A Long Way From You (3 page)

“What’s your bag look like?” Corrinne asks. “Tell Ivan.” Corrinne points beside her to a tall man dressed in a black suit and wearing a cap.

“I’ll go with him,” I say quickly. I borrowed a suitcase from Corrinne’s grandparents. You don’t exactly need luggage unless you have somewhere to travel. And before this, I’ve never had the opportunity to go anywhere outside of Texas.

“All right,” Corrinne says. “I’m totally back onto coffee. Don’t tell my grandma. You know how she feels about caffeine being the gateway drug. What do you want from Starbucks?” Corrinne points to a green awning with a line that’s already ten people deep.

“Um, coffee,” I answer, shrugging.

“Oh, Kitsy. I forgot that the Spoke’s like the last place on earth untouched by Starbucks. They should make it like a national preserve.
The last frontier, completely unscathed by Frappuccinos!
” she broadcasts as if she were an announcer for a travel channel, and dashes off to Starbucks.

I follow Ivan to the spinning baggage thing. Unlike most of the other bags, which are black wheelies, Corrinne’s grandparents’ faded floral one is easy to spot.

We find Corrinne balancing her welcome sign and two large green-and-white cups. Immediately, I wish we had asked Ivan if he wanted anything. I’m in New York only two minutes, and I’m already forgetting my manners. While waiting for my bag, I learned that Ivan’s from Bulgaria, where his wife and two kids still live, and he used to be a pharmacist. I guess it’s true when Amber says that I’ve never met a stranger.

She hands me a massive green-and-white cup. “I got you a venti skinny mocha latte with three Splendas. Memorize that. You need a signature drink. Everyone has one,” she says with Corrinne authority.

I take the cup from her and slowly sip. It pretty much tastes like a burnt chocolate bar. I don’t say this, of course. Starbucks, like most bad things, probably just takes a few times to get hooked. Amber says she hated her first cigarette; she started at twenty-one, right after I was born. “Got lonely in the house with just you,” she told me once. It’s now seventeen years later and she smokes two packs a day. Hopefully, I don’t get addicted to Starbucks. I definitely can’t afford to be buying fancy, semi-gross coffee every day.

We follow Ivan to the car. The July air is cool. It feels like the Spoke does in April. I look at the clouds and think it might even rain. Back home, it’s so dry that the bark is bribing the dogs. We could use a little of this New York weather.

Corrinne squeezes my hand and says, “It’s going to be
fabulous
. You know that’s East Coast for cool, right?”

We hop into the back of a black sedan with leather seats. Ivan navigates his way through the mass of taxis, buses, and pedestrians, and then we’re Manhattan-bound. Once I spot the city in the distance, I realize that my life is finally moving at sixty miles per hour in the right direction.

How fabulous.

Chapter 2
Ladies Who Lunch

A
S WE CROSS THE
Q
UEENSBORO
B
RIDGE
, Corrinne launches into a spiel of what she calls EMK: Essential Manhattan Knowledge.

“Bridges and tunnels,” Corrinne explains. “That’s what you call people who visit Manhattan from off-island. And it’s
not
meant as a compliment.”

“Corrinne, since I’m not from Manhattan, am I a bridge or a tunnel?” I ask.

Ivan and Corrinne both shriek with laughter.

Corrinne pulls on her seat belt to loosen it. “I’m like having a heart attack, Kitsy. Ivan, do you know CPR? Tell me this town car has a defibrillator!”

Corrinne stops cackling to explain: “Bridges and tunnels refer to people from Jersey and the boroughs. You, coming from Texas, are a
tourist
.”

Corrinne pronounces
tourist
as if it weren’t a good thing, but I’ve waited a long time to be exactly that—
a tourist in New York
. And in my wildest fantasies, I didn’t think I’d get to be a tourist
and
an art student.

As Corrinne goes on and on, I wish she’d be a tad quieter so I can try to absorb these images to sketch them later. I’d try to draw now, but unfortunately I’ve learned from school bus trips that sketching while in motion makes me totally carsick.

Corrinne has now launched into a spiel about Williamsburg and how the whole Williamsburg-equals-the-new-cool thing is only true if you’re a celebrity and are hiding out from the paparazzi. Otherwise, it’s still un-cool . . . unless you really like poetry or music that’s supposedly hip just because no one’s ever heard of it. “It’s a weird place,” she says and exhales. “Stick to Manhattan, Kitsy. Everything you need is in Manhattan.”

