The Mythic Koda Rose

by Jennifer Nissley

  “Oh.” Her cheeks are pink. So much for not being embarrassed. “It must’ve been around three a.m., but my roommates were still up. We made pancakes.”

  “Drunk pancakes?”

  “Pancakes,” she repeats, reaching for the whale sketch. As I hand it to her, I can almost see her on the walk home that night, red tendrils of hair whipped up by the wind. Sprinkling cinnamon into pancake batter, laughing with her roommates like I used to laugh with Lindsay.

  Mom freezes when I hug her. So shocked, and quiet and still, that I put a hand to her mouth to make sure she’s still breathing. She bats it gently away.

  Soon an assistant will bang on her office door, reminding her that she is needed immediately. But for now, her fingers are edging through my hair. I tip my head up to let her kiss my forehead. Some things you’ll never be too old for.

  CHAPTER 32

  I ALREADY HAVE OUR COFFEES and a half-moon cookie, snuggled in cellophane, when Sadie shuffles into Fazes. We don’t say hello, but I have to hug her. It’s too weird not to, even with half the café and Register Guy watching. She smells exactly like I remember—like ash and wet mittens. My hands nest in the small of her back and she touches her head to my chest, locked in this hug that warps the world.

  Until Register Guy asks if we want lids for our coffees, and we both mumble no.

  Sadie grabs our cups off the counter. It’s freezing, but she insists on sitting in the little courtyard out back, which in all my trips here I never realized existed. The ashtray on our spindly iron table is crescent moon–shaped, the day overcast and windy. While Sadie rips through sugar packets, I gather the empties that haven’t blown away, then pull my backpack onto my lap. Partly to keep pigeons from investigating, but also because I won’t be nearly as tempted to touch her again with this much bulk between us. I won’t fantasize about running a foot up her leg or cupping her cheek or squeezing her fingers, since soon her calluses will be getting soft anyway.

  Sadie pulls her scarf back over her mouth, and we sit together in silence, huddled in our coats.

  “That scarf’s longer than you,” I say.

  She picks a fleck of paper off her tongue. “Five feet, one inch. Didn’t I tell you Ted’s a comedian?” Her smile’s a sliver, but a sliver’s still something. I press my foot against the guitar case she stashed beneath the table.

  “Thanks for meeting me.” I look down into my coffee, at the cream making lace on top. “And bringing the guitar.”

  “Your wish is my command.” She gives a twitch to her cigarette, her smile flimsy suddenly. Propped up. I’ve been dabbing my eyes on her scarf, but now she takes it from me, covers her face.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sadie.”

  “I’d never lie—”

  “I know. Stop apologizing.” Her knee jiggles beneath the table. I keep my shoe on the guitar case, hoping New York hasn’t made the treads too gross. “You really don’t mind me taking her?”

  She shakes her head. “She belongs with you. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be getting much work done anyway, where I’m headed. Just here getting my things in order. Promise you’ll update me every once in a while, though. Pictures and such. I want to know what you’re playing.”

  I smile. That’s a very optimistic read on my abilities, but I figure it’s time to stop thinking I’m bad and inept at everything. My father clearly wasn’t.

  Depending on who you ask.

  “Will do,” I say.

  We finish our coffee in silence. Or pretend to. She doesn’t mention visiting Mom at the office, and I don’t bring it up. Beneath a nearby table, pigeons on crumb patrol battle over a scone. Sadie leans her chin on her fists, watching them. I ask her, “Did you know they’re actually doves?”

  “These things? Really?”

  “Rock doves. They’re like, coastal pigeons. But we built cities and took their habitats away.”

  “Coastal pigeons.” She bends to crumble the scone, and the doves go wild. “Killer band name.”

  We giggle and her eyes crease, and the feeling that’s always bubbling when I’m with Sadie rushes to overtake me. Love, no doubt. But something else too. Gratitude. “Maybe you could start that band once you’re doing better. Coastal Pigeons. Except”—I scrabble for a joke—“no bass. Okay? No matter what, there absolutely cannot be bass.”

  “Got it. Only obscure percussion.” The cigarette jitters to her lips.

