,” Mrs. Corcoran whispers in my ear when Mr. Corcoran asks if he can buy the photograph of the silo.
“It’s free,” I say, removing the photograph off the wall and handing it to him. “It’s the least I can do.”
Remembering Professor Picasso’s request to leave a piece of art behind, I decide to leave the landscape shot of Broken Spoke’s strip on the wall. It’s no Manhattan skyline, but it has everything someone needs. I like the idea of both leaving a bit of Broken Spoke at Parsons and taking a bit of New York with me to Broken Spoke.
“Are you dripping happy?” Corrinne asks. “That was the big word at camp. Dripping. It means awesome.”
“I only know how to describe how happy I am if I speak Texan. Corrinne, may I?”
“Sure,” Corrinne says. “It’s your day. If you want to speak Texan, go right ahead.”
“Corrinne, I feel like I’m riding a gravy train with biscuit wheels.”
“All y’all Texans are nuts.”
“Well, you New York guys are crazy, too,” I say, looping my arm in hers and heading for the door. “The stories I could tell . . .”
When the exhibition’s slowing down, I step outside to call home.
Kiki picks up on the first ring.
“Kitsy!” Kiki squeals. “You come home in exactly thirty-two hours. I counted. And guess what? Mom and I are going to the park. Isn’t that cool?”
“That’s super cool,” I say, smiling. “Do the monkey bars for me. And guess what, Kiki? I won a scholarship for my photographs of the Spoke.”
“Of course you did! You’re the best artist in the world.”
I get choked up thinking how Kiki’s not only the best brother but how he’s also a great cheerleader. It must be in the genes.
“You’re the best brother in the universe,” I say.
“Kitsy, I forgot to tell you. Last night, the stars told me that they’ve missed you. I’m sure New York is really cool, but I think it stinks that you can’t see the stars.”
“I agree—”
“You won!” I hear Amber’s voice cry.
She must’ve grabbed the phone from Kiki.
“Ten thousand dollars!” I exclaim.
“I’m so proud of you,” Amber says.
That’s the first time Amber has told me she’s proud of me, and it feels just as good as I always imagined it would.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. “But I think we’re going to have a great year.”
“I think you’re right. By the way, I watched the DVD. They have a lot of success stories. It’s definitely worth looking into it. I love you, Kitsy.”
“Love you, too.” When it’s out of my mouth, I realize it’s been a long time since I’ve told her that.
I start typing a message to Hands, but I stop, delete it, and decide to call him after dinner. I need to focus on savoring my last moments in New York.
“Kitsy,” Corrinne calls from down the block. “We’ve got to find a cab stat. Our reservation is in T minus five seconds.”
The Corcorans and I have plans for a celebration supper at The Little Owl, a tiny restaurant tucked away in the West Village.
As we stand on the corner to catch a cab (because I totally mastered the taxi-light system), I notice a girl sitting on the sidewalk begging for change. She doesn’t look a day older than me. While I have been in New York long enough that the sight of a homeless person doesn’t shock me anymore, there’s something about her that draws me closer. I notice her cardboard sign has only four words: TRYING TO GET HOME. Reaching into my purse, I pull out the twenty dollars that I’ve been saving to buy myself a souvenir from MoMA.
Corrinne watches me and warns, “She’s going to buy drugs.”
I shake my head. “She’s just trying to get home.” I put the bill in her empty Dunkin’ Donuts Styrofoam cup.
I don’t need any souvenirs. I have my experience.
“Bless you,” she says.
“I know what it’s like to want to get home,” I tell her. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but maybe I’m not talking to her anyway.
Acknowledgments
TO MY READERS, THANK YOU for allowing my characters to visit your imagination. Please email me your thoughts at [email protected]. I write for you all, and would love to hear what you think!
To my friends, thank you. I believe E. B. White said it best in his beloved children’s classic Charlotte’s Web: “‘You have been my friend,’ replied Charlotte. ‘That in itself is a tremendous thing.’” Thank you also for encouraging my writing career and, most importantly, for peddling my books.
