A Long Way From You (15 page)

I take a picture of it with my cell phone and text it to Hands. After twenty minutes of waiting for him to call, or at least text back, I panic. What if we are really breaking up?

I decide to email Corrinne. She knows how to both get into situations and how to get out of them.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Sunday July 22

Subject: Howdy, Cowgirl!

I know you’re busy at camp, but I’ve got a quick question and need your help. How do you know when a relationship isn’t working? How did you know it was over with Bubby?

FYI: I’m having the best time ever, NYC is amazing. I hope you aren’t missing civilization too much. I can’t imagine camp can be any more rural than the Spoke. Wish I could send you some Sonic in the mail.

Kisses.

My email isn’t completely forthcoming, but I don’t want Corrinne to think I’ve gone totally crazy. She’d be just as likely to believe that I went out until three in the morning and that Hands was ignoring my calls, as she would to hear that I was on
Girls Gone Wild: Big Apple Edition
.

I’m surprised when an email from her pops up a few minutes later.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Sunday July 22

Subject: Re: Howdy, Cowgirl!

Ohmigosh, Kitsy. We get only 10 minutes of internet every three days and somehow you emailed me during my window. I know, that’s totally barbaric, but it’s part of the “camp experience,” so I’m told. I’m having a great time though, which shocks even me. I know a relationship isn’t working when it isn’t fun anymore or when I meet someone else. As for Bubby, it was too much effort and not enough reward. Why, is he asking about me again? I have 5 seconds, so just know I love you! I’ll try to check my email again soon.

I’m impressed by this camp being so low-tech. Corrinne and her iPhone are rarely seen apart. I should’ve explained that I needed advice because of course Corrinne assumed the Bubby question had to do with her, not me. It’s true that Corrinne has had high school boyfriends and will have college boyfriends
and
post-college boyfriends, but I have only had exactly one boyfriend and thought that may be it. I can’t relate to her gain-loss analogy because she neglected the love part of the equation. That’s what I feel for Hands, right? Love?

Now I just feel more confused about everything. Maybe these Tad tingles are side effects from yesterday and this whirlwind week. My inner compass must be a bit off. It’s not used to being orientated anywhere but Broken Spoke, after all.

Nibbling away at Hands’s cookie bouquet, I sketch works of art from the Corcorans’ coffee table books until the sun finally sets in the summer night sky.

When the alarm wakes me up bright and early, I hear the pitter-patter of rain against the panoramic windows. Looking out, I see that it’s not just drizzling but
pouring
. In Texas, we call this type of rain “a frog strangler.” The rain almost distracts me from remembering about yesterday’s fight with Hands.

Grabbing my cell phone off of the nightstand, I take a deep breath when I see that I have a text from Hands. I open it and there’s no message, but an aerial view of our football field with the words
I’M SORRY. O O O
written out in shaving cream. I smile. I knew that we couldn’t stay mad long. We have too much history. I text Hands that I love him. While I’m glad that he’s forgiven me, something is still nagging at me. Then, out of nowhere, I find myself wondering why Tad hasn’t texted me. Is it wrong for me to even care? But I don’t have time to mull it over. I have to get to school early today and I’ve got to scramble.

I find a note from Maria on the kitchen counter.

Dear Kitsy,

I saw you were in bed early last night! You must have been tired from your late Saturday night ☺ Let me know if you need anything. I’m off to get the dry cleaning before the Corcorans return from Nantucket. Left some egg chilaquiles. They’re made from leftover tortilla chips! Enjoy!

Besos, Maria

Opening the fridge, I find a covered dish with soggy tortilla chips, chilies, and eggs. I microwave it, gobble it up, and leave Maria a note.

Maria,

Best food I’ve had in NY. Seriously. You should open a restaurant.

