“Annoying”—she tugs my ear—“but correct.” I laugh and swat her away, already feeling better.
After a bit, Sadie pushes the crates out of the way to explore darker recesses of the closet, muttering and rooting around. “For fuck’s sake. I thought I…” Whatever weird mood she was in when I arrived seems to have lifted. It makes me feel special. Like I helped. I sit patiently, trying not to fidget as the closet coughs up dust bunnies. At last, Sadie sits back, clutching a thick book with a pebbly gray cover, no title or writing on it whatsoever. My chest leaps. “Want you to understand,” she says, “I haven’t looked at these in years. But…” She thrusts the photo album at me abruptly. “No saying no to you.”
I flip through it on the bed while Sadie fiddles with her guitar, smoking and letting me take my time. It’s funny, but in all the hours we’ve spent together, I’ve never heard her play before. Not in real life. Her fingers drip honey while I turn the slippery pages. Slowly. Out of respect. But also so I won’t miss anything. The photos—Polaroids, so retro—cover the band’s early days together. Bassist Teddy passed out on a hideous orange couch. Sadie with her curls in a scrunchie, hugging a giant black dog. SAMBUCA, that one says. FIRST ROADIE!!!! It’s Sadie’s handwriting, every letter a lightning bolt. Of all the hundreds of photos, my father is only in a handful.
“God forbid he didn’t get to play photographer,” Sadie says. She’s sitting against the bed, a curl of smoke and her bandanna just visible over the mattress.
“Got it.” I mean—it makes so much sense I can’t believe it had to be pointed out to me. Of course my father, with his wisdom and genius, would document everything. There are photos of him kissing the same black dog. Slumping on the orange couch with Sadie in his lap, a skinny cigarette pinched between his fingers that it takes me an embarrassingly long time to realize is pot. I turn the page quickly.
The final photos are more conceptual. Page after plasticky page of abandoned buildings. Too much sky. The last in this sequence catches my eye. There’s a sidewalk, grass pushing through the cracks in fists, and my father—that really is my father—approaching the camera. White T-shirt, mouth snagged mid-laugh, arms outstretched like he’s walking a tightrope. Along the bottom it’s scribbled, to sadie—when i die, pack my summer clothes.
I stare at the letters until they stop being letters. Until I’m confident we write the same i’s. Then I clear my throat—“Sades”—and hold the album out so she can see from the floor. Still, it takes her a while to realize where I’m pointing. Her cheeks splotch bright red.
“What does that mean?” I ask. “Are they lyrics or something? A song you never released?”
“Not lyrics.” Sadie stands, clutching the guitar by its neck. She sets it gently aside, then hoists herself up onto the bed with me, Doc Martens and all. “A game we played. ‘When I die, don’t call my parents.’ ‘When I die, serve me to the cats a la mode.’ It was hilarious. We’d crack each other up for hours.”
That doesn’t sound like a very fun game, but what do I know? This photograph, his handwriting—the most personal parts I’ve discovered of him yet, somehow only make him more indecipherable. I try to smile. “Can I take it out? The picture?” Her eyes flick a warning. Be careful. I pinch a corner of the Polaroid and tug. Maybe if I see his face…
The bed creaks. Sadie’s gotten up. I hear her cross to the closet.
But the photo does not reveal some new, previously unreleased side of him. He just looks like my father. Actually—my father before he was my father. A scraggly kid. I shove hair behind my ears, conscious of Sadie lingering by the closet, awaiting my appraisal. “He was beautiful,” I say at last. What everybody talks about when they talk about him.
She smirks. “You’re telling me.”
I have to dig deeper. “What’d you like best about him? I mean physically.”
“Ha! I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Now Sadie’s voice is muffled. I look up to see her on hands and knees again, flicking through the milk crates. “Frankly, he drove me wild. Don’t think I could pick any one thing.”
“But if you had to.”
“Well, if I had to,” she teases. “He did have these dimples…” She seizes a record, but then, maybe deciding it’s not the one, lets it thump back into the crate. “Big ones,” she adds quietly. “Like they got dug out by a spoon. They were the first thing I noticed about him, once I got past how much his strumming fucking sucked. Of course, I eventually told him his dimples were pretty. Huge mistake. One flash and he knew I’d be powerless.” Sadie glances up, our gazes catch—and then she concentrates extra hard on flicking through records. “He could really reel me in. Anyway.”
