“Velvet,” I whisper. Like they wore on the ROCK cover. Like he basically lived in, except this isn’t a picture, and there are patches the guitar hasn’t rubbed away, so blissfully soft they practically stroke me back. The case reeks. I mean, if it weren’t for Sadie’s chain-smoking, I’d blame it for the stench in her apartment—but I refuse to let it overpower me. Glancing at Sadie, who nods permission, I let my fingers creep from the velvet to the guitar itself. I don’t know where to start. Never really touched one before, unless Guitar Hero counts. Trusting Sadie to stop me if I mess up, I press a fingertip to the neck, run it down a string that he—plucked? Twanged?—either way, it’s tighter, sharper than you’d think. Somehow, that sparks confidence. I explore the scuffed-up body. Trace every scar that he made.
Probably there are stories behind them. Stories Sadie might tell me. I kind of lost her in my wanderings, but lifting my hands, I spot her cross-legged, watching me from the edge of the rug. Her forehead has that crease. But then she smiles. “Real piece of shit, right?”
She asks this so fondly I can’t decide if I’m supposed to agree, whether she’d think I was making fun of her if I confessed this guitar is actually the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Heart pounding, I trace the strings again. The chipped ruby inlay, shaped like a teardrop. I barely hear her murmur that red was their color.
Smiling back, I say, “Well, then he’d like my hair.” Only to remember, as her smile vanishes, where my hair comes from. Sadie stands, so I do too. Mom’s voice rushes up with the blood to my head. Unlike Sadie, I don’t revel in the past.
“One lie I enjoy telling myself”—she gestures for me to sit on the cushion I cleared—“is that Mack’s responsible for your hair too. Sometimes that helps. Other times it makes shit worse, which is why I’m told it’s an ‘ineffective coping mechanism.’ Got plenty of those. Although you figure a guy named Mackenzie Grady’s got some redheaded genes tucked away somewhere.” She sniffs. Then—without asking if I’m ready—thrusts the guitar into my lap.
“Um”—I freeze—“I don’t know—”
“She won’t bite.”
“O-okay.” I place my hands where I think they should go. One on the neck, while the other supports the guitar’s bottom. That time I held a baby kind of went like this. “I thought it—she—would be heavier,” I say as Sadie, seated across from me on the coffee table, leans to make corrections. She pushes the guitar so it’s perpendicular to my thigh. Grabs the hand that’s cradling the bottom and brings it to the strings. “Strumming hand,” she explains. Then, curling my fingers around the neck, “Fretting hand.” I sit straight, trying not to giggle. Her touch… it’s so scratchy. She worms her thumb beneath my fretting fingers, and my breath hitches. They arch up. “Like that,” she says. “Not—” She squashes the tips flat again. “Got it?”
“I think so.” It’s already so much to remember.
But this is a test I refuse to fail. When Sadie says, “Let’s see that strummer,” I hold out the right one. “Everybody’s got their own style,” she goes on, and another giggle hatches in my belly but I swallow it down, concentrating extra hard on how she molds my fingers. Thumb against index. Middle, ring, and pinkie tilted slightly toward my palm. “Try this. It’s how I like it.” Returning to the strings, my fingers inadvertently graze hers. The pads are bumpy. Little knots.
“Your calluses,” I say.
“Ah—they get you?”
“No, just…” That explains the scratchiness. Sadie shifts closer, flannel gaping, and I bend my head quickly over the guitar. Between crunches of a cough drop, she asks how it all feels.
“Good.” And for once I’m not just saying that. My head stays bent so she won’t see my goofy smile.
Sadie runs through what must be the basics. String names, starting from the top—E, A, D, G, B, E, her palm hovering over my fretting hand the whole while, so I’ll keep my fingertips straight. “This,” she grumbles, “was your dad’s biggest problem. That and losing his—dammit.” She reddens. “His picks.”
“What? Do I need a pick too?”
“No, it’s not that. I…” She drums her fingertips on her thigh. Looks away. “After you left the other day, I kept thinking how uncomfortable it was, having to be all, ‘your dad’ this, ‘your dad’ that, out of some twisted sort of deference to you, when in reality he never was that. Not to me. To me, he was just Mack. Always will be.”
