A Long Way From You (2 page)

Reminder to Kitsy: You can’t be all pep and go,
school spirit, rah-rah,
with your pom-poms and everyone else, and then be all Debbie Downer in your own head.

I start to sketch the middle-aged woman sitting next to me. With one hand, I cover my paper just in case she wakes up and thinks that I’m a stalker or something. People ridin’ high and walkin’ in the tall cotton with clothes and looks like hers probably need to worry about things like that.

When my salmon arrives on a tray with a fancy doily, I’m glad that I watch a lot of Food Network on TV so I know that salmon is supposed to be this pink color. Food like this exotic fish isn’t on my grocery list, which I compile only after figuring out what’s on sale that week.

The man across from me slurs to the flight attendant that he wants another drink. When she comes by again with my dessert, which looks like a dirty sponge with whipped cream on top, I smile at her. I know all about annoying customers from my job.

“I’m a waitress, too,” I say and smile. “It’s harder than people think, right?”

The flight attendant flares her nostrils (not a pretty view) and asks, “Do you want another
Pepsi
?” Something about the way she pronounces
Pepsi
makes me know that I overstepped some airplane etiquette.

“Sorry. I’m not exactly a waitress. I’m a carhop. I roller-skate. Actually, I Rollerblade. I never could get a hold on roller skates. Kept tripping over the toe stop. Have you been to a Sonic Drive-In? That’s where I work.”

The flight attendant, whose name tag reads
MEREDITH
, walks away without a word. I wanted to tell her that I like her name and her perfume. That’s what I do when I’m nervous: talk and compliment. In the Spoke, that routine helps make up for people’s preconceived ideas about me.

Just then, the lady by the window pulls up her eye mask and smiles a fourteen-tooth grin, one like Julia Roberts’s. That kind of smile is extremely rare. I only have an eight-tooth smile, and it’s crooked because I never got braces. “Straight teeth don’t make a difference,” Amber said. “Look where my perfect teeth got me. Nowhere.” Amber isn’t exactly a fountain of optimism.

“So, I imagine you’re
coming
from Texas and
going
to New York,” she says.

“My accent gave me away?”

“Yes . . . ,” the lady says very slowly. “Your accent. Let me tell you something. Don’t worry about the stewardess. Stewardesses come in two types. The type that wanted to be models and settled for this, which makes them bitter”—she gulps a clear drink and continues—“and then the husky type who never thought they’d become stewardesses because of the weight limits. After they eliminated the weigh-ins, that type got the chance to see that being a stewardess isn’t actually glamorous—not to mention, the aisles are narrow. That type is sour, too. Of course, there are exceptions.”

I nod slowly and scan for Meredith. I don’t want her to overhear this and get the pilot to reroute us back to Texas. I also want to tell the Lady in Black that although this is my first flight, I’m pretty sure they are called flight attendants, not stewardesses. This is 2012, after all.

“Meredith’s probably real sweet,” I say. “I just got too personal. My mother says I’ve never met a stranger. She thinks I get nosy quickly and talk too much, which might be especially true when I’m nervous. Am I talking too much? I’m sorry if I am.”

“Who’s Meredith? And why is a pretty thing like you nervous? We’re landing in the city created for Bright Young Things like you.”

“Meredith is our flight attendant,” I answer. “And I’m nervous because I’ve never flown before. Actually, I’m nervous
slash
totally thrilled.”

Right there and then, I want to launch into what Corrinne calls a
Kitsy Monologue
. I want to tell this woman, a complete stranger, how I’m leaving Broken Spoke for the first time and attending Parsons for a four-week art program for promising young art students. That’s exactly how the acceptance email put it: “promising young art students.”

I want to tell her about Corrinne, a native Manhattan girl, who had to move to Broken Spoke and how it changed my life more than hers. She moved in with her grandparents because her dad lost his big Wall Street job. (Her mother’s originally from the Spoke although you’d never guess it looking at her.) Corrinne stayed in the Spoke for six months until her dad got another job and could move the family back to New York. And I want this lady to know how the Corcorans were so grateful for my friendship with Corrinne—who was initially not too happy to be living in the Spoke—that they bought me a ticket, my first plane ticket, to New York, so I could attend art school.