Everything you need is in Manhattan
echoes in my head. That has always been my hope, and now I have the chance to see if it’s true.

After about thirty minutes, which I mostly spend with my head hanging halfway out the window like a dog, Corrinne squeezes my hand. “We’re, like,
walking-distance
close
,” she announces and points down the street. “That’s how you measure distance in New York,
walking-distance close
versus
taxi-
or
subway-distance far.
Good thing we’re almost there because I’m out of coffee. I’m totally up to three doses a day. Still can’t believe that Grandma Houston didn’t let me drink coffee in Texas. Truthfully, it’s shocking I functioned there at all without it. I’ve heard about celebrities who’ve had to go to rehab just to wean themselves off it. It can be pretty dangerous just to quit cold turkey like that.”

I shake my head at Corrinne. I’m pretty sure no one has ever died coming off caffeine, although I’m already anticipating New York withdrawal when I return to the Spoke.

After Ivan executes an illegal U-turn, we pull up to a beautiful glass building with a gated courtyard. I know from my research that the West Village used to be the home of struggling artists and that now lots of famous and successful artists live here. I already feel inspired to be in the same space as some of my heroes.

“Morton Square,” Corrinne says, pointing at the building. “Remember that if you get lost. It’s one of the only modern buildings in the West Village, so people will know what you’re talking about.”

A doorman wearing a crisp green suit opens the gate and welcomes us in. In Texas, men open our doors all the time, but the uniform reminds me that here they’re paid to do it. I feel culture-shock tingles in my neck.

“Rudy!” Corrinne exclaims to the doorman, who is basketball-player tall. “This is Kitsy, my friend from Texas. Treat her like she’s me . . . but you’re lucky because she is not as much trouble.”

“You’re one-of-a-kind, Corrinne,” Rudy says and carries my bag to the front door.

Corrinne takes the bag from Rudy. “I’ve got it from here. Hot, sculpted arms are the new thing.” She flexes her arms like a weightlifter.

Rudy shakes his head and pushes open the door to the building.

“Nice to meet you, Kitsy. I’ll be seeing you around.”

I like the sound of that.

The inside of the building looks like a hotel. Scratch that, I’ve only stayed at two hotels, and they were technically motels since the rooms’ doors were on the outside of the building: This place looks like a hotel from a movie or a dream. There’s a mahogany front desk staffed by
three
people. Overflowing flowers in
Shrek
-size vases sit on the entry tables, and giant canvases hang on the wall. I fight the urge to walk up to the large modern paintings and get lost in them for the morning.

After I realize that I haven’t said anything since getting out of the car, I look at Corrinne and say, “Pretty,” which sounds lame the second it lands in the air.
Pretty
is a dirt road at sunset. This is sexy, sleek, not-of-my-galaxy—anything but
pretty
. Maybe there’s a word in New York-speak that could adequately describe it, but I haven’t learned it—yet.

I follow Corrinne to the elevator.

“The city must’ve got your tongue,” Corrinne says. “Or alternately, it’s jet lag. Don’t worry. You know I like talking, too, but I’m excited to hear a Kitsy Monologue. And get the newest gossip on Bubby. First, we’ve got to do the meet and greet with the parents. I can’t believe you’ve never met my dad!”

Bubby was Corrinne’s Broken Spoke love interest. He’s the star running back, a newspaper reporter,
and
the son of her mother’s high school boyfriend, Dusty. It was like a total romantic comedy; all it needed was a song-and-dance number.

“I know Bubby misses you almost as much as I do . . . although he’d never admit to it because you ripped his heart out when you broke up with him three seconds after you rolled up to your fancy boarding school. Hands is worried that all of Bubby’s obsessing over you is going to hurt his football game.”

Corrinne turns and smiles as if that were good news. “I’m glad I had such an impact,” she says. “It’s nice that I can affect people.”

“Hands isn’t feeling so Team Corrinne,” I tease. “He wants another state ring, so maybe send Bubby a text saying hi once in a while.”

“I’d do that for Broken Spoke,” Corrinne says seriously.

Unlike Corrinne, who switches boys with the seasons, I’ve been with Hands for five years and one month, ever since our very first school dance at the end of sixth grade. Of course, we had known each other forever before that. That’s the Broken Spoke way. When we danced to our first slow song, his palms were all sweaty, but I didn’t mind because he said I was the nicest and cutest girl there. He’s still the only boy I’ve slow danced with, and he doesn’t even get sweaty while dancing anymore. I can’t imagine life without Hands. This will be the longest I’ve ever been away from him.

