The Mythic Koda Rose

by Jennifer Nissley

  It’s not that I don’t want to tell her about Sadie. I want to, absolutely, but how? Every time I try, I lose hold of what to say, end up typing and deleting the same message a thousand times. We barely talked about my father or Quixote in LA. Besides, you can text about guitar lessons, chords, picks… but they’re not just lessons. Not just picks. And if Lindsay’s going to get back with Peter, then she doesn’t deserve to know about Sadie anyway. The one person left in the world who is entirely my own. So I decide to drop it. I take every memory of Sadie and press them against the top of my mouth, like candy I’m not done savoring.

  nvm lol sry

  need caffeine

  She ignores this for a while. U there???? I add.

  yeah sry just asleep haha it’s 4am

  LA is 3 hrs behind remember???

  Well. Maybe I did forget. But the thought of Lindsay lying awake, thinking of me… I remember sharing a bed during sleepovers. Her breathing dreamy slow beside me. All those nights I pressed myself into the mattress and wished… what if she moved her head onto my pillow? Touched her lips to my lips? Once she flipped onto her side, and her curls spilled across my pillow. I took one in my teeth.

  I can’t give up this easily again. I can’t miss this one, final chance, to tell Lindsay the truth. But what am I supposed to do? She’s so far away, and this isn’t the kind of thing you can say with a text. Is it? I take the silver L and press it to my lips, tasting the clammy metal.

  The solution arrives so suddenly you can hardly call it one at all. A blur across my brain. It’s risky. And… kind of wild, but I’ve got to trust Sadie. Do it afraid. Nothing short of wild will count.

  I have some investigating to do first, some big-time making up with Mom, but there’s no question that this is exactly what my father would urge me to do, if he were here. Call me, I text Lindsay. After swimming??

  “…” flickers onto the screen. I hold my breath, waiting.

  Ok

  * * *

  My pulse quickens as I head to Mom’s en suite.

  Her makeup, formerly arranged by color, is still all over the place. It takes a while to find the blue pencil from last night, and even longer to find a lipstick that might match. I take a chance on a Pacific blue, smear it immediately. Cursing, I whip a glance over my shoulder, half expecting Mom to come to my rescue. Spit and Q-tips.

  Scrubbing at the sink turns my mouth pink anyway. Figures Mom doesn’t own a single stick of black.

  On my way out, I slip the blue into my pocket.

  * * *

  Sadie grins when I show her my torn-up fingers. “Part of the process.”

  “Yeah, but…” I move so she can reach the tap, accidentally bump into the fridge. Her kitchen is microscopic. “Isn’t there something I can do to speed it up? Or reduce the pain somehow?”

  Water splutters over dishes in the sink. “You mean actually enjoy life? What’s the fun in that?”

  Sighing, I right a magnet. FACE THE MUSIC, it says. “You’re pretty dark, you know.” Her mouth quirks. Either because I shouldn’t have said that, or because she caught how winded I am from taking the stairs two at a time. Embarrassing. I make an effort to breathe calmly as she chugs a glass of water.

  “Realistic.” She smacks the cup down. “Isn’t that what you meant?”

  “Yeah, definitely.” I follow her back to the living area.

  Sadie’s on a cleaning binge. Or what she considers cleaning—gathering her papers into haphazard stacks. When I arrived a few moments ago, she was grumbling about her songwriting partner, this big rewrite deadline they both somehow forgot about. She hasn’t noticed my jumpiness yet, how I still haven’t taken off my coat. Now I do. Just—shrug it off, drape it over the couch. Super casual. Nothing to be self-conscious about here. I force a smile, hook my hair behind my ears.

  “Want help?” I ask.

  Her eyes lift skeptically from the page she’s reading, and you can see all over her how helpless she thinks I am. Which, okay. Maybe I haven’t cleaned much up, personally. But anybody can make piles. As I trail her around the room, she loads my arms with loose leaf, quizzing me on stuff. Stupid stuff, like how to light a gas stove and flip pancakes and unclog a drain. “Eggs,” she says after my millionth shrug. “Can you cook an egg?” Probably, I tell her.

  “If I watched you first.”

  She thrusts more papers at me, sleeves pushed back to reveal skinny, speckled arms. And biceps. Since when? They’re nowhere near as developed as Lindsay’s—swimming and guitar likely require different muscles—but still. Cool.

