But I’m going to find out, because her number is in my phone now. I added it in the bathroom before scrubbing the red off my palm.
Mom leans her head on her hand, watching me. “This new friend, Sarah,” she says. “What’s she like?”
I consider ignoring this, but Mom seems genuinely interested, her face open, smooth as the tablecloth. Swallowing, I say, “Weird.”
Mom laughs. “Sometimes weird is good.”
No. Weird is weird.
But I’ve learned tonight that certain lies don’t count, if they’re true.
“I mean,” I explain, “not weird like me. Weird as in, she’s her own person. She doesn’t care what people think of her.”
She frowns. “You’re your own person.”
“I’m not,” I say, shaking my head. More like an outline of a person. With Sadie’s help, that could change.
Back in the car, Driver says we have to get a move on. “That place closes at eight, Ms. Black.”
“Place?” I turn to Mom. “What place?” I thought we were going home.
Her smile returns, only something’s off—there’s this sadness behind it that wasn’t there before. What’s wrong? I ask with my eyes. Does she… no, that’s impossible. She can’t know the truth about Sadie. How could she? But as soon as it appears, the sadness evaporates, and Mom is her usual self again, squeezing my face between her hands.
“You’re so red, honey! But trust me, this is a good surprise.”
* * *
A pet. That’s the surprise. Another Frisky, the African dwarf frog I had when I was too young to understand that word had other connotations. We’re in the fish store almost half an hour because the clerk is stoned and has bad aim.
“That one.” I keep pointing. “That one.”
Eventually, I grab the scooper and get the frog myself, plop him gently into a plastic bag that I cradle in my lap the whole way home. Mom leans for a closer look, her long thigh pressed against mine. “Do you know what you want to name her?”
“She’s a he,” I inform her. “The tank was all males. You can tell because”—I hold the bag up carefully—“he has these white glands on his back legs for mating.” Mom winces, then resumes tapping on her phone.
Whales. Glands. Frog sex.
This is why I have no friends.
But the truth is, Frisky was an exceptional pet. Didn’t demand anything except the pellets I dropped, twice daily, into her aquarium. Freeze-dried worms. Every couple months she shed her skin and ate it. “Thank you,” I whisper to Mom, and we wriggle so she can get an arm around my shoulders. Seat belts be damned.
At home, we fill the aquarium with gravel, and set a pitcher of water on my desk to reach room temp. “You’re really happy?” Mom asks, and I tell her of course. I mean, the new guy does remind me of Frisky, but that’s to be expected. They’re the same species. When I say this, she nibbles a cuticle, eyes moving about my room. “The pink is a bit much. Do frogs see color?”
“I don’t think so. Actually”—I dip my fingers in the pitcher—“did you know their pupils can’t dilate? They adjust to different light by shifting the lenses around inside their eyes.” Mom nods slowly, in acknowledgment of this fact.
She says, “The last tenants must have had a baby.”
The frog pops his head above water, and I tilt the bag slightly, to watch his sides contract. He’s a guilt present, for the feature, the leaks, moving—I know that. But he’s still pretty cool. Once we’ve nudged the plastic plants into position and the filter’s going, Mom kisses the top of my head, murmuring, “Good night.” Her lips linger longer than usual.
It’s safe to put the frog in now, but once Mom leaves, I sit at the desk with the baggie in my lap, hands cupped around it. Frisky lived her whole life on my desk back home, her filter bubbling conversationally while I studied or played The Sims, but this frog doesn’t know me that well yet. He lies motionless, assessing me with his beady frog eyes. “I’m going to call you Spot,” I say. That’s why I wanted him, because his back had the most freckles, but he doesn’t seem to like this name. We examine each other. Nothing between us but water, this thin plastic membrane.
Another moment or two, for observation’s sake, and then I set the baggie on my desk. Get out my phone.
In the restaurant bathroom, I was frantic, didn’t know what to put for Sadie’s entry other than S. Now I type, Sarah. Enter. New text. The cursor blinks.