The elevator door opening snaps me out of my thoughts. We step in and Corrinne pushes 5.

“Before Texas, we owned the penthouse,” Corrinne says. “When we moved back, we rented this place on five. It’s called getting recessionated. I’m just happy to live in the same building.” She adds, whispering, “Some people had to move to the
suburbs.
That’s nearly as bad as moving to Texas.” She gives me a gentle nudge.

“Just joking,” she says, and puts on her I-can-say-anything-and-you’ll-still-love-me smile.

“We aren’t all lucky enough to be born in the core of the Big Apple,” I gently remind her, and hope that she hasn’t reverted to Corrinne version 1.0, pre-Texas snob.

The elevator doors open and Corrinne ushers me into 5D.

Standing in the doorway is Mrs. J. J. Corcoran, better known in Broken Spoke as Jenny Jo Houston, the Spoker who went to Manhattan to model, married a rich New Yorker, and never came back.

“Kitsy!” Mrs. Corcoran says in a voice that still holds the last threads of a Texan drawl. “Don’t you look gorgeous. Corrinne usually wears sweats when she flies.”

I look at Mrs. Corcoran. Back in Broken Spoke, she did the jeans-and-cowboy-boot thing. At eight a.m., she’s wearing kitten heels, a black skirt, a white blouse, and white pearls. I’m guessing Mrs. Corcoran doesn’t wear her bedazzled rodeo top in New York.

Mrs. Corcoran ushers us through the door. Mr. Corcoran, gray in a Clooney-handsome way and dressed in a suit, stands in the kitchen and drinks a cup of coffee.

“Kitsy,” Mr. Corcoran says and shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you. Happy to have you here this summer. It would be lonely with both kids at camp. I still can’t believe Tripp suckered us into skateboarding camp in California. I’m pretty sure there aren’t any colleges looking for skateboarders to fill their athletic rosters. Wish he would do crew like his old man, but alas.”

“Dad, calm down, he’s prepubescent,” Corrinne says. “Besides, I’m glad he’s slowing down on the chess hobby. That was even hurting
my
PR.”

Tripp is Corrinne’s thirteen-year-old little brother, although sometimes I doubt that they are blood relatives since “he’s all sugar, and she’s all spice” as my nanny always said before she died.
Nanny
in Broken Spoke is another name for
grandma
, and not a paid, usually foreign, substitute mother, as Corrinne explained to me it is in New York.

“Unfortunately, my husband has to go to work even though it’s Saturday,” Mrs. Corcoran says. “But his business is picking up, which is a good thing.”

Corrinne pulls me away from her parents.

“Mom,” she whines, “I’m giving Kitsy a tour. We’re on a tight timetable.”

“Heavens,” Mrs. Corcoran says and steps out of the way. “Let Kitsy rest, Corrinne. She’s here for art school, not to be a guest on
The Corrinne Corcoran Show
.”

As Corrinne and Mrs. Corcoran bicker, I’m hypnotized by the apartment’s views of the river. I walk straight up to a row of windows.

“Ohmigosh,” I say. “There’s a cruise ship,
The Princess.
Just like the one on the commercials with the cheesy music. I’ve always wanted to take a cruise. Oh, look at the people running and biking on that path. And over that way, there’s a park just for dogs!”

Every way I look, there’s something else to take in.

Mrs. Corcoran walks up next to me and puts her arm around my waist. “That’s what I missed the most in Texas: the river. Wait until you see tugboats, Kitsy. They come in all different colors, red, blue, yellow. The river is captivating. I don’t know how I grew up without having water nearby.”

I’m sure after living this fancy life, Mrs. Corcoran probably wonders how she grew up in Broken Spoke at all. To be fair, in the Spoke, there’s one pond, which people do swim in despite the rumors of the swimming nutria aka water rats. Northern Texas is not known for its waters, and southern Texas, by the Gulf, is like a different state since it’s at least eight hours away by car.

Corrinne grabs my shoulder. “Remember, absolutely no swimming in the Hudson River unless you’re looking to catch a disease or find a dead body.”

I roll my eyes at Corrinne.

“
Tick tock
. Time for me to be the tour guide on, as my mother puts it,
The Corrinne Corcoran Show. . . .
I’m not going to lie. I like the way that sounds. Catchy!” She throws open her arms and continues, “This is our apartment. It’s very modern and minimalist. We have a great room, which is a combination of a living and dining room, and our kitchen is what you call a galley kitchen. Now on to my fortress,” she says and whisks me through the hallway.