  Sadie pricks an eyebrow. Whatever she sees on my face, I fold quickly away.

  “Anyway,” I say in my defense, “I don’t even like eggs.”

  It’s 3:57. 12:57, in California, which means I have precisely… four hours before Lindsay calls. Three and a half hours, roughly, to clue Sadie in on my plan, and win her blessing. Not that I doubt she’ll support me. I just want to see the pride lighting up her eyes. The recognition.

  But it’s hard when she’s so distracted. When doubt worms in with every second I don’t speak up. Groaning, she crouches to grab a page beneath the coffee table. The papers she gave me, I hug close to my chest. Anything to shield her from my bralessness. What was I thinking?

  “You really are like Mack, princess.” The paper is crumpled to hell, a tight little fist. Sadie picks it open, then blinks a sec. Shoves it into her notebook. “Certifiably helpless—” Music interrupts her. Eight-bit calypso. “Dammit.” Sadie stalks off. I crane my neck to watch her rummage around the kitchen counter, pat her jeans. “Where did…” The music’s reaching its frantic crescendo, and she’s resorted to flipping couch cushions, by the time she apparently remembers her bomber jacket, hanging on its peg by the door. She plucks a chunky silver device from the pocket.

  “Wait.” I crack up. “That’s your phone?” I’ve never seen one this ancient in real life. It’s hilarious. Like if somebody from a hundred years ago closed their eyes and imagined The Future. Sadie squints at the screen.

  “Christ,” she mutters. “Got to take this, sorry.” She disappears down the hall, shutting a door behind her. Click.

  “Okay,” I say aloud.

  Probably Em. Her songwriting partner. I wait by the coffee table, cupping my elbows. Minutes slide by.

  The papers I helped collect are piled on the coffee table, the notebook nearby. It’s not even special. The black marbled kind you see in drugstores and high school movies. Snooping is wrong, but I want to know what the paper says. Need to know so badly what she deems worth keeping that I slip a hand inside the cover, tug the crumpled page just enough to read: HER MOUTH IS A SLICE OF—

  The rest is scribbled out.

  Sadie’s voice rises, muffled by the door, and it occurs to me that she must be in her bedroom. The one place in her apartment I haven’t seen, that I’ve come to think of not as a whole room but just a door across from the bathroom that stays politely, firmly shut. Other things about Sadie are more interesting anyway. I don’t need to see the colors of her bed set, or whatever trinkets she’s got cluttering up the shelves, don’t need to dig up every secret to feel close to her. Tugging the page out from her notebook, I lift it to the light, peering through storm clouds of ballpoint, but the words beneath are impossible to make out. A slice of what, Sadie? Whose mouth?

  I tuck the page back inside the front cover and venture after her. Slowly. So the floorboards won’t creak. I press my ear to the bedroom door.

  “Look.” She sounds exasperated. “I appreciate your concern and all, really do, but you’re not”—she huffs—“so what if she’s here? You going to drive down? Kick her out? Give me a goddamn break, Ted.”

  My bladder tightens. The same irrepressible urge to pee I used to get playing hide-and-seek.

  It’s Teddy on the phone. The bassist.

  And they’re talking about me. I press closer, rising on tiptoe, like that’s going to help me hear better. Sadie continues, a whiny edge to h
er voice that I’ve never heard. “Support it? Of course you don’t. Like I’d really expect you to support anything I—bullshit. I’m a big girl.” She pauses for a freaking century, and I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to pee myself. I dart into the bathroom, which, no surprise, wasn’t built for tall girls. Knees folded against the lip of the tub, I pee forever, wrapping my hand in a one-ply mitten.

  Should I be scared or elated that Sadie told Teddy about me? Not that I think Teddy would go blabbing to the media. He seems like a private enough person, with his alpacas and kids and stuff. But… why wouldn’t he want me visiting Sadie? Her voice comes more rapidly now. Their conversation’s wrapping up. “Yeah, yeah, well, you know I could quit whenever I wanted. Cold turkey…” I flush the toilet and go to wash my hands. As chaotic as her apartment is, Sadie’s bathroom never changes. The sink is cracked ceramic. Spattered with toothpaste stains. I pick at one while the water takes its usual eternity to get hot. A toothbrush, its bristles all frazzled, sits in a cloudy drinking glass. I move it back, then open the medicine cabinet.

