A Long Way From You (16 page)

As a class, we start slowly together. We lather our clay blocks with water as if we were baptizing them. Then, Professor Picasso instructs us to put our feet on the pedal and slowly start spinning our wheels.

“Slower, slower,” he urges us. “Now press your thumbs into the center but hold on to the edges. Keep your foot on the pedal.”

Instead of looking at my own clay mound, I find myself watching the other students in the class. I see most students’ clay start to effortlessly mold into shapes. They don’t even seem nervous. Meanwhile, I can’t figure out how to concentrate on the pedal and the clay at the same time. I feel like those kids who can’t rub their tummies and pat their heads at the same time except I’m the cheerleading captain and I’m actually very coordinated. It’s a requirement for being the top on a pyramid.

Peeking out of the corner of my eye, I notice Professor Picasso watching me. You can do this, Kitsy, I say to myself. You wanted to do this, Kitsy. As Professor Picasso hovers over me, I press as hard as I can and barely push my thumbs into the clay. I didn’t know that throwing clay required hands of steel!

“Kitsy . . . ,” Professor Picasso says calmly. “Slow the wheel, Kitsy.”

I should probably mention that I don’t have my driver’s license. You need a parent to drive with you for a hundred hours before you qualify. No way Amber’s up for that. So maybe because I’m not used to a pedal or because I’m nervous, when I hear Professor Picasso say
slow
, I just press down harder. Like a firecracker exploding, the clay flies
everywhere.
Most of it hits me, but I see one kid across the room blocking his face and I’m pretty sure a glob smacks the ceiling.

An epic flame-out. Worse than the time I crashed into a trash can and spilled a tray of milkshakes at Sonic because I was busy thinking too much about bills and not enough about Rollerblading. My cheeks go redder than the clay, my mouth drops open, and I’m totally speechless. Most of the other students stop their wheels, and it seems time is frozen. The room is silent.

Putting his hand on my shoulder, Professor Picasso explodes into laughter and the other students join him. Is this happening? Aren’t teachers supposed to keep other kids from laughing at students, not be the ones that
start
it? Are manners really an exclusively Southern thing?

Briefly, I envision my escape out the door, out the building, off Manhattan, and back to Broken Spoke, but I stay firmly seated. After all, Kitsy Kidd is not a quitter. And the only thing worse than staying here is running home.

“Kitsy,” Professor Picasso says, not unkindly, “this happens
every
year. It wouldn’t be the pottery unit if it didn’t happen
at least
once. Go clean up and start again.”

And just like that, everyone goes back to work, and the snickers stop.

When I pass by Iona and her almost perfect vase on the way to the bathroom, she asks me, “Do you need any help?”

“I’m good, but thanks for asking.” I really need to tell Corrinne to be nicer to her.

In the bathroom (luckily, the empty bathroom), I spend a lot of time picking the clay out of my ear, my shirt, and yes, my bra. Once I’m all cleaned up, I stare at myself in the mirror.

“What do you want, Kitsy? Why are you here?” I ask my freshly washed face.

“To be somebody. Or try to be somebody,” I reply to myself. “And remember, this is supposed to be fun, so loosen up.”

I remind myself that nothing—not fixing a leaky pipe or holding your head high as you pay with coupons at the Piggy Wiggly—flusters me, so why should this? They were laughing at the situation, not me.

Back in the classroom, I take my seat and Ford calls out to me.

“Still looking fabulous somehow, Kitsy.”

I smile until I see Professor Picasso walking over and stroking his reddish beard. “Ready for round two?” he asks and drops another slab of clay on my wheel.

“Never been so ready for anything in my life,” I lie.

Looking down at the hunk of clay, I try to remember exactly what Professor Picasso explained earlier, but all I can remember is flying clay and yelps of laughter.

I see Professor Picasso step to move around the room, and I breathe in and do something I’ve never been good at doing: asking for help.

“Professor Picasso,” I say quietly, “can you help me this time?”

With a surprised look, he smiles and says, “But of course.”

Sometimes it actually helps not to act like your usual self.

Two hours and thirty minutes (and two tries plus help from Professor Picasso) later, I’m looking at my
very own
clay vase. It definitely tilts a little to the left, but I have to trust myself with clay, and I find that I like that.