I’m being stupid. Obviously, Sadie wouldn’t have given me her number if she didn’t want to hear from me. Even so, I stumble and stall like texting her is this high-stakes Latin recitation, 40 percent of my grade. Hi Sadie. Reliable start. It’s Koda Rose—delete. Koda. Thank you for—not almost barfing at the sight of me again—giving me your number. Wait—I can’t believe I just thought of this—what if it’s not her number at all? What if it’s random, because she wanted to get rid of me, and once I hit send, this perfectly crafted text will zing off to nowhere? Devastated, I put my phone down. Snatch it back up. A test: Hi Sadie. Thanks for your number. I realized you didn’t have mine! So here it is. Send.
Painless, really.
I run and put my hair up and brush my teeth, throw pj’s on. When I come back, drying my mouth on a washcloth, my phone’s on my desk. Where I left it. Waiting. Spot crouches in his baggie. I undo the twisty, then lower the whole thing gently into the aquarium, plastic billowing, so he can come out on his own time. Tomorrow, I’ll have Driver bring me back to the pet store, to replace these musty plastic plants with real ones. Amazon swords and java moss. I bet there’s enough light for them to thrive.
9:45, my phone says. No new messages.
I move it to my nightstand, climbing gingerly into bed so my pj’s won’t wad up in my crotch. I survey the city, my chin resting on the satiny trim of the blanket. This place sucks. Always will. But tonight, it’s not so bad. The darkness everything I don’t know about my father, and the lights everything I could.
My phone hums.
It’s a text: Message Undeliverable. Or so I figure. But then I unlock the screen and read: k :)
Sadie’s number.
It’s real.
Cool, I write back, hitting send right as my frog kicks free from the bag—one solid, decisive stroke that propels him to the surface. My favorite fact about African dwarves? He’s fully aquatic but has lungs. Breathes air. Neither of us is equipped for life on land.
I think I’ll call him Vinnie, after the drummer. They have the same chin.
CHAPTER 12
THE NARROW THREE-STORY BUILDING IS one of endless narrow three-story buildings we pass after turning off Steinway. Yellow brick exterior, cement stoop. My hair’s still damp, shampoo scent suffocating, but I was so nervous getting ready after Mom left that I could barely dress myself, let alone operate a blow dryer. So here I am. A lavender typhoon.
The car idling behind me sounds like gnashing teeth. Driver grips the steering wheel, anxious about blocking both a fire hydrant and a driveway. He can’t leave yet, though. Not until I give him the signal.
I press the doorbell labeled PASQUALE. Apartment 3F. Buzzing rattles through the icy dark.
Technically, Sadie did not specify that this was a good time.
This past week, everything happened kind of quickly. Well—everything and nothing, because when it comes to texting, Sadie’s even more baffling than in real life. We’re talking one-word responses. Hours creeping by without a reply. When I finally gathered the courage to ask when we could meet up, she didn’t answer until the next day. Yesterday, while I was supposed to be reading for English. And that text was only another pile of numbers, not immediately recognizable as an address. Stop by.
So, yeah. Sadie didn’t say Saturday at seven a.m. But she didn’t not say it either.
Glass panels line the door, too bleary to peer through. On the stoop, a pot-bellied planter overflows with leaf muck. Stomach rocking, I resist the temptation to check my phone. You can only refresh Insta so often w
ithout feeling pathetic, and the pictures I’m expecting I don’t want to see anyway—Lindsay with Peter, all, We’re back together! Incredibly, it hasn’t happened yet. She’s probably still at his place in Mission Hills. Probably spent the night, which is why she hasn’t posted. Phone silenced, I square my jaw. 3F, Sadie’s text said.
This time, I keep my finger on the buzzer.
Come on.
She must be home.
Come on—
The intercom crackles. “What!”
I jump, fumbling for the—talk button? Straightforward enough. “Hi, it’s me. Koda?” My name comes out cringing. Embarrassed, I clear my throat. “Koda Rose.”
For too long there’s nothing, only blood roaring in my ears. Then—I’m not sure, but it sounds like a door opens somewhere inside. And then another door, and then footsteps. Though that could just be my own heart.
She appears suddenly. A shadow-Sadie, blown to smithereens by the glass’s fractal pattern. The door opens. This tentative creak. At the last second, I whip my penguin beanie off and stuff it in my pocket.
