The Mythic Koda Rose

by Jennifer Nissley

  I gather them up, then await further instructions.

  “You look like you’re on a mission,” I say, once it’s clear she’s staying quiet. We’ve moved on to a pile of shirts, which she rummages through seemingly by feel. Anything velvet she teases out hand over hand, like a magician. When the heap in my arms starts to teeter, she prods me to a dressing room. No—technically not a room. An alcove with a musty curtain drawn across it. I hesitate—is this… legal?—only for adrenaline, my jumping nerves, to push me across the threshold. The clothes I’m holding tumble. I am immediately confronted by myself, proportions warped by the cruelest of mirrors. “Ugh,” I say, but then, since Sadie can’t see me, I make the storky redhead hold up her fingers. Their rawness gleams. Except for the tip of my right index finger, still furry with dust.

  Right. Clothes. Where to start? Jeans are easy. Fit okay too, that kind of stretchy fabric that gives the illusion of skin-tightness while still allowing you to breathe. The fabric’s distressed, clawed open at the knees. Shoving my right leg in, I lose my balance, topple against the grimy mirror. “Oops,” I say without really meaning to. “I’m okay.” Sadie doesn’t respond. Did she vanish again? No. I feel her waiting. See the scuffed toes of her Doc Martens beneath the curtain. I clear my throat, summoning more coordination as I pick through the shirts. “These are all cool,” I tell her. My voice echoes inexplicably. I stare down into the heap of velvet and flannel.

  So cool. So right. How am I supposed to pick? Is there a particular one she wanted to see me in, that Lindsay would especially like? At the bottom of the pile is a blouse similar to the one I admired in Sadie’s closet, this lacy, velvety thing, soft as a crushed rose. I grab it. There’s buttons. Half have crumbled, but I get them open and wrestle off my sweater. Air knives across me.

  I forgot I’m braless.

  And the shirt? See-through. I know this before I undo the collar button, before I push my arms through sleeves stiff with cigarette smoke and other girls’ sweat. Loose threads jab my belly. But filled by my massive shoulders, the shirt dangles just so, and suddenly the storky redhead in the mirror doesn’t look so out of place anymore. Her jeans are torn, hair wild, nipples dark as cherries beneath their black lace veil. This girl looks indomitable. Ready to flip off the world.

  “All good?” a voice rasps.

  Sadie. Reflexively, I cover my chest. My eyes ricochet to the girl the mirror says is me, her cheeks flushed, but… not from embarrassment? I press them, and heat beats against my fingertips. Breath fogs the glass.

  “Yeah.” My heart pounds so loudly the word barely sneaks out. “One sec.” I tug the curtain back.

  Sadie doesn’t flinch.

  Or maybe she does. There’s so much warmth and noise churning through me, I can’t tell for sure, only sense her drawing nearer until we’re practically toe-to-toe. “This’ll work?” she murmurs, gazing up into my face. Her tone’s steady. Did she… not notice? Or she did, and the only thing standing between us and mutual annihilation is this unrelenting eye contact? Both seem plausible. I wet my lips.

  “I think so. What about you? Do you like it?”

  She smiles. “What’s with your hair?”

  Oh—I scoot my eyes away from hers, toward the mirror. I thought it looked mussed. “It must be from taking my sweater off. The static.” Sadie nods approvingly. I want to smile, only I’m confused, because these clothes are so good—they’re working—but all her reaction has me thinking of is swim practice. The contortions I’d put myself through sharing a locker room with Lindsay. Desperate to see her body but also hoping, begging, See me. See me. My gaze drifts helplessly back to the mirror, this shimmer on my lips where I licked them.

  And then I remember something.

  “What’s her mouth a slice of?”

  Sadie blinks. Hard, like I clapped my hands in her face. “What?”

  “That’s what I’m asking. The lyric in your notebook.” Suddenly, I don’t care if she realizes I was snooping. It’s more important that she understands she can tell me anything, not just whatever flashes through her mind, but—the genuine secrets. I didn’t need to feel close to her; it was the exact thing I told myself just an hour ago. Turns out that was a lie.

  Her nervous laugh makes my confession worth it. The way she takes my face in both hands and smooshes my cheeks together.