I look back down at the photograph, into my father’s pale face. My fingers creep over my lips. “I don’t have dimples.”
“I noticed,” she says.
I push the photo back into its sleeve.
Sadie hops up. She must’ve found the record she was looking for. “You like the Beatles?”
“Um.” I shut the photo album and place it on the nightstand, on top of the facedown picture frame. My thoughts can’t get any traction. “Maybe?” She crosses herself. I’ve never seen a record player in real life before, let alone the one on her dresser. I’d mistaken it for a jewelry box, but now she clears necklaces and scarves off the top to unearth ancient machinery. Musty yellow. A true relic.
When she pops the record on, it crackles the way old movies crackle, like they’re clearing their throats. Noises that come after, I can’t place. Snickers. Bass? “We had a cat on our tour bus”—she puts her hands out, and a nervous heat flashes through me, but I grasp them anyway, let her pull me off the bed—“JohnPaulRingoandGeorge. Mack’s idea. We couldn’t agree on what to call him.”
“Who’s the one who sings like he’s got a bad cold?”
Sadie yanks me to her. “You trying to kill Mack all over again?”
I laugh even though I don’t feel like laughing, my face tight and dimple-less. As the record spins, her eyes move over me. She seems a lot smaller suddenly, but that’s not possible. She’s always come up to my chest. “I like this song,” I say, to make amends. “I’ve heard it before.”
Her hand slides to the small of my back, which I didn’t realize had gotten so sweaty. “A goddamn toddler could recognize this song. It’s ‘Come Together.’ Now come on.”
We dance. All six of us together, the Fab Four playing on a scratchy record as Sadie leads me across her scuffed-up bedroom floor. We bump into things. Upended crates and piles of clothes, holding each other so tight it’s hard to tell who’s laughing harder as one song blurs into the next. This one is slower, more subdued. Sadie giggles into my chest. “How late can you stay?”
“All night,” I offer, and she giggles harder, like it’s a joke.
When I die—I shrink myself, preparing to spin—when I die, Sadie, tell me how I reel you in.
CHAPTER 24
SADIE TUGS A MESS OF blankets and pillows down from the closet, apologizing for not having fresh sheets. “Laundry isn’t exactly my top priority.” I assure her it’s not mine, either, and then, even though she doesn’t ask for help, I spread the new blankets across the bed, heap on pillows while she disappears into the bathroom. By the time she’s back, I’ve bundled her comforter into the corner, and the records back in their crates, coaxed the sticky closet door shut. I turn to see her in the bedroom doorway. Arms folded, all shadow.
“Hi,” I say stupidly.
It’s dark, has been for hours. The streetlights cast a yellowish glow on Sadie as she crosses to the window. She doesn’t move when I come up behind her.
“You seriously don’t mind if I sleep over?” She did ask how long I could stay, but…
Paint flakes off the sill. Sadie picks at it. “Snowing like hell anyway.”
Mom said as much once I finally answered her texts. Apparently, Driver had called her a while back, saying that it was really coming down thick and soon it’d be too dangero
us to drive me home from my friend’s. It could’ve been disastrous. My cover, completely blown. Yet somehow, Mom miraculously assumed that the friend was “Sarah.” When I explained we were only doing hw, and her parents didn’t mind if I slept over, she responded with a single emoji. Thumbs-up.
“Not that this is anything special,” Sadie goes on. “Not like upstate.”
“You should bring me sometime. Like in that song you wrote.” I wait for this to register, but she turns, wiping paint dust off her fingers.
She reminds me about the bathroom—like I’ll get lost traveling exactly two feet—and that I can help myself to whatever I want in the kitchen. That is, if I can find anything. Her tone has dulled, so changed from when we danced together that I almost don’t realize I’m being put to bed. “Aren’t you staying up?” I say, perched by the nightstand. “I can too.” Sadie hesitates, then reaches to gather something off the floor. Pajamas in ratty red flannel. “You told me you never sleep the first time I visited. Remember? You said, ‘Lucky for you, I don’t sleep.’ ”
“Hyperbole, kiddo. I can hardly make it past eleven anymore.”
