If I Tell You the Truth

by Jasmin Kaur

  if you win the scholarship?

  he didn’t understand

  that to sniff the petals of this fantasy

  was to prick myself on its thorns

  why seduce myself with the thought

  of something i couldn’t have?

  things to do when the boy

  you liked couldn’t make it (again)

  1.splatter fiery paint across a fresh canvas and then water it in blues

  2.make popcorn and rewatch your favorite netflix series

  3.make a batch of cookie dough and move on to your bookshelf

  4.pull open your journal and write another poem. title it: all the reasons why i am enough

  5.go to the park with your best friend, jump on a swing, and let the wind be the only reason why your eyes water

  all the reasons why i am enough

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  selfie

  wing-tip eyeliner sharper than a butterfly blade

  coating chocolate ocean eyes inherited from mom

  and lashes that could sweep you off your feet

  rosy mauve liquid lips & glistening cheekbones

  black turtleneck dress with my teddy bear coat

  today and every day, i was my own woman crush

  it was an unspoken rule

  that at the first snowfall of winter

  you were required to boomerang

  the sight outside your window

  and post it to your insta story

  as though everyone in surrey

  couldn’t see the exact same shit.

  in an instant

  sunny replied with a picture of his own

  he was standing before a white-frosted forest

  fat flakes gathering in his hair

  and whitening his beard

  his caption read

  video call me

  so i did.

  conversation flowed effortlessly

  when i managed to hear from him, these days

  (between work and family and things he said

  he couldn’t really talk about, i tried to be patient)

  but a question had been biting at me

  the way the cold inevitably

  got under my gloves

  what are we?

  i asked.

  what do you mean, shordy?

  i mean, what are we?

  are we dating?

  his sigh became vapor

  momentarily clouding the screen

  i don’t wanna ruin us

  by putting labels on us.

  i don’t follow.

  we’ve been going with

  the flow and it’s been good,

  hasn’t it?

  we’re sahaara and sunny.

  and being around each other

  feels right. natural.

  i nodded reluctantly.

  yeah, i guess so.

  honest to god, you’re my

  favorite person, sahaara

  what we have is special.

  i don’t want to change

  a single thing.

  my name was

  tattooed in invisible ink

  beneath his tongue

  and no matter the distance

  his mouth always managed

  to call me home

  no, it wasn’t written in black

  but did that matter

  when sunny & i knew

  what we meant

  to each other?

  january 1, 2020

  midnight struck

  and maasi, jeevan, and i were sitting

  on the bench outside the gurdwara

  because my people were beautiful

  but too many people were overwhelming

  under the mellow breeze of a snowless winter night

  we each took turns sharing resolutions

  for the new decade

  jeevan wanted to spend more time

  practicing his defense skills so that

  his coach would finally see him

  maasi wanted to swim

  cautiously with her head

  before her heart dove deep

  into another woman

  and i just wanted this to be the year

  when i could ease mom’s worries.

  revelations

  it was nearly february when i finally found out

  why sunny had been so busy

  we stood at the front steps of pa jameson

  where students poured from the school

  like sea creatures escaping a net

  sunny wrapped an arm around my waist

  and promised me a perfect evening

  of pastel paint and khalid

  (i just needed to come up with

  a waterproof excuse for mom)

  a moment later

  that loud guy from the basketball team

  asked sunny for a deal on weed

  and my throat was hooked by a fishing line

  a rip curl of questions swallowing me

  sunny offered no explanation on the spot

  so i walked home alone

  dripping salt water and pure anger

  when i reached the front door

  my phone pulsed with a text

  i’m sorry i didn’t tell you.

  i promise this is temporary.

  honest truth, we’re having a hard time

  at home. this isn’t for me.

  it’s for my family.

  why didn’t you tell me?

  it was a hollowing feeling

  to pour (almost all) your guts out to someone

  and suddenly realize they hardly trusted you

  with their own truths

  but i tried to put aside my concoction of hurt

  when sunny opened up

  i never wanted to be there

  not when mani showed me the warehouse

  not when his brother gave me a job

  not when you looked at me

  like something had shattered between us

  but

  the relief on my mom’s face

  when she took the stack of cash

  and paid off the bills

  reminded me why i had to

  with a walnut of sorrow stuck in my throat

  i remembered mom

  the responsibilities and worries and work

  she refused to share.

  and, slowly, my frustration washed away.

  sahaara

  march 2020–august 2020

  the unexpected blooms of spring

  Jeevan and I stepped back to marvel at a towering, chiseled apple, its surface hot pink and embedded with shards of gold. “What’s this supposed to be?” Jeevan grinned. “A statement about academic oppression?”

  I circled the flamboyant art installation in search of some clue to explain the work. “Your guess is as good as mine,” I eventually said, shrugging. “Wanna get going?”

  “Yeah, down.” He led us toward an echoing hallway lined with dozens upon dozens of three-dimensional, mixed-media eyeballs. Abstract art was weird as hell and I loved it.