  “Black velvet.”

  “Black—”

  “Don’t get it? Here. Your mouth is a slice of”—humming, she taps her thumbs on my cheeks, alternating syllables—“then black, okay, all good, until, vel-vet? Boom! Catastrophe. Doesn’t work, or so Em says. You ask me, it’s viable. But I’d never let anybody sing it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I—stop looking at me like that.” She squeezes harder, harder, until my lips pucker. Fish face. “Stop with the doe eyes. Next you know, I’ll be writing about them, too, and then what? Nothing playable to show for my efforts? Another day down the tubes?”

  “Writing about…?” My brow furrows. Then—

  The realization soars through me.

  My face still cradled in Sadie’s hands. That same nervous laugh. “It’s no fucking riddle, kiddo. Everything I write’s about Mack, and now it’s just…” She falters, brushing a palm against my cheek. “Got a little of you.”

  Sadie’s palms are different than Mom’s, coarse and dry. The second I stoop to pick my old jeans off the carpet, I miss her touch. “I actually brought lipstick,” I say. “It’s blue, though. Which is not redhead-compatible by any stretch of the imagination, but I think Lindsay would like it anyway. Like me in it,” I correct, remembering Sadie’s phrase from the other day. Still, it feels strange bringing Lindsay up just now, an extra shove when I’m already so dizzy. Sadie writes about me… she writes about me… “It’s been in my pocket all day,” I add quickly, afraid I’m reeling so hard that she’ll see. “I meant to try it at school, except I chickened out.” When I finally find the tube, Sadie plucks it from my hand.

  “What’s it called, gangrene? No—Blues to You. Because that makes sense.” She hooks a finger in one of my buttonholes, and I get the hint somehow, bend toward her. “So what’s the deal with this chick? She like you back?”

  “Uh.” Blood rushes to my face. “No. Well. Maybe? She dated Peter up until recently, since the fall of junior year, but sometimes I think she only put up with him because he got her into bars and concerts and stuff. He’s way older. Like, twenty. But she never really talked about boys before him. Ever. And liking one guy doesn’t mean you’re not queer, right? She’s always showing me pictures of girls she follows on Insta and telling me how pretty she thinks they are. I mean always. Oh—and she likes me in lipstick. After she saw my feature shots, she told me that was like, a new side of me. You had to kind of be there, to hear the way she said it, but I thought… it’s promising?” I’m fully aware of how pathetic this sounds. That wanting something so badly, rationalizing it into being true, won’t change reality. But if it could…

  Sadie uncaps the lipstick. My head thrums. What time is it? Lindsay could be calling any minute, but there’s no room for something as ordinary as minutes, or seconds or hours, to exist in this tiny dressing room. Sadie’s got my cheek cupped in her hand, forehead scrunched in supreme concentration. The lipstick tugs across my mouth. “First time we played together, up on a big stage, Mack wore lipstick. Worse than this, though. Black. That’s how I got the idea for the lyric.”

  “I wanted black!”

  Sadie jumps—the lipstick jags creamily up my cheek. I apologize. Profusely. Grinning, she moves to my bottom lip. “Black would be perfect on you.”

  Perfect? Nobody has used that word to describe me. Ever. I scramble, desperate not to show it. “I mean”—does she have wipes? A Kleenex?—“during my photo shoot, I did think it was a little much, but I totally get it now. I would’ve grabbed black today if my mom had it.” I flick my eyes down, to see if that pleases her, but her expression is illegible as ever, and m
y nipples are hard. Dampness prickles beneath my arms. “What I said about Lindsay liking it feeling promising,” I venture, “do you believe that? Do you believe”—I can feel her guiding the lipstick, getting it all over my face, but I laugh because I don’t care, I’m Sadie’s canvas—“you seriously believe Lindsay might like me back? I’m not making the hugest mistake of my life here?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  But that’s no answer at all. I press harder. “What about my father? What would he think?”

  She pauses. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean? Why not? You said he… he was this big believer in going for it, right? So obviously, he would’ve encouraged me to tell Lindsay how I feel. He wouldn’t have wanted me hiding my true feelings from anybody—especially if I’m in love. Especially if he thought I’d have a chance. That’s not what he would’ve done. Right?”