Up until now, my only formal art education has been taking one class a year at my high school. It’s taught by Madame Williams. She’s very supportive but has no art background. She only started teaching art three years ago when the school slashed the French program. I want to explain to this lady how this opportunity is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me, and how I’m certain that there’s going to be a jolt and I’ll wake up because it just must be a dream.

I also want to tell her about Kiki and Amber. In Broken Spoke, everyone thinks they know my story, and here is someone who doesn’t know it. I want to narrate it for the first time and go further than the obvious parts like the fact that my dad left and that Amber drinks and smokes too much.

This woman’s eyes grew Super Sonic Cheeseburger–size when I told her that this was my first flight. Does she not understand the cost of a plane ticket when you make $5.50 an hour at Sonic? Actually,
I
don’t even know the cost of the ticket, especially one like this. I told the Corcorans that I’d keep track of how much I’m costing them and pay them back just as soon as I can, but they wouldn’t hear of it. Mrs. Corcoran said, “After the recession, we figured out what’s worth spending money on. And you, Kitsy, are a solid investment.” When she said that, I held the phone away from my ear and tried not to cry. No one, not even Hands, has ever said anything like that about me.

“And all that stuff I said about the stewardesses, I only know that because I was one—a stewardess—back when there was still a bit of glamour left at forty thousand feet,” the woman tells me with a laugh, and puts her hand on my mine. “You’re going to have a fabulous time in New York.”

“What do you do now?” I ask. I wonder if she got discovered, became a model, and is now an ambassador for a third-world nation like Angelina Jolie.

“I got saved,” she says and waves her left hand, which is weighed down by a ring with a sapphire center stone sandwiched by two gumball-size diamonds. It’s even bigger than Mrs. Corcoran’s, which was the biggest one I’d ever seen until now. “I got married, honey.”

Considering my own parents’ situation, I’ve never thought about being married and getting saved in the same breath.

“What a
beautiful
ring.” Talk and compliment. And then repeat.

“Thanks, darling. Are you meeting your man in New York? Will you be wined and dined?”

I don’t bother to tell this woman that the only wining and dining I’ve done is “borrowed” Arbor Mist with some BBQ, and that I’m only seventeen.

“No, ma’am. I’m taking a course at Parsons. It’s an art school,” I say proudly.

The closest I’ve ever been to Parsons before this is watching Tim Gunn on
Project Runway
tell contestants to “make it work.” I can’t believe that I’m actually going to school there.
Fierce
.

“Oh, good for you,” the woman says. “You have to have a career these days. Thanks to my generation.” She rolls her eyes as if she’s
not
thankful for the feminists’ efforts for equal rights.

Art as a
career
? Maybe in New York with all of its galleries and museums, but it’s so not possible in Broken Spoke. It could happen only if Madame Williams would finally retire and I became the art teacher. I try to make eye contact with Meredith, the flight attendant, so I can apologize with my eyes for the whole I’m-a-waitress-too comment, but she’s flirting with the Jameson-and-ginger man in 4A.

The woman beside me pulls her eye mask back down, rests her head against the window, and snuggles up with her black cashmere blanket. “Get some rest,” she mutters. “You’ll need it. You know, New York is the city that never sleeps.”

I think about pulling out my sketchbook again, watching a bad movie, or asking for another Pepsi. But then . . . I’m not thinking at all.

I wake up sleeping upright, which is a first for me. The only person I know who sometimes sleeps sitting up is Amber, and I think that’s called passing out.

There’s a fabulous bacon smell wafting throughout the cabin. The aroma reminds me of weekends at Corrinne’s grandparents’ and brunches at Hands’s, which always beat Cheerios at my place. My watch says it’s only four a.m. Central Time, but I sit up with a hunger. The Lady in (All) Black next to me is reapplying her makeup, using a monogrammed gold compact. Definitely nothing you can buy at our local Piggly Wiggly. But I’ve learned that drugstore makeup is just as good if you know what you’re doing.

The lady looks at me directly for the first time, then pulls open the window shade. Light floods our seats.

“Darling,” she says, “switch seats with me. We’re going to fly over Manhattan at sunrise. This is something that you
must
see. I’m still awestruck by its beauty even after living here for twenty-five years.”

