Free A Long Way From You by Gwendolyn Heasley Page A

student who buys her folders and pencils the first summer day they’re displayed in Walmart. I’m also that girl—the one who plans exactly how she’s going to decorate her locker. I always theme it with our school colors, red and gray. Hands would make big fun of me if he saw how giddy I am today, which reminds me that I need to call him. Maybe once I have a routine, I’ll find more phone time.
    When I’m finished getting dressed, I walk into the kitchen. No one is there, but a note lies on the granite kitchen countertop:
Kitsy,
I had to run errands. Thank God you’re here. I’d be lonely without any children. Good luck on your first day at school. To get there and avoid the heat, you can take the Christopher Street PATH to 14th Street and walk a few blocks. I drew you a map. Call my cell if you have any trouble. Love, J.J.
     
    I admire Mrs. Corcoran’s perfect cursive. I find it nearly impossible to imagine that she and my mom knew each other. Any stranger would guess they are from different galaxies rather than the truth: They are both from the same no-stoplight town. I wonder if one day someone won’t be able to believe that I grew up in a small town. I always think “no way” when I hear about a celebrity who grew up in Barely on the Map, Nebraska. Someday, I want Broken Spoke to just be the start of my life rather than my whole life. My experience in New York is a great first step toward that goal.
    I head downstairs, say good-bye to Rudy (who tips his hat to me!), and head off to start my new life as an independent, metropolitan art student. Mrs. Corcoran’s map looks simple enough, and I find the PATH station right away. Two cops guard the entrance, which freaks me out a bit, but I head down the stairs to find the train. A smell, which is more pungent than any from a farm, drifts into my nostrils. I want to plug my nose, but none of the other people on the stairs are reacting. They are just hustling down the steps in their polished business suits, so I figure this is a normal smell—something you deal with for living in the center of the universe.
    I’m about a third of the way down the stairs when a wave of people starts running up the stairs. Trying not to panic, I get pushed into a small corner. I feel invisible as people shove past me. They resemble an angry mob and are coming up both sides of the stairs. Aren’t there rules here like there are everywhere else? Right side goes up, left side goes down. I reckon this is what people mean when they say New Yorkers would steal your firstborn if it meant they’d catch a cab in the rain. Finally, the stairs clear and I’m able to make my way down.
    I know I need to buy a ticket. (“There’s no such thing as a free ride, especially in New York,” Amber told me about five times before I left.) I see two giant computers, and I figure that’s how I buy a ticket. I’m pretty proud of myself for being able to navigate the scene so far, especially since I’ve never been on a train above- or belowground before.
    The computer asks me if I speak English or Spanish. Much to my teacher Señor Luiz’s disappointment, my answer is only English, although I did get an A- since I tried hard. The directions seem simple enough: HOW MANY TICKETS DO YOU WANT TO BUY ? CREDIT OR CASH ? A dollar seventy-five later, I’m in possession of a yellow-and-blue MetroCard. I thought about buying a monthly unlimited card, but it was really expensive and I just wasn’t ready to put down that type of cash on my third day even if it might save me in the long run.
    I insert my card into the turnstile and pass through the gate to the platform. Corrinne is totally correct: I can do this. Just then, a train comes barreling down the tracks. People get off, people get on, and I follow them. Since it’s only two stops, I decide not to even sit down. I hold on to the metal rail, but I grasp lightly because I don’t know whose hands last touched it. When the train roars off again, I