She wears a blanket over her shoulders. Dorky black glasses that make her look simultaneously nine and ninety. Darting in the hazy porch light, her eyes are huge and startled, like a nocturnal animal’s. I should apologize. Explain myself. But all that comes out is a shaky “good morning.”
Sadie says, “You’re lucky I don’t sleep.”
“Oh. Um”—her freckles are on mute, voice thicker than I remember—“your text said ‘stop by’? My mom got called into the office early.” To be safe, I told her I might check out the New York Aquarium today. They have sea lions. She seemed so pleased, she obviously forgot how much I despise aquariums. All that pointing and chattering, people tapping the glass like the signs tell you not to. I’d only go to the one in Santa Monica when Lindsay wanted.
Honestly, now I wish I was communing with sea lions. They’re at least predictable. Averting my eyes from Sadie, I say, “Is this not a good time?”
She doesn’t say no, but she doesn’t step aside or ask if I want to come in either. Actually, I get the sense she’s keeping the door between us for a reason, which is kind of insulting when you think about it. Wasn’t she the one who invited me? Hand balled in the pocket with my beanie, I add, “That’s medically impossible, you know. Everybody sleeps.” Even me. Even last night, as I lay terrified of exactly this.
Anyway, this comes out sharp. Sadie softens a little, resting her cheek against the jamb. “You’re a funny kid,” she says, which is frankly even more insulting—the kid part—so I don’t answer. Her eyes inch across my face.
It’s just surreal, how my father loved her.
She pushes the door wider. “Kindly remove your shoes.”
This is a joke. I think. The door opens into a vestibule, which opens into what should be a lobby, but is basically a stairwell encased in swirly faux marble, no shoes in sight. Her blanket is black and white, a zigzag pattern—I try not to stomp on it as I follow her up the creaky steps. It’s a long climb. The hallway smells like pencil shavings, and I want to say something but don’t know what, because Sadie’s silent and I’m sure that behind every door we pass, people are sleeping. My stomping footsteps echo loudly enough. We round a landing. Trudge up another flight, down another hallway. The door at the end has been left ajar. Brass gleams above the peephole: 3F.
Sadie says, “That creep in the Mercedes?”
“Oh.” Shit. “Sorry, that’s—it’s just our driver. Hold on.” So much for the signal. I grope for my phone, hammer out: Everything’s fine don’t worry see you in 30!!!! If Sadie and I even make it that long. Her forehead wadded at the mention of Driver, and now she takes her hand off the doorknob, like she’s made a tragic miscalculation and my entry’s no longer guaranteed. Shoving my phone back into my coat, I stammer, “He doesn’t know I’m visiting you, trust me. He’s—everything between us is strictly confidential.” Thinking it over, I add, “You’re right, though. He is kind of a creep.”
Oddly, this seems to reassure her. The door creaks. “Men, am I right?”
A wall of stale smoke hits me before all the other stuff, vague outlines of a couch and some other furniture I can’t make out in the dark. “You live here alone?” I wheeze, like it’s not obvious enough I’m breathing out my mouth. Do smokers not realize how gross they are? After this, I’ll need three freaking showers to thwart Mom’s nose.
Behind me, the door shuts. I hear the latch clatter and then Sadie’s voice, far away for how close we’re standing. “I do.” She hits the lights.
And I can’t help it. I start looking for him. The square room is divided between some kind of living area—black couch, coffee table, bookshelves—and, off to the right, a tiny kitchen swamped in dishes and takeout containers, the fridge the color of an old desktop computer. My father is not on the fridge. He’s not on any of the walls, which are plain white, blank except for a swath of exposed brick I think Mom would really like. On the shelves, books lean haphazardly, like at some point they all tumbled off and were flung back in a hurry. Stepping closer—my father was very literary—I spot a battered blond guitar resting against the bricks. Sadie says something, and I whip around, disappointment ricocheting through me. Shouldn’t the guitar be electric? “What?” I ask.
“I said, ‘Maid’s on vacation.’ ”
That explains the chaos. When I ask how many times she comes a week, Sadie just looks at me.