There’s this phase I went through when I was little. A pointing thing. It was just easier than explaining, opining, interacting, which was what Mom always meant when she knelt down and whispered, Koda. Use your words. Sometimes I still think there are too many. Hearing Sadie, I feel millions jostling in my throat. “To be fair, he… I don’t call him ‘Dad’ either. There’s a difference, right? Between a dad and a father? Like—a dad does things with you, takes care of you, but a father just…” I don’t really know what I’m saying. “There’s distance. That’s all I think when I hear that word, when I think about him. Distance. My father didn’t visit me when I was little. Not once. Like he just… didn’t care, or something.” Sadie winces. My fingers tremble on the frets. G, B, E, where she placed them. I realize, looking at her pink ears, that I’ve never seen her blush before.
She scoots forward. “Strum.”
“Huh?”
She mops her nose on her flannel—“You know”—and demonstrates, air-guitar style. “Hit it.”
The sound that zings out matches the sting in my fingertips exactly. I flinch, and Sadie laughs, freaking roars, like she knew all along how much that would hurt me. “Merry Christmas!” She slaps my knee. “That’s a D chord, kiddo!”
Kiddo. Like I’m five or something. My fingertips throb. My knee throbs where she whacked it, but I doubt my father would’ve let a little pain stop him. Teeth gritted, I drag my fingers back down the strings. Notes spark at weird angles—not so much a chord as a guitar falling down the stairs. Sadie laughs harder. I hear myself laugh too.
“I think I’m bleeding.”
“Get used to it.” Sadie inspects her own hands, frowning.
“You taught him too, right?” But I already know this answer, and Sadie seems to get that. Without meaning to, I shift back to what we were talking about before. “I could learn to call him Dad someday, you know. Even though he’s dead. It’s not impossible.” That day is easier to imagine with her by my side. A day where I wake up thinking of Mack Grady, my father, as Dad. Not some unreachable moon.
Her eyes glisten. She turns away, wiping them hard with the flat of her hand. “Maybe not.”
The skinned feeling only gets worse around crying people. But I sense Sadie would appreciate me pretending she isn’t. As she takes a breath, I press my stinging fingertips to my lips. They smell, taste like metal. “Are you going to make me learn Quixote songs?”
“What?” She busts back up.
“Because I’m sorry, but—”
“Listen, you think I don’t know they’re shit? We were kids. Younger than you, even, but you can blame Mack for the clapping in ‘Drown.’ He didn’t want a song about depression making him feel any worse.” Her smile falters. “Doesn’t matter how many hits I’ll write, Koda. How many we could’ve written together. All the world cares about—all they’ll remember us for—is what we did at eighteen. That terrifies me. You know?”
I nod. That is extremely terrifying. What if you’ll be eighteen in three and a half months, and haven’t accomplished anything yet? “I could never do what you two did,” I confess. “You were so brave.”
Abruptly, Sadie hardens. “I’m not brave.”
“Yes you are. You—you and my father dropped out of high school, and sang and played guitar in front of all those people. I can’t even find a table at lunch. I…” I push my stinging fingertips against the strings, and as Sadie adjusts their positioning, a clock chimes on the wall. Six o’clock. Three o’clock, California time. “There’s this girl.” The tremor in my voice is pitiful, even for me. “My
best friend. I’m gay”—reflexively, I glance up, expecting to see that seismic ripple that means an adult is shocked but trying to hide it. Sadie doesn’t so much as quiver. Her stare is so intense I can’t tell if it’s aimed at or through me. But there’s no going back. “You told me about breathing my father’s name, remember? And, well, I breathe her. Lindsay.”
Sadie sits back. Cold chafes my jeans—I didn’t realize our knees had been touching. And I can’t tell what she’s thinking as I catch her up on everything, practically barfing it all into her lap, from the beach to the Peter breakup to this new video of Lindsay feeding a squirrel on her patio that I can’t stop scouring for clues. Cigarette smoke, or a hairy toe poking into the frame, whatever it’d take to prove that they’re back together and there’s no use trying. Sadie doesn’t waver. Not until I finish, and her gaze flits to the rug. It truly is hideous. The color of old blood.
“Koda.”
I like how she says my name. Like it’s real. The perfect mix of special and ordinary.
“Koda, look at me. I want you to understand something. The person I was back then isn’t who I am now. I’m a mess. A goddamn wreck. You couldn’t fathom how bad.”