After some awkward maneuvering, I have my nose pressed up against the window of my new seat. Its imprint leaves a mark that I try to rub away. Right now, the view is houses and more houses but Monopoly-size ones.

But then I see water, and I spy it: a tiny green statue.

The lady nudges me and says, “
Give me your tired, your poor, / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, / The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. / Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. / I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
”

“The inscription on the Statue of Liberty,” I say. “I read about it at the library when I tried to learn everything I could about Manhattan.”

“Somehow, I think you’ll still end up surprised,” she says. “I’m going to give you an aerial tour of the island of Manhattan. It’s going to be quick because the island is only—”

“Thirteen miles long.” I’m beginning to like this lady even if she’s a bit un-PC.

“The green patch—that’s Central Park. There’s the Empire, the Chrysler,” she says, pointing to different skyscrapers. “Oh, that’s the Brooklyn Bridge,” she adds, nodding toward a stunning suspension bridge. “Make sure no one sells that to you.”

I laugh, but I’m not worrying about anyone trying to scam me. I’ve been waiting for this chance my whole life. I only wish the plane would slow down because I somehow feel that this experience is already going by too fast.

“Don’t worry, honey,” she says. “It’s better from the ground. By the way, I’m Mary Carter Hubbard. It’s very nice to meet you.”

I’m happy when Mrs. Hubbard extends her right hand for me to shake. I was worried that her ring would cut my hand.

“I’m Kitsy. Kitsy Kidd. Thank you for the window seat and for the tour.” Quickly I look away from the window and gobble up the muffin and bacon that have appeared in front of me. It’s free, after all.

“Good God. I wish I still had your metabolism.” Mrs. Hubbard sips her water daintily as if she’s worried that even water could make her fat.

The pilot makes a few announcements—and then we start to descend.

Hands was right: The landing part feels like driving on a dirt road in an old, rickety truck. Real flying was just as much fun as it was in my dreams. I hope the real New York is as good as the one in my dreams, too.

When we get off the plane, Mrs. Hubbard stops me. “I’m originally from Charleston, South Carolina,” she confides softly, as if it were a secret. “But New York belongs to
all
of us.” She gives me a small hug, then walks a few steps before she turns around. “Kitsy, make sure you remember this.”

“Remember what?” I ask.

“Youth. Savor it.”

I smile and wave good-bye. I don’t tell her that I haven’t felt young in a long time.

I text Kiki, Hands, Amber, and Corrinne that I made it to New York. I’m a bit nervous to navigate the taxi thing, but Corrinne said even people who don’t speak English can do it. “Kitsy, you’ll figure it out, even speaking Texan. If you need help, just try to be careful of the
y’all
s and other Texan-speak, especially all those phrases that no one outside of Broken Spoke understands.”

I begin following the baggage claim signs with the pictures of suitcases on them.

As I ride down the escalator, I see a mob of people beyond security. It’s only six a.m.! Most of the crowd is wearing black suits and holding signs. Then I see a giant poster board with a picture of an apple that says
KITSY KIDD, TAKE A BITE OUT OF THE BIG APPLE.
Then Corrinne, dressed in white linen pants and a black tank top, steps out from behind it.

Because I can’t help it, I find myself running down the escalator, pushing people out of the way (gently, of course), and grabbing Corrinne in a lasso-tight hug. I figure New York is used to a little aggression anyway. Even though I’ve read that nothing shocks a true New Yorker, people are staring and covering their ears because of our squeals.

“
Kitsy Kidd!
” Corrinne exclaims. “Surprise! We’re going to be your taxi. You’re the only person who I’d wake up this early for. I hope you slept on the plane—we don’t have much time.”

I light up, glad that Corrinne is here and I don’t have to deal with New York by myself quite yet.

Unfortunately for me, Corrinne is going to be a counselor at a sleepaway horse camp in Virginia this summer and leaves in two days. She’s like a total cowgirl but a preppy one. Corrinne’s going to be in New York with me for only a few days: first this weekend and then my last three days in the city. I’m pretty much on my own other than that. Freaky, but exciting, since I’m in the greatest city in the world, and I only have to worry about looking out for myself.