  “Sadie.” I swallow. “Promise you’ll send me updates too? When you can,” I add, assuming there’ll be restrictions around these things at first. From what I’ve read about rehab, it sounds pretty strict. “Even if it does take a long time for us to get back in touch, I want you to know I’ll be thinking of you. No matter what. I want you to know that…” The crack in my voice widens. “You can get better.”

  The cigarette smolders, caught between her lips. She grinds it out quickly. “Doesn’t feel that way. It feels like…” A dismissive laugh. “Told you I was a wreck, didn’t I? Told you I wasn’t brave.”

  She gets up, and this is the part I’ve been putting off. What neither of us knows how to do, a goodbye more official than me rushing from Teddy’s house in my still-wet clothes. I take a finger, my chord-playing one, and trace a path from her forehead, down her jawline, to the tip of her chin. And I tell her—thank you. Because she did teach me a lot besides guitar. How to make a mess. How to be bold. She tucks a kiss into my palm.

  “Hey, Sadie?” I whisper.

  Those wide, wary eyes.

  I slide my hand away. “Do it afraid.”

  * * *

  Riding to a last stop is strange. The train screeches up to the platform, and instead of telling you which station is next, the conductor crackles, “This is the last stop!” Overhead the marquee flashes. LAST STOP. LAST STOP.

  I wait until I’m alone in the car, and then I gather my backpack and my guitar, and the coat I don’t remember shedding, and step onto the outdoor platform. It got chillier during the two-stop ride from Thirtieth Avenue, and my fellow passengers walk briskly ahead, tugging on beanies and scarves. I don’t have either. Above me, the sky is gray mold.

  I’ve never visited this side of Astoria before. The park side. But as I descend the creaky iron steps onto the street, I know exactly where I’m headed. Nine blocks west, kiddo. Straight shot. Walking is still good. It feels necessary—I’m almost disappointed when I reach the park as quickly as I do. It’s deserted. Barren in that hopeless, pre-spring way, but then again, to me New York has always seemed a little bit hopeless. A little pre-spring. Yellow grass crunches beneath my shoes. I park myself on a bench and zip my coat, facing the sludgy water. The East River, not the Hudson. But I’ll pretend they’re just about the same thing.

  The bench makes my butt cold, but I’m not finished here yet. Guitar case planted between my knees, I dig my phone out, tap open my long-neglected thread with Lindsay. My fingers know what to write. Hey Linds—I’m sorry I’ve been such a monster lately. I’m not trying to make excuses or defend my behavior or anything. You don’t even rly have to respond to this if u don’t want to. I just want you to know that I miss u. And that there is something big I’ve been meaning to get off my chest. Then I type, with no hesitation: FaceTime me?

  Send.

  My phone starts pinging almost immediately, but I can’t answer. Not just yet. There’s more that I need to say to her. Words like, It sucks that you’re back with Peter. Really, truly blows, but if that’s what she wants, there’s nothing I can do but grit my teeth and support her. Maybe someday after I’ve said what I need to, they’ll break up and she’ll give me a chance. Maybe she won’t. And that’s okay. I don’t need her to be my girlfriend to be happy. I need her to be my friend.

  So I lift my phone to my face and pick up my guitar. I toss my hair back and turn toward the river, the whales that I know are out there, singing.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’ve been working on this book for so long that to adequately acknowle
dge all the people who helped me along the way feels downright impossible. But… here’s where I try.

  First, I’m grateful to Danielle Burby, my indefatigable agent, who saw the potential in this wild story from the beginning and never let me doubt that she’d find the right home for it. Thank you for being such a champion of my work, and for providing insightful, helpful feedback and guidance every step of the way—in addition to all the reassuring cooing noises you made, repeatedly, in response to my neurotic emails. We did it! At last.

  Equal thanks belong to everybody at Simon & Schuster who helped usher this book into the world, but especially Liesa Abrams, my extraordinary editor whose notes (“More daddy issues”) gave me so much for me to sink my teeth into. It has been an absolute pleasure. This book is better because of you.