  An antacid. That’s all I’m looking for. The magic one she gave me on my first visit, a preemptive strike against the reflux now percolating inside me. Except there are tons of bottles up here, and most are for pills. Curious, I spin one around to read the label. ALPRAZOLAM. A word I know but don’t. Otherwise, there’s only cough syrup, scattered tampons, a stick of undereye concealer. One, two, three bottles of nasal spray, which explains her runny nose. Allergies.

  A rap on the door. “Koda?”

  I flip the cabinet shut. “One sec!” Sadie’s right there when I emerge, fidgeting in the darkened hall. Behind her, more hardwood. A slash of unmade bed.

  She left the door ajar.

  “You heard all that?” she asks.

  “A little,” I hedge. “But—”

  She slams down the hall, then reappears just as suddenly, a cigarette lit between her fingers. She sucks on it hard, then says, “You seen a bedroom before?”

  “Oh.” I’m still staring over her shoulder. “Sure.” I shrug. “Obviously.” But I’d be mortified to show her mine. Sadie, after a brief hesitation, pushes the door tantalizingly wider. Granting… permission? I slip inside before she can change her mind. Hands shoved under my armpits, determined not to touch anything else.

  Her bedroom is smaller than I imagined, as cluttered and cramped as the rest of her apartment. A shipwreck of tattered notebooks and flung-off clothes. Jewelry box, overstuffed bookshelf, picture frame placed facedown on her nightstand—my attention snags on all of it. But the open closet beckons most of all. Heart thumping, I inspect the velvet jungle.

  “You have the coolest style,” I say.

  She snorts. “His style.”

  “Even better.” I free a hand despite myself, stroke a gauzy black sleeve. Sadie comes up beside me, flicking ash to the floor, and I hate to say so, but: “Don’t quit smoking.” Smoke twines around her like the girl in my pictures. The girl that with every visit, every zing in my fingertips, I’m one step closer to becoming. Smoke means impressing Lindsay. Night showers. The thrill of giving Mom a reason to wonder. Only, Sadie doesn’t know any of this. She tilts her head at me, confused. “Teddy wants you to, right?” I remind her.

  Sadie pales. The hand holding the cigarette drifts uneasily toward her hair. “Ted’s like a brother to me,” she says, looking away. “Overprotective. Especially after… everything that’s happened. You understand.”

  I nod, like I do understand. Like I’ve actually had a brother, or any friend who was a boy. “Why doesn’t he want us hanging out, though?”

  Smoke whooshes out her nose. “Dramatics. Nothing worth worrying about.”

  “Okay.” Silence edges between us.

  Sometimes I suspect she’s not as carefree as she seems.

  She nods at her clothes. “Haven’t worn most of that shit in years. Feels sort of entombed, you know? Just hanging there, gathering dust. I’d say help yourself, only, I doubt much of it would fit.”

  Obviously. From top to toe, Sadie’s the length of like, my femur. But… I tug the gauzy shirt off its hanger. It’s collared like the tunic I wore yesterday, with velvet trim and, importantly, pockets. Why would she want to get rid of it? “Lindsay would love this,” I say, unable to stop myself. “Her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—is a guitarist. His band’s terrible. Like, Quixote wannabes, but she’d wear this kind of thing to their shows. Every time she looked more amazing. If I could just… well… when she visits—” Crap. I smash my lips together. That totally slipped out. You’re not supposed to talk about a possibility as if it’s a sure thing. That’s bad luck, isn’t it? Sadie doesn’t seem to have heard. Unless this is another one of her tests, a courage check, and that’s why she’s watching me so closely. Daring me to repeat it.

  There’s just so many boxes to check until I’m ready. Lindsay’s dads and Mom all agreeing to let her fly across the country, stay over, potentially skip school, all for the sake of one measly trip. What if they make us wait until summer? What if—

  What if Lindsay says no?

  Sadie looks on as I hold the shirt up to myself, biding time. Of all moments to sense the thoughts clanging around my mind, this has got to be it. Sadie’s so good at that, no Tell me what you’re thinking, honey. She just knows.

  But she waits too long, and I’m forced to break the silence.