  Sadie’s face clouds. Because I’m rambling. Because she takes coloring outside the lines very seriously, and it’s going to take a whole box of wipes and possibly rubbing alcohol before this blue comes off me. Please, I almost beg. Tell me that’s how he would be. I’ve only got an hour or so until Lindsay calls. An hour to make sure. But I push those thoughts away. Focus on Sadie’s freckles. The storm brewing behind them.

  “Where’d you get this idea of him being so honest, huh?” she whispers. A scratchy finger smears blue down my chin. “He hid plenty from me.”

  CHAPTER 17

  LINDSAY HATES FLYING. AND AIRPORTS.

  And people in airports.

  But yeah, she laughs. “I’ll come.”

  I sit up. “Seriously?”

  “Well… I have to ask my dad first, obviously—”

  “Which one?” Lindsay has two. There’s Saulo, her birth father, and Trevor, his husband who adopted Lindsay when she was five. He’s up in Canada a lot, traveling for work, but when he is home, they spend hours together—planetarium trips, flea markets. Dad stuff. I push farther up in the backseat, my view blurred by rain, smears of sidewalk and neon like all of Astoria’s rushing past me, even though we’re standing still. Driver doesn’t comment when I roll the window down, let the drops splash onto my cheeks. “Linds?”

  “Oh,” she sighs, “Papá.” Her name for Saulo. “Trevor’s in freaking Vancouver again. But we actually have winter break coming up, second week in February? So I’m pretty sure Papá will let me. And if he doesn’t, I’ll tell my aunt and she’ll convince him by force. She’ll lose her shit if I go to New York, trust me. And my cousins…” She seems to think about it. “I’ll be getting texts for days, no lie. You don’t know how obsessed they are with New York.”

  Frankly, I can’t comprehend why anybody’s obsessed with New York. But… winter break. Does my school do that? I’ll have to check. Mist laps my cheeks, cold and prickly. “Awesome,” I say.

  She laughs again. “So awesome.”

  And then silence. Not the uncomfortable kind, but swollen with possibility. It starts raining harder, so I pull back, only to realize as I open my eyes that we’ve only made it a block past the thrift store, where Driver picked me up. Sadie was gone by then. Not that she said goodbye or anything. Just pressed my hand.

  Now I push a button on the armrest, and the window zips up, sealing rainy Queens behind it. My reflection in the glass gleams a faint anaphylactic blue, compliments of Sadie.

  Where’d you get this idea of him being so honest?

  From the world, I should’ve said. His interviews. From you.

  But behind that musty dressing room curtain, I couldn’t say any of that, couldn’t bear the thought of breaking the spell her magic had woven between us. So I’m slouched against the car window, phone to my ear, listening to Lindsay breathe. I know her visit will be spectacular. I know this simply because there’s no way it can’t be. Because that’s the only way to turn eighteen with my head above water.

  If he wasn’t honest, then how could I be?

  “Wait,” Lindsay says. “What about Mariah? Did she say yes?”

  “No, but”—I hesitate—“I’m almost positive she will.”

  “Well, ask her soon, okay? As in, this minute? Literally right now? You know my dad. He’ll be way easier to convince once I prove your mom’s on board.”

  I laugh. This is why she’ll make an excellent politician. “Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “I—”

  “Koda, you have to promise!”

  “I was going to! You didn’t let me finish my sentence! I’ll ask her as soon as I get home in, I don’t know, twenty minutes. Promise,” I add, and then I quirk my finger against my thigh, pinkie swear, like in middle school. She can’t see, but it’s exactly that sort of promise. Exactly those vibes.

  “Home? Isn’t it practically eight o’clock in New York? Where were you?”

  My backpack lies at my feet, the THANK YOU FOR YOUR BUSINESS thrift store bag bundled on top. I straighten my pinkie until it’s just touching the plastic. “With a friend.”

  “Ooooohh. What kind of friend? A girlfriend?”

  “Oh my God.” My face flares. “Shut up! It’s not like that. At all. She’s… she’s actually… just trust me.”