  To my MFA cohort at Stony Brook Southampton: Wow. Thanks for just literally putting up with me. It’s hard to know where to begin, but I’d be remiss if I did not thank everybody in Patricia McCormick’s Young Adult Literature workshop who read scraps of this novel in its nascent tadpole stage and responded with, “Actually, I don’t hate this…?” to the point that an early draft of this novel ended up being my thesis! On that note, thanks to Patty herself, and Sara Jaffe, for being such insightful thesis readers. And an extra special massive thanks to Ursula Hegi, my advisor, who provided me with ceaseless encouragement, wisdom, and helpful audio notes with gentle bird and water sounds in the background. It was soothing.

  Thanks to my badass friends: Faye Chao, Laura Barisonzi (who shot my fantastic author photo in such a pinch! And digitally refined my quarantine eyebrows without complaint!), Erin Reale, Darcy Rothbard, Heather Frey, Dana LePage, Eunbee Ko, Natalie Hamingson, among others, who surely must all have second-hand anxiety from me by now. Of course, extra extra thanks to Jenna Marie Hallock and Jason Seligson, my Write Club buddies, who likewise never tired on the encouragement front even when I’m sure I got really unbearable. You guys are amazing. Also, I’m so sorry, but I think there might be about… thirty cookies over there?

  Thanks to my wonderful family: particularly Mom and Dad for instilling in their Virgo daughter an unfailing work ethic. Dad, I’m sorry that the father in this story is dead. This is not a commentary on our relationship, but a testament to my powers of imagination and empathy, which I only got to develop because you and Mom were such great parents. Thanks to my brother, Dan, and his wife, Grace (Finally, a sister of my own! Yay!), and my brother-in-law, Mike, and his girlfriend, Allison. I beat Sekiro while finishing a NOVEL, and Dan and Mike still haven’t. Lastly, on the family front, inexpressibly huge thanks to Kellie Maisenbacher, my wife and the light of my life. This book would not exist without you. No exaggeration.

  And to my students, past and present, you guys rock. Thank you for acting interested when I explain how I’m a writer, and putting up with my rambling about thesis statements and characterization and the horrors of sentence fragments, even as I insert them into my own work with gleeful abandon. Do as I say, etc. Additional thanks to my SAT students for letting me hijack your summers, and for laughing (usually) at my jokes. Every single one of you will crush college and beyond. Meanwhile, I still don’t understand the bat passage.

  Similarly, thank you to all the teachers who encouraged my writing from elementary school onward, especially Mrs. Arner (though to me you were Miss Ufferfilge!) who gave me space in her second-grade classroom to write stories about frogs and bumblebees. And to Shealeen Meaney, favorite professor, who introduced me to the work of Edith Wharton and let me be pretentious in undergrad classes while I was still figuring myself out. Thank you to my therapist, Amy. And to my beloved dog, Koda (my other therapist), and Todd, my big-boned kitty who never withheld criticism. I miss you every day.

  Finally, for those of you who have lost a loved one to suicide, be patient with yourself. Grief knows no time limit. If you or anyone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, substance abuse, and/or mental health concerns, know that that’s okay, and that there are people who are here to listen and support you. The following national hotlines are here to help:

  Suicide Prevention Lifeline—1-800-273-8255

  Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration Hotline—1-800-662-4357

  The Trevor Project (for LGBTQ+ youth)—1-866-488-7386

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jennifer Nissley is an instructor of writing in a developmental college program, where she has the privilege of working with native and new English speakers from all across the globe. She received her MFA in Fiction from Stony Brook Southampton and lives with her wife in Queens, New York.

  Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen

  www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Jennifer-Nissley

  Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously.

  Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text © 2021 by Jennifer Nissley

  Jacket illustration © 2021 by Melania Badosa Adan

  Jacket design by Laura Eckes © 2021 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Nissley, Jennifer, author.

  Title: The mythic Koda Rose / by Jennifer Nissley.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Simon & Schuster BFYR, [2021] | Summary: Leaving her best friend (and secret love) Lindsay, seventeen-year-old Koda Rose moves with her mother to New York City, where Koda grows close to the ex-girlfriend of her late father, a famous rock musician who neglected his daughter.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020037385 (print) | LCCN 2020037386 (eBook) | ISBN 9781534466760 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781534466784 (eBook)

  Subjects: CYAC: Best friends—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Moving, Household—Fiction. | Lesbians—Fiction. | New York (N.Y.)—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.N584 My 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.N584 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020037385

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020037386

 

 

 
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