Impossible. “But you and my father used to party like crazy, didn’t you? Stay up for days and days? So you could probably still find it in you. Please? Just for tonight?”
When they meet mine, her eyes do seem tired.
“We can… we can talk more?” I falter. “All night. Like on the subway. I mean, like when you and my father used to ride the subway. I know we got to my stop eventually.” But this is different. She asked how late I could stay, and I answered honestly. So what’s with the mood swings? What happened between us dancing and now to make her all aloof again? “Please? I always have the hardest time falling asleep in new places.”
My pleading gets me nowhere. “Keep looking through those pictures,” she says lightly. “That’ll put you to sleep.” One by one, she clinks her rings onto the nightstand. I snatch up the closest, knowing more than probably anybody the infinite ways adults can signal, conversation over.
The ring is plain silver, with a tiny teardrop stone. “This is so pretty.”
What’s wrong with me?
Why can’t I let her go?
“Did my father get you this?”
She glances away as I try to stuff the ring on my pinkie. “No. Somebody else.”
“Who, though?” I think of cruising the jewelry counters at Christmastime, the topaz ring I could have—should have—gotten her. And Lindsay… the silver box… She had to have opened it by—no. I grind the thought out. Sadie looks at me. Making her own plea with every line in her face. “You’ve dated other guys is what you’re saying. Other boyfriends?”
Sadie reaches out and takes the ring from me, sets it so carefully on the nightstand that it doesn’t clink at all. “If that’s what you want to call them.”
“Who?”
Her chuckle crackles in her throat.
“I’m serious!”
Mom keeps secrets from me, but not her. Not Sadie. I sit by, helpless, as she gathers some things from the closet, a couple of records, and her record player. “Sadie.”
How did my father draw her back? What did he say? “Sades—”
“How’s this,” she interrupts. “You go to bed, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Deal?”
I chew my lip, letting her think I’m mulling it over, when I’m really just counting to five in my head. “Deal.”
Sadie nods.
That kind of secret, then.
She clicks the lights off and shuts the door. I peel back the covers and insert myself between them, lying very still and quiet as the faucet runs and toilet flushes, water gurgles through the pipes. Soon she’ll take off her clothes. I listen harder, like naked is a sound. Worship was the word Lindsay used to describe Sadie and me. Keep worshipping her, but I think she’s bad news. Before, it devastated me to think of Lindsay getting back with Peter, but now that Sadie’s pulled my head together, I only feel sorry for her. Sorry that Lindsay is so ordinary. She’ll never know what worship means.
I curl up and try to sleep, but every time my eyes close, Sadie and I start dancing again. Magically, I’m better at it, and her smile opens like it did the few times I’ve managed to truly surprise her. I twitch awake. Bury my face in the pillow that smells like ashes. Like her.
I’m not sure if I slept three hours or three minutes. My phone is… somewhere. But my hunch is Sadie’s awake too. There’s this restlessness in the air, stirred up by my wildly jumping thoughts and something even realer. Sharper. I bite down on the pillow for as long as I can stand it. Longer, I bet, than the band’s longest song.
Slowly, I tiptoe to the door. My shirt clings to my chest. I bang my hand against the doorknob trying to find it in the dark, then edge out into the even darker hall. You don’t have to go any farther to see straight into the living room. Immediately, my heart sinks. Sadie is asleep? Balled against the armrest with the blanket over her shoulders. Then—stepping toward her—I pick out little details in the lamplight, things my disappointment hid from me. Like the blanket pressed to her face. Her shoulders rocking.
“Sadie?”
Her head jerks up.
I don’t ask if she’s crying. It’s too obvious, her face shiny and creased. I creep closer as she fumbles with the blanket. How to comfort a crying person? I need—not a whole textbook, but a chart. Diagrams that show what to do with your hands. Hesitantly, I touch her knee. I’m not sure why, since she’s so tiny—but the knobbiness startles me. “Sadie? What’s wrong?”
“Can’t.” She pushes her palms against her eyes. “Can’t anymore…” I kneel. Snot glistens on her lip. “Teddy was right.”