Thanks, Kitsy

I search the front hall closet for an umbrella. Even though I pride myself on being prepared on account of constantly juggling my three duties—carhop/cheerleading captain/part-time mom—I did forget to pack an umbrella for New York. I find a large one with a wooden handle in the back corner that looks like it could cover the entire West Village.

I figure the rain will have to be my shower today. I’m out the door less than ten minutes after waking up. Walking up the eclectic Christopher Street, which is filled with gay bars, tiny ethnic restaurants, and smoke shops, I try to focus on not poking out anyone’s eyes with my huge umbrella as we cross paths.

As I wait for the light at Seventh Avenue, I admire how all the girls in New York coordinate their Hunter rain boots with their umbrellas. The girl next to me sports black Hunter rain boots to her knee, a chic yellow rain jacket, and a chic black umbrella. She looks like a beautiful and expensive bumblebee.

With my flip-flops and a golf umbrella, I feel like a total tomboy at a
Little Miss Sunshine
pageant. When a gust of wind swoops by, I almost fly away like Mary Poppins and get blown back to Jersey. Luckily, I end up at school and
not
in New Jersey. Field goal for Kitsy! Got to appreciate the little things.

As I walk down the hallway, my flip-flops make squeaking noises with every step, and I’m soaked from head to toe minus my sketchbook, which I had hidden in the waist of my pants.

Even though I’m an hour early, I find Iona sitting in her usual seat when I open the door. She gives my appearance her all-knowing look.

“Hi, Iona.” For once, I definitely don’t sound chipper, not even a little bit.

She stares at me as if I were a piece of art and she’s decoding me. “I thought you were the she-must-be-on-Red-Bull type.”

I did, too, but my pep meter is on empty.

“What’s wrong?” Iona asks. Strangely, it looks like she might actually care.

“The rain,” I answer.

But I’m also wondering what happened to no-one-can-get-a-word-in-edgewise Kitsy. I must’ve left her in Texas. Despite all of that well-meaning advice, you can’t just “be yourself” two thousand miles away. It’s just not that easy. At home, I’m a caretaker, a girlfriend, and a cheerleader. But here, I’m an aspiring artist—who goes out with a strange boy until three in the morning and then lies about it. Who you are depends on
where
you are. Why doesn’t anyone ever tell you that?
That
would have been a great piece of advice.

“You know what we say in New York? Or rather, what the gangsters say?” Iona asks.

I raise my eyebrows to show the faintest interest.

“We say
fuhgeddaboudit
,” Iona says, laughing. And when she laughs, her eyes get all squinty, and she doesn’t seem so intimidating.

I laugh along with her because it is sort of funny. I didn’t expect Iona to have a sense of humor, especially after our first introduction, when she grilled me on my (nonexistent) art school credentials.

“Can I see your sketchbook?” Without waiting for an answer, Iona gets up and walks across the room to me.

I don’t even have time to cover up the sketch I’m working on with my hand.

“Wow,” Iona says, picking my book off my desk. “You’re as good as the very best kids in this class, even the ones who’ve been taking classes since nursery school. But . . .”

“But what?” I ask.

“Artists who have perfect technique or who can replicate are not the ones that get noticed. Besides, technique you can learn. In person, Kitsy, you have all this energy, but your art doesn’t reflect it. If you really want to do this, you need your art to have a
je ne sais quoi
, a less-studied element to it.” She drops my sketch and it flutters back onto my desk.

“I’m from Texas, Iona. The Middle of Nowhere.” I hold up my index finger next to my thumb to make a point. “My entire city could fit on one city block. Work with me in English, and I’ll try to translate it into my native tongue.”

“
Je ne sais quoi
is French for ‘I don’t know what,’” Iona says and smiles. “It’s used to describe an intangible quality. Think about your favorite piece of art in the world. I’m willing to bet you don’t love it because of its technique. It makes you feel something even if you can’t exactly describe what it is. That’s
je ne sais quoi
to me.”

