A Long Way From You (26 page)

Subject: Hellooooo . . .

Where in the world is Kitsy Kidd? I know you’re alive because I got an email from my mom about you. Can you please write me? I’m having serious cravings for contact from the Real World. And I need to hear what’s going on from you. I can’t WAIT to see you, Kitsy.

Chapter 15
The Best Place to Start Over

O
N THE PLANE BACK TO
New York on Sunday afternoon, I fidget the entire time, but not because I’m nervous about flying. After three flights in three weeks, I’m feeling confident about my aviation know-how. But I’m jumpy because I want to get back to Parsons to start editing my new photos. I genuinely can’t remember the last time I was so excited to work on something.

I should be exhausted since I didn’t sleep a wink last night, and I spent the whole car ride to Dallas clicking away and reviewing my photos, but somehow I’m still bright-eyed. During the flight, I alternate between brainstorming for my portfolio project and gleefully looking at my photos. When the announcement to turn off all electronics is made, I reluctantly put away my camera and prepare for landing.

Once off the plane, I meet Ivan at the baggage claim.

“Starbucks, Kitsy?” he asks.

“No, thank you.” I never fell victim to the green-and-white beast. “Besides, I’m on a tight schedule. I have exactly eight days to win a scholarship and see more of Manhattan.”

Taking my bag from me, Ivan grins and says: “Let’s get going then. It’s a good thing that New York can handle a take-charge girl.”

I wake up very early on Monday, the first day of my last week of school. Since it’s portfolio week, we’re not having class. There are just optional lab hours for us to work on our portfolios and get help from Professor Picasso. Since I got a lot of planning done on the plane, I’m taking some
me
time this morning and being a tourist.

Where’s the best place to start anew? For a long time, the answer was the United States of America—Ellis Island to be exact—so I make that my first stop.

After quietly slipping out of the apartment, I stroll down the pathways along the West Side Highway to Battery Park, where the ferries depart for Ellis Island. From the harbor, I can see the Statue of Liberty, which even from this distance seems a hundred times larger than it did from the plane. Luckily, I don’t have to use my rusty trigonometry to figure out how tall she is; the brochure that came with my ticket informs me that she’s 151 feet tall from head to base. Given to the United States by the French, she most certainly has the
je ne sais quoi
that Iona once said my art lacked. Hopefully, my new photography project will have a touch of it.

On the ferry I imagine the difficult journeys that the immigrants endured to get to New York City, and my flight from Texas suddenly seems like riding a cloud. After docking, I walk around the outside perimeter of the island. There’s a large memorial wall of honor that surrounds the museum and I read that people have donated money to have their ancestors’ names etched on the memorial. According to my brochure, it’s the longest list of names in the world.

As I pass panel 222, something catches my eye. Moving closer, I see
THOMAS KIDD
engraved into the wall. I have only met three other Kidds in my life: Amber, my dad, and Kiki. I always assumed that there were other Kidds, but it’s crazy to actually see my last name etched in stone, and to be on the same island where a Kidd entered the United States. I may not be related to Thomas Kidd, but I want a record of him anyway. I place a piece of tracing paper over his name and carefully make an etching. I wonder where Thomas Kidd went after he arrived at Ellis. Did he find what he was looking for in New York, or did he go searching for it somewhere else?

I feel connected to New York City, and also to America and its past. Many people who came here left places with terrible conditions. They weren’t so much running away as they were moving toward hope. Once in America, many of them worked hard to maintain their native cultures and share them with others. Ellis Island makes me realize that everyone carries baggage, both good and bad. And you don’t have to leave who you are and where you’re from in the dust when you come here. New York is called the Melting Pot for a reason. I could live here for the rest of my life, but I hope I’d always keep my accent and still call all carbonated drinks Cokes.

On Tuesday, I set up camp at our school’s lab to edit my photographs. If you had told me at the beginning of the class that my project would be on Broken Spoke, I would’ve laughed. Now, looking at my two hundred shots from home, I’m having a hard time narrowing them down to only ten coherent images.