When Professor Picasso asks the class to put our work on a table so it can be fired in the kiln, I hesitate. I’m having total separation anxiety from my masterpiece . . . okay, from my
novice-piece
. Gently, I place it next to my other classmates’ work, most of which are far more advanced than mine. I’m okay with that though.

“Class, there’s more to this announcement than how to fire vases. In one hour, we’re going to have a meeting in our classroom about applying for the scholarship that our anonymous benefactor has kindly donated again. The student who has the best portfolio showing will be awarded a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship to be used toward an art education. I’ll discuss the rest of the details at the meeting. Remember, this is not for a Girl Scout patch, so only come and apply if you have serious intentions about applying to art school and furthering your art education with the goal of becoming a working artist.”

The words
working artist
ring in my ears like a favorite Christmas hymn. Working artist definition: someone who gets paid to do art. It almost sounds impossible that it exists—that some folks make a living from it, and even crazier, that some artists get rich doing it. Of course, that’s not why I want to be an artist. It would be amazing to work somewhere where perks include being emotionally and spiritually fulfilled. At Sonic, my only real benefits are free Frito Chili Cheese Wraps.

I figure I have enough time to go and get a snack from one of those stores that Corrinne called bodegas
.
They just seem like mini convenience stores to me except they don’t sell gas, which makes me realize I haven’t seen a single gas station in New York. All the cars must run just on the city’s energy. I’m going to try to channel that energy more and figure out how to infuse it into my art, not let it distract me from my art.

I pull out my cell phone as I walk into the sticky-like-a-Popsicle-wrapper summer air. I breathe a sigh of relief that the rain’s stopped, so I don’t need to open the world’s largest umbrella. Pausing, I smile as I realize that I haven’t thought about Hands, Amber, or Kiki for almost three hours. It’s not that I don’t love them, but it’s that I didn’t come here to think about them. And no thoughts about Tad or the fact that he didn’t call either. A minor victory in the Chronicles of Kitsy.

I turn on my cell phone and feel it vibrate in my hand. I brace myself for the Texts from the Spoke, and I say a silent prayer that the home front’s forecast is calm and calamity free. It’d be nice to get away from my Broken Spoke worries physically—and mentally—for at least a day.

It’s not a 580 number that pops up though; instead, a 917 number reads across my screen.

Want to play hooky? I’m in Union Square Park, watching a rousing game of chess. Find me.

I look at my watch. Tad sent me the text at two, it’s almost three, and the scholarship meeting is at four. Breathe deep, Kitsy, and pray to Cupid that he will make the pitter-pattering of your heart stop. I don’t want to have a heart attack on the sidewalk. Besides, Tad’s probably not even there anymore, I shouldn’t go anyway, and I have a devoted boyfriend writing
I love you
in shaving cream on the BSHS football field. But I decide that I can easily walk to Union Square, say hi to Tad if he’s still there, and make it back in time for the four o’clock meeting.

As I approach Union Square I realize why everybody falls in love with New York City. On one block alone, there are two Mister Softee ice cream trucks and a cupcake truck. A bunch of little kids are shrieking and splashing around in the fountain and a group of break-dancers perform a routine to the sounds of a boom box that’s blasting Michael Jackson.

For a second (and I’ll confess that it was barely even a full second), I take in the scene, forgetting that I came here to find Tad. I remember why I’m here when I see a cluster of people huddled around a giant chess table. A mixture of relief and disappointment washes over me when I don’t spot Tad among them.

He’s not there. Back to class, back to life, back to reality. Pivoting, I decide to skip the snack at the bodega and go for a cupcake from the Cupcake Stop truck. The name is telling me “Red light!” but this is probably my one and only chance to eat cupcakes out of a truck. Maybe it’s something I can bring back with me. It’d definitely make tailgating a lot more fun and would finally add some estrogen to the menu.

Waiting in line, I listen in on two friends’ lively debate over what cupcake to split. I think it’s a pretty great day when the biggest decision you have to make is choosing between baked goods. As much as I try, though, I can’t put Tad’s text out of my mind. Why would he text me on a
Monday
if he didn’t
like
me? And more important, why should I care if he does? I have less than three weeks left here, and then I go back to the last seventeen years of my life in Texas. If I’m calculating my math right, I’ll have spent less than one percent of my life here. Zero isn’t even a real number according to my algebra teacher, Mrs. DeBord.