“Oh.” She was kidding. Again. “Sorry. I—I thought—”
Sadie chuckles. “Shockingly enough, us regular folk make do on our own.” She tosses the blanket onto the couch, revealing a loose gray T-shirt, the front stuffed into her joggers, effortlessly cool. Papers cover the living room. Nothing official-looking, but notebook pages with the tufts teachers yell at you for not removing. Most are stacked on the coffee table, hidden beneath ashtrays and half-empty glasses and plates and bowls, or piled on the couch in drifts. I secretly lift one as Sadie tips forward, bundling her dreads on top of her head. TERRIBLE IDEAS FOR TERRIBLE SONGS, the paper says.
There is nothing remotely regular about Sadie Pasquale.
“Want my advice?” she asks. I cram the page back where I found it. “Ditch the driver. You won’t be a proper New Yorker until you experience the subway’s subterranean wonders firsthand. You going to keep your coat on?”
“No.” Her apartment is stifling. I peel my coat off, and even though I’m fine holding it, Sadie gestures for me to chuck it on the couch too. “Thanks. What wonders?” Beyond the guitar and bookshelves is a short hallway. One door, open, displays a toilet. The other’s closed. Her bedroom, probably. Sadie continues wrestling with her hair.
“I mean it’s a rite of passage. The other night, for instance, after our little rendezvous? Got stuck on the 4 train. Watched the man across from me eat a jar of Vaseline for forty minutes. Almost wet my pants.” She straightens, grinning, flushed from bending over. Her earrings are visible again and I try to think of what to say next. Some clever way of edging the conversation where I need it—but she almost peed herself because of the Vaseline eater? Or there was no correlation?
At last, I land on, “Ew.”
It’s clearly not the reaction she was expecting. Sadie twists a tiny silver ring on her pinkie. Slips it off, then back on a few times before saying, “You like coffee, right? I made some earlier. Probably still good.”
My chest is on fire—I nod strictly because it might help her to trust me. Coffee people are like that. As she moves into the kitchen, I check my phone. Eight minutes down already.
Banging things around inside the fridge, Sadie says, “You’ll have to excuse me if I’ve seemed standoffish. I’d blame it on needing to pee, but that would only account for the one time. Mostly I don’t like people up in my business. The World Wide Web has surely informed you.”
“It’s okay.” Still, Sadie knowing I googled her overwhelms me with shame. Like I’ve been caught trespassing, rooting through
drawers without permission. Cautiously, I ask, “Why do you? Stay out of the spotlight, that is.” It doesn’t compute with her guitar-shredding, hotel-trashing image. She could hire a new publicist?
Sadie sniffs a carton of milk, then puts it back. “Fame’s like booze, you know? Got my fill in my youth, moved on to bigger and brighter.” She says this kind of sarcastically, knuckling her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and I think of her laugh lines, those threads of gray hair. My next question feels inevitable—even if it is super forward.
“How old are you? Forty?”
She cringes. “Thirty-eight.”
Right. Duh. She’s my father’s age. They met in ninth grade—who doesn’t know this? Sadie gets two mugs down from a cabinet, and when she holds them out, I point to the smaller one, feeling like a colossal fraud.
The coffee is black acid. One whiff and I know it’ll make me sick, but I grip the mug with both hands, terrified of spilling, while she clears a spot for us on the couch. Everything except my coat—which she drapes courteously over the armrest—gets pitched to the scraggly, mud-colored rug. “Just had a birthday, in fact.” Sadie sniffs, reaching for a bag of cough drops. “November thirtieth. And you’re what—seventeen? I remember the day you were born. Motherfucking April Fool’s to me, all the way from North Dakota.” She slaps a cushion. “Sit.”
I sit.
The leather squeaks. An old couch, cracked like my itchy December skin. I know where you were born, I want to say, to redeem myself. Upstate, like my father. I know you dropped out of high school together. But that would also mean admitting her Wikipedia page is seared into my amygdala.
She takes the opposite cushion, skinny legs tucked underneath her. “Now.” She touches the industrial. “I’ve got questions for you. First and foremost…” She sets her mug down, starts fiddling with her rings. Can she literally not stay still? “It’s not that you managed to track me down. People still do. All the time. But you said you had a purpose? A reason? Doubt it’s as simple as an autograph, but here’s hoping.”
The Mythic Koda Rose Page 8