  “Any more acceptance letters?” I asked, glancing at an elaborate, protruding eyeball made entirely of yellow pencils. It glared at me, unflinching.

  “Just the criminology program at UFV, so far. Let’s hope I get accepted at SFU. I’m not trying to drive to Abby every day.”

  “Fair enough . . . the farms smell like shit. But, crim? Really?” I couldn’t wrap my head around the thought of Jeevan—my velvet-soft, Akala-bumping, web-coding best friend—becoming a corrections officer or, worse, a cop. It was a heart forced into a square-shaped hole. “You sure that’s what you want?”

  “I dunno. Not exactly.” His gaze lifted to the dark ceiling in contemplation, the black drawcords on his grad hoodie twirling between his fingers. “I mean, it’d be cool to do computer sciences, but I still haven’t gotten that acceptance letter . . . mostly applied for crim ’cau
se Sunny said it would be easy to get in.”

  “Of course he did,” I murmured.

  “You two not cool or something?”

  Another eyeball stared at me from the wall, this one composed of dried seaweed. “We’re chill.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded, my lips pressed flat in a line. There was a weird urge within me to not talk about how everything with Sunny felt . . . sticky. Messy. Confusing. How, in the past few months, we had simultaneously become closer and more distant. When we were together in person, Sunny would vent about his deepest fears, the financial problems his family faced, his dad’s constant drinking, the reasons why selling weed was a necessity—not a choice. How my mere presence made things lighter.

  But his absence also weighed heavy.

  Last month, he canceled on our Godfather trilogy marathon—another wasted lie to Mom about where I was going after school. He would usually give me his undivided attention during poetry class, but he would take hours—sometimes days—to reply to my calls and texts. When it came to feelings, I was a chronic oversharer, but an impulse had grown within me to protect Sunny from people who just didn’t get him. After all, he was going through shit that others could hardly imagine. Keeping things from Jeevan was strange and new, though. I hated the feeling just as much as I hated Sunny’s shitty communication.

  Thankfully, Jeevan changed the subject without prying further. “You only applied for nursing, right?”

  “Yeah, and I applied to Daphne Odjig. The art school. Mostly ’cause of the scholarship thing.”

  “Oh shit, yeah!” He grinned, squeezing my shoulder. “If you get the scholarship, please tell me you’re gonna do it.”

  I was quiet for a while, eyeing the circular First Nations artwork that lined this end of the gallery hallway. I knew they were Susan Point’s Coast Salish spindle whorls before I could even find the artist statements. “Nursing pays really well. Maasi works, like, three days a week and makes thirty-five bucks an hour. If I do that, I’ll still be able to paint and stuff in my free time, y’know?”

  It was Jeevan’s turn to be quiet. He removed his thick-rimmed glasses and wiped them clean on his hoodie. “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “I’m thinking . . . that nursing doesn’t seem like your calling.”

  “Is crim your calling?”

  “It’s not. Trust me, if I get accepted into computer sciences, I’m on that shit. What I’m saying is, I know you’re trying to be practical, but you have something really special, dude. A talent that a lotta folks would dream of. If you get the chance to follow your passion, don’t let it slip through your fingers.”

  I watched my boots land with an echo against each of the cement stairs. “What about my responsibilities? If I made nursing money, everything would be easier. Bibi has mortgage payments she needs help with and Mom—we still aren’t making enough to fix her papers.”

  “I feel it,” he sighed. “Can’t argue with that.”

  “Thank you for visiting Vancouver Art Gallery!” an elderly Punjabi man in a red vest smiled as we stepped outside. From the top step of the gallery, I absorbed the sight of camera-wielding tourists and yoga-pant-wearing locals wandering through downtown Vancouver.

  “So glad we didn’t have school today. If I had to do another close analysis of Hamlet, I would’ve gouged out my eyeballs with a rapier or whatever the hell that thing is called.” I leaned on Jeevan’s shoulder as I stretched my exhausted legs. “But remind me to never wear these boots again. My heels are killing me.” After Jeevan delivered an irritating but expected “I told you so” lecture on wearing comfortable shoes, he said, “What’s the scene tonight?”

  “Psych homework. Gotta write an essay about cognitive dissonance. Freakin’ scintillating.”

  “Wanna munch? It’s still early.”

  “Food is tempting, but . . .” I checked the time on my cell. “It’s five now. I told my mom I’d be back in Surrey by six thirty.”

  A light Vancouver breeze whipped through Jeevan’s curls, carrying the buttery comfort of an Indian food truck toward us. “Call and ask if you can stay longer. There’s this sushi place in Gastown—”

  “Gastown?!” I guffawed. “You want me to walk in these heels to Gastown?”

  “Man, I told you we were gonna be walking. Go buy a cheap pair of sneakers.”

  “Orrrrrr you could piggyback me all the way there.” He rolled his eyes and I texted Mom since he clearly wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  Sahaara: Mom, is it okay if Jeevan and I eat dinner in Van? We’ll probably be an extra hour

  In literally half a millisecond, Mom replied.

  Mom: That’s fine

  “Damn. That was fast. Guess we’re going to Gastown.”