To Sarah Burningham, thank you for being my little bird and helping to launch my career.
To Leigh Feldman, your presence in my life continues to be a gift, and I’m always grateful for your wisdom. Thank you for helping me get the world’s greatest job. I’m indebted.
To HarperTeen, I know it takes a village to publish a book, so thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
To Alison Klapthor, I’m happy to let anyone judge my books by their covers as long as you’re the one designing them. Thank you for your—and your team’s—beautiful art!
To Sarah Dotts Barley: It seems like just yesterday we were classmates in German class, and now you’re my editor! What a beautifully small and crazy world it is. Thank you for adopting A Long Way from You and raising it like your own. Your vision, intelligence, and attention to detail wow me on a daily basis. It’s actually very hard to believe we went to the same school. I’m beyond grateful to have you as my editor on this novel.
To the O’Sullivan sisters, thank you for the countless reads.
To Cory, you make (my) life better. I love you.
To my mom, my dad, and Aliceyn, I really like being enmeshed, and I’d have it no other way. Thank you for your enduring support, confidence, and, most of all, love.
READ AN EXCERPT FROM THE BEGINNING OF KITSY AND CORRINNE’S STORY IN
Where I Belong
Dear Reader,
Have you ever heard of the Butterfly Effect? I learned about it in science class last year. Probably the only lesson I remember because it’s way more relevant to real life than the three types of sediment rock or the properties of noble gases. And it’s also not revolting, like dissecting a frog. Basically, the butterfly effect is a chaos theory, attributed to a guy named Edward Lorenz. Here’s the CliffsNotes version: A butterfly flaps its wings in Brazil, and it sets off a tornado in Texas. It means the smallest moments of the past, even the ones that don’t have anything to do with us, affect our future and our future selves.
When Wall Street nearly collapsed, I didn’t pay much attention. I used to care a lot more about the hottest starlet’s weight fluctuation than the current prices of stocks. But when the economic problems caused my dad to lose his seven-figure job and me to move to a Texan town that’s so teeny tiny it’s not even on Google Maps, I realized how seemingly distant event
s can change your life forever.
This is the story of how I was transformed. How the pieces of the global economy toppled like dominoes and made a teenage ice princess from Manhattan (me) melt and find her long-dislocated heart. So if you hate me at first, keep reading. You might just surprise yourself. I know I did.
And just think, somewhere right now a butterfly might be flapping its wings and altering your future in some peculiar, yet beautiful, way.
Sincerely,
Corrinne Corcoran
Chapter 1
Family Meeting
MY IPHONE LOUDLY SINGS A little ditty.
She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes.
The Barneys saleswoman, dressed in a hideous avocado green dress, gives me a look of disgust. Maybe she doesn’t like Paul Simon’s music. Stupid, it’s a classic, and I don’t have to change my ring tone each time Lady Gaga makes a costume change. Have you ever been to a party where twelve people have the same ring tone? So pathetic, it’s almost as bad as two girls having the same signature scent.
From a distance, I am pretty sure the avocado lady is rolling her eyes: Maybe she’s one of those people who don’t believe in using cell phones in public? Please, isn’t that why they were invented? To make us mobile? And look around, Miss Barneys employee; I am the only customer on floor three, the designer collection department. It appears that whole recession thingamajig scared everyone else away.
She keeps staring at me, and I know it isn’t my clothes: I am wearing an Alice and Olivia summer white dress and Jimmy Choo pink heels with my mousy brown hair slicked back. And she’s the same shopgirl who still hasn’t brought me the pair of Hudson jeans that I asked for more than twenty minutes ago. She’s probably ignoring me because I am a teenager. I just hate age discrimination, but I still refuse to shop in Juniors. First of all, I am a size five in Juniors and only a size four in Womens. Second of all, most of the clothing in Juniors is cheap. I might be only sixteen years old, but I own plastic. That should count for something. The saleslady keeps on glaring at me like it’s a new pastime, so I finally silence my phone. It’s my mother anyway, and I don’t want to talk to her.
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