  “I-I’m inviting Lindsay to come to New York so I can give her her Christmas present, tell her I love her in person. I’m not sure if she’ll want to come, if our parents will even let us, but I’d never have thought of this if it weren’t for you—well, you and my father, basically—telling me to do it afraid. So… thank you.” My cheeks burn. When I finally feel like I can look at her again, it’s not pride lighting up her eyes, or recognition.

  Something even more intense. Something I can’t read.

  She wipes sweat off her lip. “Got to be home soon?”

  “Not exactly—”

  “Good.” She pushes past me. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Peter’s band is called Ghost Ocean. Sadie screams when I tell her.

  “Oh my God.” My grin practically splinters my face. “Okay, thank you, isn’t that so stupid? Lindsay swears it’s some anti-oil drilling thing, which she’s been totally obsessed with lately—political statements, I mean—so I’ve had to go along with it, but all I want to do is tell her how much that name sucks. Stupid’s just the beginning. There are so many adjectives.” I’d list them, but Sadie’s wheezy laughter is killing me. Walking on the street with her—not close close, but just enough that our fingers graze accidentally—will go down as the highlight of my week. At first I assumed she had a destination in mind, but now I’m not so sure. Every block gets more and more desolate, like we’re not exploring Astoria but leaving it behind. It’s awesome. I don’t care how sketchy Steinway gets. Blacked-out shops and the stammer of traffic down nearby Astoria Boulevard, shadows greasy in the dim streetlight. Men loiter in the doorway of an abandoned furniture shop, smoking cigarettes and giving Sadie ideas. She lights up but can’t stop roaring long enough to take a puff. I blow hair from my lips, giggling too.

  Another couple blocks and it’s like the laugh is holding her hostage, dissolving into a wet, barking cough. I’m contemplating giving her a thump when she pulls away from me, hawks, and spits. I wait until she wanders back.

  “Are you okay?”

  We’re outside what must’ve been a lingerie shop, empty except for mannequin legs dangling in the windows. Ignoring me, Sadie jerks her chin at them. “Dismemberment. Now, that really gets me going.”

  I laugh and squeeze closer, shaking my head when she asks if I’m getting cold. Next block, we find a thrift store with the Th burnt out in the sign. “Look.” I point. “Rift store.”

  Sadie whistles. “That’s heavy.”

  Hands in my pockets, I admit, “I’ve never been thrifting before.” Thrifting? Is that the lingo? I might as
well admit Mom buys all my clothes. “You and my”—dad squirts out of reach—“my father used to go all the time, right?”

  “Sure did.”

  Together we look up at the sign, Sadie’s whistle echoing in my head. Of course she can whistle. Of course. But that’s what makes her so exciting.

  Even the obvious things surprise me.

  Slyly, she catches my eye, and the invisible wires rigging our brains hum back to life. We both grin.

  Patchy blue carpet. Odor of mildew. Not so much a thrift store as the world’s most chaotic prop department. Long and narrow, the lights getting squintier, shelves more crowded, the farther back they go. I linger in the doorway, trying to gauge what exactly I’m at risk of contracting here (bedbugs? Something flesh-eating?), and next I know, Sadie’s vanished. I’ve been marooned.

  Okay. I’m okay. Sadie wanted to go in too, which makes this disaster worth both our whiles. And this place is pretty cool. The anti-Saks, no sparkly linoleum or garment racks in sight. Whoever’s in charge dumps clothes right on the floor. Memories waft up of personal shoppers kissing Mom’s cheeks, offering champagne, and I can’t help it—I crack up all over again. Lindsay would freaking love it here. “Sadie,” I call. “Where’d you go? I can’t see you over all this junk.”

  No response. Figures. Wincing apologetically at the ancient man behind the counter—for the junk comment—I skirt piles of horrifically outdated blouses and sweaters, a brave explorer traversing never-before-seen mountain chains. Shelves along the wall hold stacks of plastic plates and bowls, mugs that say WORLD’S BEST TEACHER and ASTORIA PARK DAY FUN RUN ’87. I draw an uppercase K and L in the dust around them, smiling to myself. “Sa-die,” I sing in the low, leaky voice it probably kills her to hear. “Come on, where are—”

  “Over here!”

  Thank God. I thread my way to the back wall, where Sadie’s on her hands and knees, excavating a mass grave of denim. She’s had some luck already—a vest lies by her feet, and a pair of black jeans so long they must be for me. Instinctively, I check the inseam. Thirty-four inches. Promising.