“Next!” the lady in the truck calls out from the tiny window.

Confronted with a rainbow of mini-cupcake options, I suddenly freeze with indecision—then quickly overcome it when I see a mound of frosting topped with a giant Oreo cookie.

“Can I get one Oreo?” I ask.

As she wraps up the cupcake in pink tissue paper, my eyes stay glued to a Funfetti mini cupcake.

“Would you like the Funfetti mini, too?” the lady asks.

I nod sheepishly.

“It’s on the house, or on the truck,” she says, laughing. “It’s one of those days I feel like being nice.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, beaming. I balance in one hand two cupcakes and in the other hand, a giant umbrella.

Backing away from the truck, I start off toward school when I hear from behind me snapping to a beat I recognize:

“
Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do. She looked good. She looked fine
.”

I refuse to turn around. Don’t be offended, Kitsy. It’s a New York thing; men are more forward here. If anything, be complimented. Picking up the pace a bit, I use my umbrella to propel me away from the serenade.

“Kitsy!” the voice calls.

I spin around to find Tad at my heels.

“A cupcake!” he exclaims and reaches out for it. “For
moi
? That’s so nice.”

“Hi, Tad,” I say, instinctively clutching my cupcakes close to my chest. “I tried to find you, but I couldn’t, so I settled on something sweeter instead.” I don’t know where those last words come from. I know that they don’t sound like me.

Tad pauses for a second. Did I cross the line?

Putting his arm around me in a big-brother type of way, Tad says, “I just got back from MoMA. Jealous much? How was school? Didn’t anyone ever tell you that only the dorks and burnouts go to summer school? Okay, to be fair, I went to summer school, too.”

“Well, somebody did warn me to stay away from musicians who try to get you to play hooky,” I say, ducking out from underneath his arm.

Not to mention
,
my boyfriend, Hands, instructed me to stay away from all boys in New York. Actually, all
people
in New York.

I pop the entire mini Funfetti into my mouth and chew it slowly to buy myself time.

“So how about coming to see
the
Hipster Hat Trick practice in Brooklyn?” Tad reaches toward my Oreo cupcake and swipes some frosting off with his finger.

“Can’t,” I say, looking at my watch. “I have a meeting.”

Tad looks at the frosting as if he’s debating whether he should lick it off his finger or not. Finally, he does, and then he casually licks the side of his mouth with his tongue. Holy Holly Golightly, it doesn’t make me feel casual at all.

“A meeting or a band rehearsal? Do you even need to think about that decision? Do you think the artists hanging in MoMA learned to do art by going to meetings?”

Tad doesn’t wait for my answer; he continues on. “Besides, you have to see art to make art. Not that I’m calling Hipster Hat Trick art. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not that conceited or delusional. But c’mon, Kitsy, live a little.”

Tad spins me then dips me. I cling tightly to my cupcakes and umbrella.

“Sing with me!” Looking up at the clouds where the sun is trying its hardest to peek out, Tad dances in a little circle around me and snaps out the rhythm and sings: “
I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day. When it’s cold outside, I’ve got the month of May
.”

Before Tad can get to the “My Girl” chorus where things will get even that much more confusing, I stop him and surprise myself by saying, “Okay, okay, I’ll go.”

I’m not getting the scholarship anyway, and I definitely need to learn to live a little. It’s just a band practice, after all. The whole group will be there, including a kid from home, and absolutely nothing will happen.

And that’s how I end up on a subway Brooklyn-bound despite Corrinne’s warning that everything I need is in Manhattan.

Chapter 9
The Thing About Good Girls

T
HE THING ABOUT GOOD GIRLS
is that just because they are good, it doesn’t mean they don’t ever consider being bad. On account of having a mother who isn’t exactly
Nick at Nite
material and having a father who hasn’t been spotted in six years, I pay plenty of attention to how people perceive me. All my life, I have sat in front rows, led cheers, and dated the nicest boy in school so that people would know, without a doubt, that I’m good. But now that I’m out of my area code, I find myself thinking what it would be like to be different. Not to be bad, necessarily, just to be different.