My vision wavers. “What do you mean? Can’t what? What did Teddy say?” But I know. Of course I do, because I overheard them talking and he doesn’t want us hanging out. “Sadie…” I am so averse to tears. Certifiably allergic. My throat narrows as they ooze through Sadie’s fingers. I place my other hand on her other knee, but she flinches away and cries harder. Deep, bellowing sobs like howling at the moon.
“God,” she moans. “Oh God, I can’t. Every second you’re here, I just—but even when you’re not, I—I close my eyes and you’re there. You’re always there. You’ve got to go!”
Our faces are close, and I hear myself saying, “Don’t say that.” Begging her, “Don’t, Sadie, please… I know I don’t have my father’s dimples, okay? I know I’ll never be brilliant, or half as creative, but…” But if Lindsay is right and this platypus face is the only reason Sadie wants me around, well, that’s okay, it’s officially fine with me, because I’ll take anything. I’ll take Sadie wanting me around for this most messed-up of reasons, as long as it means not being alone, not being the pathetic, worthless girl I was before. “Sadie”—she shoves me away from her, but not very hard—“please!” Her forehead knocks against mine. Our mouths graze.
The sound it makes isn’t the sound you think of a kiss making, a big, dramatic smack like in the movies. In fact, there’s no sound at all. Sadie pulls back, eyes huge. Bewildered.
“I’m sorry.” I cover my mouth.
We stare at each other, trembling.
“I-I’m sorry. I’m—” a freak. And now I really do have to go. I wrench myself up, babbling, “Thank you so much for your time, I promise I’ll never—”
She grabs my wrist.
CHAPTER 25
THE DREAM I HAVE ABOUT Lindsay is the same dream I always have about her. A dream that knows exactly what it is, and doesn’t pretend to be anything different. We’re at the pool. Not the high school pool, but mine, in California. Cue birds. And the sting of chlorine, water skidding off our noses as I tell her what I always do. This time, though, she doesn’t push me away. Doesn’t say, I don’t think of you like that. Our mouths connect. Lips. Tongue. Everything. I touch her belly. The diamond points of her nipples, stiff against her bikini top.
When I lurch awake, slippery with sweat, it takes me a moment to recognize whe
re I am. The apartment looks so different in the morning. Chilly, filled with a thin gray light. My limbs ache from being smashed up on the couch. I stretch, wincing. Sadie’s cuddled too close to my armpit. Mouth slack and drooling. I push my fingertips against my lips, gnaw awhile, to calm myself.
This is weird. I know that. A million kinds of bad, and weird, and wrong. But last night, as soon as she pulled me toward her, she busted up sobbing again, melted against me. Hush, I said. Sadie, hush. And she fell asleep. My arms promptly followed. Now I try to drift off again, but can’t ignore the worries fritzing through my brain. When she wakes up, she’ll kick me out for sure. Anybody with a shred of self-respect would sneak out before that happens. I wriggle out from under her and splash my face with cold water, brush my teeth the best I can with a fingertip and her chalky toothpaste, chanting to myself, just go, just go. But as I drip out into the hall, closing the bathroom door softly behind me, I remember our mouths touching. The shivers—good shivers—that tore through me.
The most awkward part of a sleepover is waiting for the other person to wake up. Sadie does so gradually, in a total daze, like she forgets the kiss or even passing out on me in the first place. Her confusion is… confusing. I curled back next to her after my face dried, but now I sit up too, wiping my hair back. “Um,” I begin, but she shakes her head, fingers gnashing her temples. I wait for what feels like an appropriate number of seconds. “Do you still want me to leave? Because I can,” I lie as she lowers her hand. “I can no problem.”
Sadie smooths the hair off my forehead, the gesture so tender that I don’t realize right away that she’s shaking, doing a bad job of hiding it. “I”—she shuts her eyes—“stop it, Koda Rose. For fuck’s sake.”
I can’t remember the last time she invoked my full name. So—I am in trouble? This is messed up? Sadie swings her legs over the side of the couch. Her cheeks are wet again.
“What’s wrong?”
Her laugh is more of a croak. Tears spilling, she goes unsteadily to the window and jiggles it open, letting a gust of metallic breath into the room. Snow. I forgot. I approach warily, glad I’m tall enough to peer straight over her, past the metal cage of the fire escape to the sidewalk below. Except the sidewalk—her whole neighborhood—is gone. Buried.
The Mythic Koda Rose Page 19