Just like Van Gogh and Monet, I’m amazed at the view from my own backyard. As I’m cropping a photo of the football field and deciding if it’s better in color or black- and-white, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Kitsy,” Ford says. “It’s time for a break. Your work ethic is scaring me.”

Looking at my computer screen, he says, “Hey, I thought you were doing your project on a band.”

“I changed my mind,” I say, laughing. “I think my judgment might’ve been clouded when I decided to do that one.”

“Let me guess,” he says as he cleans his green frames with his shirt. “You were doing it for a guy? I once pretended to love Japanese anime for six months because this kid I crushed on was totally into it. Total waste of time.”

“You’re right about the guy thing,” I admit and save my work. “But it didn’t end up being a waste of time for me. Sometimes you have to go to point C to find point A again. So, where are we taking our break?”

“Have you been to a Mister Softee yet?” Ford asks.

“No, but I’ve been eyeing them since I got here. Let’s do it!”

I follow Ford out of the building.

Outside, Ford looks left and then right. “It shouldn’t take us long to find one,” he says. “Sometimes, you’ll see three on the same block.”

Ford spots a Mister Softee truck parked on a corner near Union Square. “Jackpot.” We both get twisty cones and stand listening to the truck’s jingle and eating our ice cream quickly before it melts in the sun.

“So why didn’t you answer my texts this weekend? I think my boyfriend’s starting to believe I made you up!” Ford asks as he wipes his chin.

“Ohmigosh, I’m so sorry. I went home for like twenty-four hours to deal with some stuff and I forgot to text you back.”

Ford makes his way to an unoccupied bench and waves me over. “What kind of stuff?”

I walk over to him and brainstorm a lie, but once I sit down, I feel the whole truth falling from my lips as I tell Ford about Amber, Kiki, and Hands. Ford’s been a good friend, and I shouldn’t hide the true Kitsy from him.

Ford finishes his ice cream as he patiently listens. “Wow,” he says. “I’m impressed. Sometimes it’s harder to be honest than it is to lie.”

I toss my cone’s wrapper into the trash. “I agree,” I say. “But it does feel better.”

And as delicious as Mister Softee was, I’m still loyal to my employer. Nothing beats a Sonic Blast.

On Wednesday, with two days to go before the show, I’m feeling confident about my progress. So I decide to take an extended lunch break and I know exactly where I want to go: to see the pigeons at Central Park. After all, Tad told me that they’re the city bird. I wonder if any high schools around here have pigeons as their mascots and cheerleaders called Pigeonettes.

I think back to when Tad and I came here together. He hasn’t tried to contact me since the incident with Annika, but I think that’s for the best.

At Central Park, I spot more than three dozen pigeons near a set of benches. I decide to take some photographs for Kiki and print them at the school’s lab. He’ll flip.

A group of men in business suits walk by just as the pigeons take flight. “Holy cow,” squeals the tallest of the group as he runs from the flock.

I find it comical that in this big city it’s the pigeons that scare people. I abandon my plan to feed the pigeons when I read a sign that says
FEEDING PIGEONS ALSO FEEDS RATS
. I don’t want to be responsible for the next bird flu epidemic.

Wandering up and down the trails in the park, I keep forgetting I’m still in the city until my eyes run across the skyscrapers boxing the park in. I heard there was a zoo, so when I stumble upon it, I decide it’s worth the ten dollars to visit.

There’s Ida and Gus, the polar bears; Nicky, the harbor seal; a newborn goat named Funky. There are pandas, snow leopards, and lizards. I reckon there’s a place for every person and animal in Manhattan.

I’m on my way out of the park when I remember that I still haven’t seen the
Angel of Waters
statue. Finding a map, I pinpoint it to the Bethesda Terrace, a section near the lake. With a bit of navigating, I spot the large fountain up ahead. Behind it, rowboats and ducks float in a lake.

Approaching the pool of water, I see the angel on top of the giant fountain. Beside me, an Australian couple is huddled around a guidebook. The woman is reading out loud: “‘The idea comes from the Gospel of Saint John when an angel bestowed healing powers on the waters of Bethlehem. This angel is supposed to protect New York’s waters.’”

