A Long Way From You (5 page)

I fly down the stairs toward the restaurant. The cafeteria I spotted on the second floor would have been perfect, but Corrinne told me earlier that she made reservations at this place—The Modern—weeks ago. She said that most of the people who eat there don’t even
visit
the museum. That’s hard for me to believe, but I know not everyone loves art like me
.
Hands would definitely choose to go to the NFL Hall of Fame in Dayton, Ohio, way before he’d elect to visit Manhattan.

When I arrive at The Modern, the first thing I see is a beautiful crystal bar with black leather stools. I feel immediately underdressed. Corrinne’s shoes start to feel like I’m wearing actual artillery, not gladiator sandals, and I’m worried that I’ll trip. Corrinne waves at me from a round table with crisp, white linens. This is undoubtedly the nicest place I’ve ever been to.

I’m about to become a lady who lunches.

“You have a museum glow to you. It looks strangely similar to a post-make-out, rosy face,” Corrinne says as a waitress pulls out my chair. I try not to stiffen, but I have never had a woman pull out my chair. Thanking her, I sit down with the grace of a bull in a china shop.

“Oh, Corrinne! It was wonderful. How can I ever thank you or your family? You don’t—you don’t know how much this means to me,” I finally say breathlessly.

“Kitsy,” Corrinne says, “stop that. You’re the one that taught me to be hospitable. Remember when you bought me that Sonic Blast when I hurt my arm? Remember when you took me bargain shopping? God, you made a heaven out of hell.” Corrinne quickly corrects herself. “Not that the Spoke is hell—or well—not exactly.”

I laugh even though Corrinne’s comment hurts. “Compared to this,” I say and look around, “the Spoke is looking pretty dark, like Dante’s
Inferno
dark.”

“Please don’t reference schoolbooks outside of school,” Corrinne says matter-of-factly. “It’s summer; I need some distance from learning.”

“You missed
a cute boy
,” I tease.

“In this museum?” Corrinne asks, giving me bug eyes. “You might be seeing things, Kitsy. And on the slim odds it’s true, I have a feeling he’d be more
your
type. I’m not so into the museum-faring kind.”

Corrinne’s right. She’s definitely into a variety of guys, but probably not any that frequent MoMA.

Pushing the image of the Art Boy out of my head, I tell Corrinne, “I only have one type: Hands.”

Corrinne gives me a mysterious eyebrow raise and says strangely, “You mean you’ve only
tried
one type.”

Since I know Corrinne and I have different views about relationships, I don’t respond, and look down at the large, leather menu.

“Speaking of heaven, the food here is otherworldly. We’ll do the three-course prix fixe. When we lunch, we lunch,” Corrinne says.

Corrinne and I play the parts of ladies who lunch over a meal of mozzarella and mint salad, Berkshire pork chop, and a jelly thing called panna cotta. When the bill comes, I realize that it costs as much as I earn in my weekly paycheck, and I work the maximum hours. But Corrinne charges it on her AmEx without a second thought.

“It’s almost time to spa. We have a party to grace.” When Corrinne stands up, she grabs a small paper bag with black handles from under the table. “I bought myself a necklace at the store, and you get a discount if you become a member of the museum. So I purchased a membership and put it in your name because I have had my fill of museums for a while. Maybe, like, forever.”

Corrinne hands me a card with my name on it and a pamphlet about the perks of membership—like the fact that you can visit for free whenever you want.

I get all choked up. “Thank you, Corrinne,” I say and hold the card out in front of my face. “I’ve never been a member of anything but the Mockingbirdettes.”

I am
so
taking to New York.

Chapter 3
Kitsy, Phone Home

C
ORRINNE AND
I
ARE HEADING
back downtown in a taxi when she asks the driver to stop at Spa Belles on Christopher Street.

“We’re getting our nails done,” she announces as we step into the salon, complete with at least ten nail stations and an entire room for pedicures in the back.

“I’ll just watch,” I say, eyeing the price board. “Or we could go to your apartment and I could do our nails for free. I just bought Canary Yellow polish, which magazines say is the hot color of the summer.”

“No,” Corrinne says. “Sometimes, Kitsy, you need to let other people do stuff for you. I’m going to do this for you. Well, actually, Joy will do it, but you know what I mean.”