I sort of squint, to make her think I really am looking, only, Mom called her messy too. That’s reason enough not to believe it. Sadie’s leg’s jiggling again. I want to reach out and stop it. But instead I say, “Well, if I couldn’t fathom the messiness, then there’s no point making me understand it, right? That means I don’t have to care either way. It’s basically breaking even.”
Sadie turns away, her jaw flickering. I’ve touched a nerve. “Fine,” she mutters. “If you’re going to be so Mack about it.”
My fingertips have crept back to my mouth. She guides them away, and maybe it’s her gentleness—real, this time—or those words, If you’re going to be so Mack about it, but when she releases my hand, it finds its place on the frets without me looking. Magic. We grin at each other. Sadie says, “Look at you.” I wish I could. Wish he could. But I just laugh and flip my braid to my other shoulder. I shape my sore strumming fingers thumb to index, index to thumb. The way she likes.
CHAPTER 14
SADIE DOESN’T ANSWER MY TEXTS on Tuesday. She doesn’t answer Wednesday or Thursday, either.
Friday, school gets out early. Mom emerges from the car, heaped in faux seal. “Surprise!” she beams. I’m so startled I almost drop my phone, but mercifully, she doesn’t expect a hug in front of the entire student body. In the backseat, her arms lasso me. Mine squeeze cautiously back.
“What are you doing here?” I ask when we part. Mom grins, the back of her hand pressed to my cheek.
“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, honey—even we’re off for the week. I thought we could spend the afternoon together, go shopping, just you and me.” Then, seeing my face: “Unless you had other plans?”
“No, I—hold on.” Phone tilted away from her, I bring up the message I’ve been agonizing over since lunch: Hi Sadie, are you mad at me? It’s just that—we had such a great time together? Playing her guitar? And now she’s vanished. Ghosting me. I should’ve known this would happen. Sometimes, Lindsay won’t tell me she’s mad until the day after we hang out, and all my texts have gone unanswered. I don’t see a reason why Sadie, who is equally as spectacular, so wholly herself, should be any different. This is what I get for sucking at guitar. For making her cry. But how to make it up to her? I put my phone away, sinking deeper into the backseat as Mom confers with Driver.
Mom and I have a kind of haphazard relationship with Christmas. Now that I’m older, we don’t bake dairy-free cookies, or put up a tree or exchange gifts the way most families do. Why bother, when we already have so much? Basically, the holidays are just an excuse to be together—slurp cocoa in our pj’s until her gaggle of fashion industry friends shows up for dinner. This year, Mom hasn’t said how we’ll celebrate. Probably some Magazine people will come over and they’ll drink too much, end up screaming Ace of Base in each other’s faces. As for today’s shopping trip…
Well. Such expeditions are not unprecedented. Actually, as we edge into traffic, and Mom pretends to adjust her immaculately tousled ponytail, I’m surprised by my surprise. Three weeks ago, when our plane touched down, I would’ve sooner died than skip this tradition—even if Fifth Avenue has replaced Rodeo Drive. The car lurches. Stoplight. Like I’m not already nauseated, staring down at my phone where Mom can’t see it.
Bravery isn’t hiding from your mother. It’s not holding the backspace, and gobbling your text all up.
Quietly, Mom says, “I’ll need your help picking something out for Nana,” and I nod, slumped against the window.
Are you mad is a little kid question anyway.
* * *
The personal shoppers at Saks practically cream themselves at the sight of Mom in her fluffy coat, but she demurs, perfectly polite: “No no, we’re fine! Thank you! Thank you!” The escalator ride is like ascending to a frenzied, fluorescent heaven. A father and daughter cruising past us to the lower levels scream, “Koda! Koda Rose!” The kid’s jacket flops open, and on her shirt is my father’s face. Slight smile, hair in his eyes, classic Mack. I turn, but Mom’s fingers are stapled to my shoulders. The shrieking intensifies. “Koda! Hey! Koda! Over here!”
Diehards.
Even freaking department stores are infested.