  By the time we reached the perpetual gathering of tourists that ogled the Gastown Steam Clock (for reasons that were beyond me), I was thoroughly over our food trek. And I made sure Jeevan knew it.

  “I can’t feel my feet,” I moaned. “How much farther?”

  “You know I don’t even feel bad, right?” He laughed like my suffering was comedic and I swatted his shoulder.

  “Ass.”

  “Right there.” He pointed to a neon sign two doors down. The restaurant had a line out the door.

  “How the hell are they busy on a Monday?”

  “They just opened. And they’re supposed to be that good.”

  “We’re never gonna get seats. Can we go somewhere else?”

  “Let’s just see.” He sidestepped through a boisterous group of girls blocking the entrance and I waited outside, nursing a leg cramp. Under the evening sky, lights sparkled in the trees that lined the street. It was so pretty, it almost made up for the smell of piss that permeated the brick sidewalk.

  Jeevan returned a few minutes later with a wide grin plastered to his face. “Got us a table.”

  “What? How?!” I followed him through the crowd and entered the dark restaurant. Glowing sculptures composed of old toys hung from the ceiling, some made of Super Soakers, others of metallic Hot Wheels and plastic Hello Kitty heads. For all my complaining, I was suddenly smitten with the artsy joint. A server covered in manga tattoos guided us past a sea of cramped tables all the way to the back. Beneath the neon light, their short white hair glowed purple and their metallic earrings, almost a dozen on each ear, shimmered and danced.

  A few paces ahead, the server turned around to face us, menus in hand. “And here’s your booth!”

  When I turned toward the table, I nearly fell to the floor as my whole family hit me with a booming, “SURPRISE!”

  “Wait—what?” I sputtered. Mom, Maasi, and Bibi were all sitting there, their smiles incandescent beneath black light.

  “Happy birthday!” Bibi grinned, white bandana shimmering.

  “Oh my god.” My body trembled with gleeful shock and laughter. “How’d you guys—holy crap!”

  Everyone moved over to make space for me and I sat down beside Bibi. Jeevan pulled up a chair. “Surprised?” he said.

  “Yes! I was expecting this tomorrow. Not today. I can’t believe y’all are here.” My heart swelled at the sight of all the people I loved: Maasi was still wearing her hospital scrubs and Mom was supposed to be at work right now. Bibi Jee was out of the house! There was usually no convincing her to join family outings anywhere beyond the edges of Surrey. “I’m legit so happy right now,” I said, eyes stinging and blurry.

  “Awww, raudee aa bechari. She’s crying.” Bibi Jee leaned over and squeezed my face. My grandma wiped my tears with her worn fingers and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Sorry—just grateful for you all—oh my god! The cake!” I hadn’t even noticed the canvas-shaped cake in the middle of the table decorated with Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night. Two number-shaped candles were lit in the center: eighteen.

  “You’ll get your sushi later. Tonight, dessert comes first.” Maasi’s cheekbones glistened with highlight as she cleared her throat and began a chorus o
f “Happy Birthday.” As they sang, my wish bloomed vivid and luminous within my mind’s eye. I wanted this to be the year when I could finally give back to Mom for the lifetime of care she’d given to me. Across the table, she rested her chin in her roughened palm. I melted at her well-meaning eyes. The wheat-brown radiance of her skin. The creases around her smile that were slowly working their way into permanence.

  I blew out the candles, sending my desperate wish into the universe, and we were momentarily thrust into darkness.

  “What’d you wish for?” Maasi asked.

  “New paintbrushes,” I replied. Although I could’ve easily told her and Jeevan and Bibi the truth, it was hard to bare my heart before Mom. How strange it was to love someone more than yourself, but still hold bricks in your throat while in their presence. Perhaps it was because of her walls.

  “All right, so, we need to do gifts right now because I’m way too excited.” Maasi passed me a sparkly pink gift bag with a card tucked inside. “This is from me, Bibi, and Mom. Open the gift bag first.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to open the card first?”

  “Gift first!”

  I plucked out the pink tissue and squealed at the cloth-bound poetry book: The Collected Works of Shiv Kumar Batalvi—one of Mom’s favorite poets. “THANK YOOOU!” I hugged Bibi and awkwardly leaned over to hug Maasi and clasp Mom’s hand.

  “There’s more,” Maasi said, flashing Mom a look.

  “Open the card, puth,” whispered Mom.

  I peeled open the gray envelope and pulled out the card. A folded piece of paper fell in my lap.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Read it,” Mom said, voice still quiet.

  “Out loud,” Maasi added.

  As soon as I caught a glimpse of the purple lotus—Daphne Odjig’s logo—my heart stopped. “Dear Sahaara Kaur, I am pleased to inform you that you have been selected by the Department of Visual Arts to receive Fall 2020’s Amplifying the Underrepresented Scholarship and have gained entrance into Daphne Odjig University’s prestigious Bachelor of Visual Arts Program . . .” I stopped reading and simply gaped at the letter. “I—I got in?”