I like that. New York City has most certainly had healing effects on me. I toss a coin into the fountain to thank the angel, but I don’t make a wish. I’ve had enough dreams come true recently; I’ll give someone else a turn.

As I turn to leave, I see an older man and lady row by in one of the same green boats that Tad and I rented earlier this summer. Their laughter echoes over the water and reaches me. Thinking back to my time with Tad on this lake, I remember it like a painting, a snapshot in my mind. But really, all memories are like paintings: They can be incredibly vivid and lifelike. But in the end, they both just remind us that we only get to live any particular moment once, even if we remember it forever.

After getting another Mister Softee, I head back to school to spend the afternoon editing and cropping photos. I can’t believe the exhibit is in two days and Corrinne will be here. Hopefully, her time at fancy horse camp hasn’t reverted her back into Country Club Corrinne.

I’m putting my last photograph—one of my oak tree—on its mat, when Professor Picasso appears in the classroom.

Over the course of this week, he’s given us our space, only coming around if we have questions. But I’ve been nervous to ask him about what he thinks of my project.

His opinion really matters to me. I know he liked my admissions sketch, but how will he feel about this project?

“Kitsy,” he says, leaning over my shoulder. “It’s your oak tree!”

“Do you recognize it?” I ask. After the golden light arrived in Broken Spoke, I biked out to the field and took this photo while lying on my back. It’s a shot of my oak tree trunk with an upside-down view of the leaves.

“Of course, I love that oak tree and I like this interpretation even better than your admissions sketch,” he says. “It looks like you—and your art—found its roots.”

I beam inwardly. He’s exactly right. And I found out that my best art says something about me, not someone else.

“Hopefully, we’ll be seeing each other again, Kitsy,” he says. “There’s a lot of talent in you. I can feel it as much as I can see it.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say. “You don’t know how much that means to me. Where I’m from, there are not a lot of people who share my interest in art. This has been the most incredible experience of my life.”

“You’re more than welcome, Kitsy, and your journey is just beginning,” Professor Picasso says with a nod.

As he walks away, Iona comes over from where she’s been working on her own project. She’s being super secretive about it and has built a wall around her working space so no one can see it.

“I’ve never seen Professor P. act so complimentary,” she says. “Someone must’ve prescribed him some Xanax. That stuff works wonders. My parents are huge fans.”

I like to think it was my photo that gave him hope, just like it did for me. But I just nod. I don’t want to rob her the chance of reading people. Besides, Iona’s definitely turned out to be pretty cool. She gives me the slightest smile and starts to head back to her corner.

“Wait, Iona,” I call out. “I never said a proper thank-you for giving me that scholarship information. It means everything to me. I’m about to go to the Empire State Building. I know that you’re from New York and probably think that’s lame, but do you want to go?”

“Thanks, but I’m going to pass,” Iona answers. “I’ve never actually been up there. It’s funny what you don’t appreciate in your hometown.”

After I pack my sketchbook into my purse, I give Iona a small smile and move toward the door.

“Wait, Kitsy,” Iona calls out. “Do you have time before you go for me to take you somewhere you’ll never find in any Frommer’s guidebook? It’s close by.”

We make our way southwest and walk down West Tenth Street. As we near the water, the street becomes speckled with tiny coffee shops and a dark Mexican restaurant. I’m sad that I don’t have enough time (or money) to visit all of them during this trip.

Leading the way, Iona explains, “This is where I go when I’m trying to get over something. It’s my favorite place. Second only to my therapist’s couch.”

“Corrinne calls those mental happy places,” I say.

“That’s a lot more creative than I-don’t-wanna-know-you Iona,” she says with a smile.

“Totally agreed,” I say and laugh. “My mental happy place is MoMA but I love this street, too. The brownstones are so beautiful.”

Iona looks ahead and lowers her voice: “There’s only one rule about my place: You can’t tell a soul. It’s totally underappreciated, which is what makes it special. I’ve never actually brought a friend here,” she says as we wait to cross the street.

I use two fingers to pantomime zipping my lips.

“It’s up ahead.” Iona points to a redbrick church with ivory doors in the distance.

“A church?” I ask, trying not to sound too surprised.