I think of
The Starry Night
, and I know that Iona’s right. While Van Gogh did have amazing technique and developed methods and a new style for painting, it’s been my favorite painting since before I knew
anything
about art. It made me feel something just by looking at it. The little village in the middle of nowhere reminds me of Broken Spoke, and the night sky reminds me of the world that’s bigger than Broken Spoke.

“Thanks, Iona,” I say. “It’s really kind of you to help me. And I think I know what you mean. It’s just I’m new to art as serious business. In Texas, I only sketch for myself. The only kind of public art I do is makeup for my cheerleading team. I’m still getting used to being critiqued.”

That is, being critiqued about something that I’ve created.

“New Yorkers have a lot of opinions, Kitsy. Professor P. will just be one of them. Make sure you get some thick skin, but don’t lose your sensitivity. I think that will play an important role in your art.” Then Iona leaves me to draw, her Doc Martens boots stomping as she walks away.

“By the way, you should apply for the scholarship,” Iona says as she trots up the stairs to her seat.

Wait, scholarship?

“What scholarship?” I ask. “I didn’t see anything about that in the orientation packet.”

I turn around and watch Iona sit back down, put on her glasses, and lean back. “That’s because it’s not in the orientation packet, it’s a separate application. Every year, one summer student is picked for a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship donated by an anonymous patron of the arts.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” I stammer to make sure I heard it right. That’s roughly 1,600 hours at Sonic, not including tips. Ten thousand dollars would be the difference between everything for me and my art. Not to mention my life.

“Yes,” she says. “And I’m predicting that you’ll get it. A lot of these other kids are just here because they got in, and it looks good on their already-bloated résumés,” Iona says. “None of them flew across the country to be here. I think that says something about you.”

New York keeps surprising me. Monday might’ve started with rain, but it’s getting sunnier by the second.

Professor Picasso begins Monday’s class at exactly nine a.m. “Enough with nudes, which I know must disappoint your hormones, but this week is pottery week.”

Broken Spoke High’s budget, particularly the art budget, gets slashed every year, so we definitely don’t have any art supplies other than charcoal and antique (read ancient) paint. So when our class goes into the pottery room, I almost faint when I see it. Inside, there are twenty stations, each with its own pottery wheel. This is like the new Dallas Cowboy football stadium of art rooms. (Not that I’ve been to a game there—it costs sixty dollars just to park!)

My heart starts pumping again, and I get the same rush that I did when I first came to New York, the same one I got from singing “Don’t Stop Believin’” with Tad, and the same rush I got when I realized Iona wanted to help me, because she thinks I’m a good artist.

Professor Picasso explains the terminology for, as he puts it, “those of you who might not have had the pleasures of working with clay.” I’m so excited that I find myself barely able to listen. I’ve always wanted to try throwing clay ever since I saw the classic movie
Ghost
with Amber on late-night TV. Amber just kept commenting on how hot Patrick Swayze was, but all I could think was
I wonder if one day I’ll get to try pottery
. The closest I’ve ever been to
really
working with clay is Kiki’s Play-Doh.

Professor Picasso stops lecturing for a moment and sits down at the wheel right next to where I’m standing.

Splashing water on the clay, he slowly begins to press the foot pedal. He explains that working with clay on a wheel is called “throwing.” As Professor Picasso gradually opens, centers, and grounds the clay from a heap into a vase, I decide that
throwing
is totally an inappropriate term. Watching someone work with clay on the wheel is like watching a transformation. A caterpillar to a butterfly. Michelangelo once said that he could see the object inside a block of marble, and that he’d chip and chip away until it became free. I wonder if I’ll be able to see something in this clay and figure out how to let it escape—or better yet, find the artist in me and let her be free.

As we all sit down at our individual stations, I start to forget the other stuff: Hands, Amber, Kiki, and Tad. Maybe Professor Picasso is right. You can’t multitask with art. I need to figure out how to concentrate. Maybe then I’ll find my
je ne
 . . . whatever it’s called.