As Joy gives me a shoulder massage at the end, I think how I could totally get used to this. Corrinne is right. It
is
a nice feeling to have someone do something for me. One thing I will never adjust to, though, are these prices: Thirty-eight dollars plus tip for a spa manicure! Do these ladies have a PhD in nail art or something?

All of a sudden, I’m no longer relaxing but thinking about tips and my last day at Sonic.

Looking out of Sonic’s front windows, I sigh when I recognize the red Mustang that’s pulled into spot eighteen. Everyone in Broken Spoke knows that car. Peggy Brooks has paraded it around town 24/7 ever since her daddy brought it back from Dallas.

Because Ruth Ann broke her ankle and Kerry is on maternity leave, I’m the only carhop. I have no option other than to wait on Peggy even though she rallied to replace me as Mockingbirdette captain on account of my “reputation.” The only thing is that it’s Peggy, not me, who has a reputation; she was just trying to use my family’s situation to her advantage. It didn’t work, but it still burns, especially since I’m forced to act all peppy and zesty around her at cheer events.

I count down, three, two, one. Then, as if on cue, I hear through my earpiece:

“Hello. Hello. Is this thing on?” Peggy yells. Through the window, I see her sticking her whole head out of her car to talk to the intercom, which is totally unnecessary.

“Yes, it’s on,” I say politely. “Welcome to Sonic. Would you like to try one of our four new all-beef hot dogs?”

I always follow the script because our manager, Rob, gets mad if we don’t, and I can’t risk losing my job.

“Kitsy, is that you?” Peggy cackles. “I didn’t think you still worked here.”

What I want to say is “where else can a high schooler get a job in Broken Spoke?” Truth is, I’m lucky to have this one. I’m the youngest person who works here, and every day people come in asking for job applications.

“Hi, Peggy. Yes, it’s me. I hope you’re enjoying your summer. What can I get for you?” I say with as much energy as possible.

“Does the low-cal diet limeade have calories?” Peggy asks. I watch her stare at the giant, electronic menu.

“It has twenty calories,” I answer. I want to say if it has no calories, it would be called calorie-free, not low-cal.

“Twenty?” Peggy repeats, horrified.

“Twenty for the thirty-two-ounce drink,” I clarify.

“Okay, fine, I’ll have a medium one. And I’ll have a double cheeseburger. That’s for Taylor,” she says proudly. “I could never eat the food here.”

Taylor is a player on Hands’s football team. Peggy’s been chasing him for years. Everyone says he just likes her car. I try not to gossip, but I secretly agree.

“That’s funny because I love the food here. It’s Sonic good!” I exclaim. That’s our company motto.

Maybe if Peggy spent less time joyriding and more time walking, she wouldn’t be so worried about eating a cheeseburger here and there. Truth is, Sonic is delicious and cheap, especially with my employee discount. I think the whole reason I’m Kiki’s hero is that I usually bring him home a Sonic shake. Unlike Peggy, he thinks it’s awesome that I work at Sonic.

“That’ll be four dollars and eighty cents,” I say, ringing it up. “I’ll skate over real soon. Is the order to go?”

“Yes and hurry,” Peggy demands. “Taylor doesn’t like it when his food is cold.”

I think Peggy ought to tell Taylor to get his own food then.

After grabbing a burger from the heat lamp and filling a cup with limeade, I Rollerblade out the door. Usually, I don’t do any tricks, but I decide to skate backward to her car. I want to remind her that it’s not just my sunny disposition that earned my team captain spot, it was also my athletic abilities. Next year, I’m definitely auditioning for Sonic’s So You Think You Can Skate competition.

Peggy rolls down her window barely enough for me to fit the bag and drink through. Maybe she’s worried about catching my reputation.

Handing me a five-dollar bill, she says with a smile: “Keep the change.”

Doing the math quickly, I realize that she’s given me a 4 percent tip.

All of a sudden, I find myself saying, “No thanks,” and handing her two dimes back. “I’d prefer you to keep your tip, just like I kept my captain title.”

She shakes her head, throwing the change in her cup holder.