  “Trust you? I don’t think so. I think I’ll have to meet this chick for myself, really assess the situation, before I take your word for it. I mean, come on, Koda.” Her giggle fades. “You’re so bad at knowing when people like you.”

  Rain knocks against the car, against the sludge in my head. What does she mean, exactly? Who’s ever liked me? When did I close my eyes? I’m too nervous to ask Lindsay to clarify. To tell her, Well, I don’t care about people if people aren’t you. I only squeeze my eyes shut tighter, until the whole world is black velvet. No light poking through.

  CHAPTER 18

  CONVINCING MOM PROVES SURPRISINGLY easy. I type some remarks up in the car about why Lindsay should be permitted to visit—Mom, above all, treasures preparedness—but I’ve barely gotten to the first parenthetical before she’s on her phone, scrolling through the school calendar. Turns out, we don’t get a whole week off in February, only a random Monday that, hallelujah, coincides with Lindsay’s break. A long weekend will have to do. The matter settled, Mom lifts the phone to her ear, the line already ringing. Saulo, she mouths. To finalize plans. I nod—this really is happening—and she motions me closer, presses a quick kiss to my head. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers, not a trace of sadness in her voice. The cold shoulder I gave her last night brushed lovingly aside.

  Mom will forgive practically anything, provided you show initiative. One quick, reflexive smile, and I’m off, retreating to my room before she can start dispensing advice. I can just guess what that would be.

  A PowerPoint, probably. Subject: Why Lindsay Should Date Me. Minimum ten slides.

  * * *

  With sorting details left in the hands of our ruthlessly capable parents, there’s really nothing to do in the four weeks leading up to Lindsay’s visit but… worry. And wait. I find myself zoning out harder than ever in school, gnawing pen after pen until one finally bursts, spattering black across my lip and the known world. My classmates scream. The kid beside me asks if a squid jizzed on my face.

  I switch to pencils. If Mom was around to see me slogging through my homework each night, she’d notice the teeth marks sunk into the wood, ask what’s wrong, but the terror roiling inside me goes deeper than teeth marks. Before I know it, a week has passed. Then another. Homework becomes impossible. Texting Lindsay, just coping with the fact of her name on my phone screen, becomes impossible. A thousand and one breathless questions about what she should bring, where we should go, our seventy-two hours of togetherness narrowed to pop-up stores in Brooklyn, the flashiest Broadway shows. Can’t we just do what we used to? Cuddle up in our comfiest pajamas and watch Blue Planet, contemplate confessing my love while sharks devour whale carcasses on the screen? A pathetically Koda move. Not Mack at all.

  I need a distraction.
r />   For that, Sadie was supposed to have me covered.

  These past couple days, instead of bringing me to Astoria after school, Driver drops me off downtown, at the East Village recording studio where Sadie and Em are frantically rewriting their quarterly batch of songs. Studio makes the place sound fancy, but my excitement dips once I step off the rickety elevator to discover… a hallway of doors. Most of the time—I quickly discover—talking, even whispering, in the hall is forbidden, because behind those doors recordings are in progress. Squirty pop melodies that get stuck in your head for days, that I hum despite myself, and the faces Sadie and Em make at me as we huddle at the table in their overheated writers’ room. Together, they swap lyrics for hours, singing each other’s suggestions back and forth until the words lose all flavor, like overchewed food. You can tell Sadie likes having Em around to argue and share ideas with. A fact made all the more annoying when you consider how little she and Sadie have in common. Em’s older, for one thing. Milky blond, with rose-gold metal glasses and a big, booming voice that easily overtakes Sadie’s during their more competitive bouts of harmonizing. The second she shakes my hand, her eyebrow twitching like—Mack’s kid? Really?—I hate her.

  During the rare times when Sadie and I are alone, she’s too plugged into writing mode for me to ask for more guidance. She’s at the studio before me. Leaves after me. Not a press on the hand for goodbye, or even a “See you later, kiddo,” but a vague flutter of her fingers, the same way she turns pages in her notebook. Once or twice, I ask if she’s feeling okay, then immediately regret how childish it makes me sound, how uninformed. Sadie’s an artist. Of course work would exert a gravity on her that I’ve never seen, let alone experienced, for myself. She’s allowed to get a little sweaty.