Free A Long Way From You by Gwendolyn Heasley Page B

find myself jolting back and gripping on to the rail as if it were a Sonic tray and I was Rollerblading over a pothole. After what I think is a pretty long time, the train halts at another station, and I hop off.
    When I look up at the sign, it says HOBOKEN, not 14th Street. I don’t panic: I imagine that some stops have two names, and one acts like a nickname, like how Times Square is also Forty-Second Street. It’s probably like Hands: His name isn’t actually Hands, of course, it’s Clint. No one has called him Clint since his first one-handed catch in the PeeWee League. People still talk about that catch ten years later. It’s part of Broken Spoke history.
    I follow the crowds up the endless stairs. No wonder New Yorkers are so skinny! The subway is more exercise than cheerleading practice. Only when I’m at the top of the stairs do I wonder if there’s more than one train. What if I just went the wrong way? I look at my watch, and my pulse slows. I do have almost two hours. I can walk if I have to . . . and maybe this isn’t even the wrong stop. I need to calm down.
    At the top of the stairs, I ask a police officer which way Parsons is.
    He blinks a few times. “No idea, pumpkin,” he says.
    Don’t panic, Kitsy, I tell myself. There are a lot of schools in Manhattan. Start walking.
    The area looks nothing like I’ve seen since coming to New York. There’s the river, a sign for a bus terminal, and few outdoor cafés, but nothing looks familiar. I have no idea which way to walk. In the distance, I see a 2ND STREET sign, which makes me more confused since I’m looking for Fourteenth Street and Fifth Avenue.
    You’ve never met a stranger, I remind myself. You’re the Mockingbirdette cheerleading captain, I think. You just need to ask someone.
    I walk up to a girl who looks about my age. She’s wearing a tight black dress and red acrylic nails and has big hair (probably compliments of AquaNet). People say Texans have big hair, but it doesn’t compare to what I’m seeing right now.
    “Um, ma’am, can you tell me where Parsons is?”
    “‘Ma’am’?” the girl repeats and laughs. “No idea, I went to Rutgers,” she says in an unfamiliar accent that grates on my eardrums.
    I’m beginning to think Parsons is not as prestigious or well-known as the glossy catalogue led me to believe. I might as well be asking the way back to Broken Spoke. For a moment, I ponder calling Corrinne or Mrs. Corcoran, but I don’t want them to worry about me or think that I can’t do this. I wish I had one of those expensive GPS smartphones right about now, but there’s not much use for them back home, where I can navigate my entire town with my eyes closed.
    I stay standing at the top of the subway stairs, completely unsure which way I should turn. I hope that the third time is really a charm, and I ask a man in a tight, graphic T-shirt and jeans. He’s wearing a big diamond medallion and at least seven gold chains. Men sure like jewelry in New York.
    “Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Parsons. To be honest, I’m lost,” I finally admit.
    “Parsons?” the guy says, after giving me a once-over. “Isn’t that in Manhattan?”
    “Yes,” I answer and stare at him as if he’s Captain Obvious.
    “Where are you from?” he asks. “Girls ’round here don’t call me ‘sir.’”
    “Texas,” I answer. “I’m Kitsy Kidd, pleased to meet you.” I hold out my hand. I’m hoping my personal touch might help get me to my destination.
    The guy raises his eyebrows at my hand and grips my fingers lightly. I’m surprised someone with “guns” like his has such a delicate handshake.
    “Uh, I’m Kenny DeTito,” he says. “And I’m pretty sure you should be looking for the Parsons over there.” He points across the river to another town with skyscrapers.
    “What’s that?” I ask.
    “Manhattan,” Kenny answers.
    “How’s that possible?” I ask. “I was in Manhattan less than fifteen minutes ago, and I