Stepping into the throng of last-minute shoppers results in pandemonium—namely, an off-key rendition of “Drown” belted out by a grown man in suspenders. He’s trying to be nice. To honor me, I guess, but it’s so unexpected and scary that I lunge for Mom’s hand. “Hush,” she says into my ear. Calm, even though her long leg is tense against mine, our hearts jackrabbiting together while her face remains the pressed-on public one from her modeling days, smiling, benign. I don’t have a public face. Never thought I’d need one, and these aren’t pazzos anyway, but ravenous, phone-wielding New Yorkers. Hands snatch at us. A flash of checkered flannel, and for a second I think—but she’s too tall, her hair all wrong. “Excuse us,” Mom says, pulling me against her. “Excuse us.” The man bellows on. “YOU’RE NOT DROWNING IF YOUR EYES ARE CLOSED. YOU’RE NOT DROWNING IF”—the next verse is meant to be unintelligible. This wild Mack Grady howl even his most devoted fans can’t decipher, and yet here is Suspenders Man, going for it. The crowd cheers. As we push past him, shielding ourselves from photos and the possibility of a spontaneously ejected larynx, Mom kisses my hair. The slightest brush of her lips, and it’s pathetic, how much that grounds me. Blinking, I look up. Fluorescent lights sear tears from my eyes.
Soon security gets involved. Through sheer bulk and repeated warnings to “Stay back!”, they manage to sculpt a protective bubble around us. Mom and I pretend-shop, wandering from Gucci to Prada to Yves Saint Laurent, until gradually, the covert pic-snapping subsides. Gawkers get bored and drift away, but I can still feel them, pressed against our edges. Hanging back like that, they’re not so scary. A couple of times I get curious and glance toward them. Catch a gaze, hold it a beat longer than fear wants to let me.
Only when the looks get reciprocated do I back off, grabbing subtly for Mom’s sleeve. A calf whose gangly new legs will get me chomped up the second I stray.
At Chanel, we contemplate racks of silk scarves. Mom lifts a pink one, chewing her lip.
“You got her a scarf a couple years ago,” I say.
She lowers it. “Did I tell you what my friends said to me? They think”—we approach another scarf display, functional wools—“I shouldn’t get Nana anything this year. Or Grandpa.”
“That’s wild,” I say, and Mom nods, satisfied by my outrage.
Her friends say this every year.
With scarves no longer viable, Mom convinces herself that what Nana really needs is a sweater. A clerk rushes to escort us to the appropriate section, not that that’s necessary. These places are pretty much vacant. More sparkly linoleum than clothes. Mom holds up her selections, and I nod and shake
my head at intervals—yes merino, no ruffles. My timing’s gotten better over the years, so much so that Mom might actually suspect I’ve discovered some long-dormant fashion sense. “I don’t know, though,” she says, more to herself than me. “I can’t picture your grandmother—the turtleneck, that suits her. But the color…” is monstrous. Fresh-squeezed bile. I point to the white version, which she considers carefully. “She’d never wear it. Not around the cows…”
Honestly, what does Nana Blackwell do with Mom’s gifts? Is the room in their creaky farmhouse that was reserved for me now just warehousing a decade’s worth of scarves and sweaters and hand creams?
The thought thuds into me. I can’t take it anymore. I have to get away. “Koda,” Mom warns—I tell her I’ll only be a minute.
You ask me, it’s not that Nana deserves nothing. Just close. A card saying, Warmest wishes. Five bucks inside.
The wool scarves are softer than expected. Cashmere. Rubbing tassels between thumb and index finger, I sneak a peek at my phone. No texts. But I knew that. I would’ve felt it vibrate, and—oh my God, I’m overthinking. That’s all this is, and if Lindsay was here—if she knew about Sadie—she’d snatch my phone away, all, Let’s chill the fuck out, shall we? and wring logic from bad feelings. Like, okay. Sadie’s terrible at texting and busy anyway. Meaning, it’s possible she’s not mad. It’s possible that she’s just stuck in meetings, working on songs. Still, as I stand here, fondling scarves, I can’t shake the sense that something else is up. Even if she didn’t mind my questions… I could’ve done a better job not noticing her eyes were misty. Could’ve gotten the hang of the chord faster, like my father must’ve. I bet he learned every chord at once. Nailed them all, first shot, but if Sadie invites me over again, I could practice.
Unless her silence means she doesn’t want to see me at all anymore. Unless she’s concluded that getting to know each other is too much—too painful—to be worth it. Like I’m not hurting too. Four days later, I’m still getting twinges in my fingertips. Yesterday at dinner. This morning when I brushed my teeth. And now, as I slip a red scarf from its ring.
The Mythic Koda Rose Page 10