“My momma and I are praying for you and your family,” she calls out as she puts her car in reverse.

Tell your momma to save her prayers for you, I think.

But I say, “Tell her thank you. I’ll need them when I’m spending the rest of the summer in Manhattan. I hope you have a great time in the Spoke.”

Peggy screeches on the brakes and her mouth drops open. Now it’s me who’s smiling. She might care about being queen bee in high school, but I don’t. What I’m concerned with is pursuing my passion and seeing the world outside this town.

“Kitsy Kidd, Kitsy Kidd,” Corrinne is saying again and again. “Kitsy, are you okay?”

I come to and smile at Corrinne.

“You were so zoned out,” she says. “You must’ve fallen asleep after Joy finished the massage.”

“I’m fine,” I say, standing up from the chair and looking out of Spa Belles’s window to New York’s streets.

You’ve made it to NYC, Kitsy, so why can’t you leave the Spoke and girls like Peggy Brooks behind?

When we get back to Corrinne’s apartment, Mrs. Corcoran is there. She’s dressed in a different black skirt (this time pleated), white top, and strand of pearls (this time black).

“Remember to call your mother. She’ll worry,” Mrs. Corcoran says before slipping out the door to a party. “All of us moms worry.”

I don’t correct her.

I follow Corrinne into her room and I grab my phone off the nightstand where I left it. Eight new text messages. Three missed calls.

Hands: Call me. I’ll pay the phone bill if you go over minutes.

Amber: Glad u made it. Which one is the fuse for the bathroom? Text me back soon.

Kiki: Hiiiii. Have you seen King Kong yet? Call me.

Hands: Call me.

Amber: Did you take my black heels? I hope not. . . .

Kiki: Made popcorn like u showed me. Hot here.

Amber: Call your brother. He’s asking for you.

Hands: That’s it. I’m calling the NYPD blue. Caallllll me.

I sit on the floor of Corrinne’s bathroom so I can call Kiki back. He is my most important baggage. He answers on the first ring.

“Did you see him yet? Did he destroy the city? Are you okay?” Kiki asks me breathlessly.

“Kiki, calm down. Don’t you remember that King Kong was just misunderstood? He didn’t mean to hurt all those people,” I explain. The last thing I want when I’m in New York is for Kiki to have nightmares about a hairy beast gobbling me up. I already feel guilty enough about leaving him at home.

“Oh no,” Kiki exclaims. “I hope you didn’t fall in love with King Kong like that lady in the movie. Hands would be so mad. What about the Marshmallow Man from
Ghostbusters
? You see him? He’d be impossible to miss. . . . Does he smell sweet?”

Kiki has an incredible imagination both because of and in spite of growing up in the middle of nowhere.

“I’m pretty sure the Ghostbusters took out all the ghosts back in the 1980s, but I’ll keep my eye out for anything suspicious,” I answer seriously.

I’ll have to remember to take some photos of
Ghostbusters
landmarks for Kiki.

Amber forgets to pay a lot of bills but never forgets the cable. She’s a serious fan of the Home Shopping Network, which she watches from late night to early morning. Having cable is a good thing since Kiki’s already an amateur film buff and studies
TV Guide
like it’s the multiplication table. Classics are his favorites. I think I know why Kiki’s so into movies—because Amber once said that our dad loved film and TV and wanted to be in show business.

I don’t remember that about our dad, but I’d never tell Kiki that. He thinks that it’s their thing. He hopes one day that our dad will show back up, he’ll impress him with his movie savvy, and the last six years will be forgotten. I know that’s ridiculous, but Kiki’s only nine years old. All third graders believe in ridiculous things.

“Don’t watch too much TV, Kiki,” I counsel. “Remember that Corrinne’s grandparents said that you’re welcome there anytime. Did Mom go out today?”

“Kits,” Kiki whines, “it’s too hot for anything but TV. No, I don’t think Mom went anywhere. Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” I say and breathe deeply. “You’d love it here, Kiki. We’ll visit Manhattan together someday. Today, I got to see the real
Starry Night
, the painting on the poster above my bed, and I was so close I could almost touch the painted stars.” I already want to ditch Corrinne’s party and try out my new membership to MoMA. I wonder how late the museum stays open.