by Dante Medema
Dad asks.
My heart lingers in my chest,
the beat pounding in my ears
like ice-melt thrown on pavement
until he adds,
“Kodiak?”
“No.
No.
No.”
I promise.
Mom is quiet,
looking out the window.
Dad has no quotes,
and he doesn’t even try to joke.
“Honey,
you have to understand how this looks.
Ever since you’ve started hanging out with him,
you aren’t the same.
You’re forgetting your responsibilities,
you got drunk,
you don’t check in.
Now you’re forging our signatures?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then tell us what it’s like.
Why we should let you go
when you lied to your teacher
and committed a crime?”
I am too tired to pretend anymore.
“I don’t know, Mom,
can you think of any reason I shouldn’t go?”
Mom’s eyes dart to me,
cold, icy crystals around the rims
that make me believe
for a moment
it’s still winter.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that.
Do you want us to go with you?
Ms. Nadeer said there was some sort of
spoken word contest?”
I tell them I won’t be performing any poem,
that there’s no need for them to go.
It’s not anger in her eyes I see,
and I realize,
it never was.
It was never that I was different
or she didn’t understand me.
I’ve just always been
the evidence
of her lie
that could destroy
the staged home
we live in.
Sana-Friend ♥
Sana: Girl. Are you in some serious shit with your parents?
I can’t believe you forged their signatures.
Hooking up with a rebel
getting shit-faced at bonfires.
You’ve changed, Cordelia Ann Koenig.
Me: I don’t know about serious shit.
Right now I’m sitting in my room.
Staring out the window.
At a moose.
While my parents have a chat to contemplate my punishment.
Sana: Bitchin’
Me: My dad thinks I’ve changed.
Sana: See my above statement.
Me: Maybe change is a good thing?
Sana: As long as you don’t lose the parts that make you you.
You’re pretty fucking awesome.
It would suck if you started to suck.
“Honey—
we talked for a long time over dinner
and decided to let you go.
After all,
in a few months,
you’ll be adult enough
to make these choices
for yourself.
But it needs to stop:
the lying,
the sneaking.
Because we want to build
a trusting relationship
with you,
even if it means
you are honest
about how you feel
for that boy.”
And Dad says it
so matter-of-factly
because he doesn’t get it.
That mine are not the lies that hurt us;
mine are the lies that save us.
To: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])
From: Vidya Nadeer ([email protected])
Subject: Poetry Contest
Cordelia,
I am thrilled you decided to join us on the conference trip. When I mentioned taking a group of students at the beginning of the year, we were working on our poetry unit, and I instantly thought of you. You have so much innate talent for verse, and I don’t want you to sell yourself short because you feel unprepared.
Take it from me: there are many experiences I missed out on because I was too afraid to try. The last poem you sent, about nature versus nurture, was beautiful. I’d love to hear you perform that for the spoken word contest at the conference.
Please, just think about it.
Best,
Vidya Nadeer
Sana-Friend ♥
Sana: All right.
I did it.
I dug deep.
I might have done some of this illegally.
See: hacking
Me: Oh.
Don’t tell me that.
Sana: Hey.
You wanted to be a badass.
Get all edgy.
I’m just helping the process along.
Me: Sweet.
Did you find his address?
Sana: Yeah.
So that’s a thing.
Me: You couldn’t find it?
Sana: Oh I found an address.
But I also Google Mapped the hell out of it.
His apartment location is sketchy AF.
Like a 24-minute walk to Pike Place Market. Which is a big deal in Seattle.
Or an 8-minute drive if you get a ride.
Me: Maybe it looks sketchy because it’s in the city.
Sana: Bitch I know sketch when I see it.
Me: He’s a music producer.
I bet the inside is super nice.
Sana: Be careful.
Information about Jack Bisset
Prepared by Sana Sasaki
(master stalker investigator)
Name: Jack Allan Bisset
DOB: July 9, 1973
Last known address:
2340 South Jefferson Street
Apartment 240
Seattle, WA 98104
(But sketchy AF)
Phone Number: 206-555-1232
Email Address: [email protected]
Instagram: Jack_Bisset_band
Facebook:@jackyboybisset
Place of employment: Waterfront Studios (unverified)
Last verified place of employment: Rollin’ with My Homies Smoke Shop (I wish that was a joke. He actually worked at a head shop. But that was three years ago. No idea what he’s been up to since.)
Frequented establishments: Parkhill Bistro (Though if I’m being honest, pictures of this place look sketchier than the head shop! There’s legit a bra hanging behind the bar and dollar bills covering the ceiling. My kind of establishment.)
He’s taken a lot of pictures at Pike Place.
He also used to check in at a food truck called Pete’s BBQ, but it’s closed now.
Sana-Friend ♥
Sana: Okay.
It wasn’t easy.
I had to crawl deep into the dark net.
Roll out some of my supersecret skills.
And against my better judgment I sent you all the info I could get.
Me: Thank you.
Sana: Also, did you ever ask Iris about soccer?
Me: Crap.
I did.
But she’s supposed to talk to Mom about it.
Sorry—reading your notes on Jack.
Sana: Sketch sauce for sure.
Me: Are you sure this is the same guy?
Sana: Yep.
The only Jack Bisset in the greater Pacific Northwest.
And if you can’t tell, I’m not 100% on board with you finding this dude.
Me: You don’t say.
Sana: I think there’s a lot you don’t know about him.
What if he’s dangerous?
More dangerous than a little dishonesty about his place of employment.
Me: He’s my dad.
I know he wasn’t lying about some of that stuff. Maybe what you found is old information.
Sana: You met the guy l
ike two minutes ago.
Correction: You haven’t EVEN met the guy.
He could be anyone.
And think about it.
Your mom probably kept you from knowing about him for a reason.
Me: Yeah, because she doesn’t want my dad to know she screwed someone else.
Sana: Be careful.
Don’t go finding this guy on your own.
Me: Yeah.
Okay.
Whatever.
To: Jack Bisset ([email protected])
From: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])
Subject: Please read.
It’s kind of weird, I know. But I found your email address.
I wasn’t 100% honest about my parents being on board. But I’m going to be in Seattle this weekend for a school trip thing, and I still want to meet you. Even if it’s just for lunch or something. And this time, my mom definitely knows.
Please.
Just think about it.
Cordelia
I’m packing my bags
paying close attention
to each outfit
that might be
the outfit
I wear
when I meet
Jack.
Iris trails in
bouncing a soccer ball
on her knee
even though it’s not allowed
in the house
filled with lies.
“Sana said she texted you,”
Iris starts,
going on to reveal my lie.
I feel terrible.
I forgot.
I forgot
I completely forgot
I never asked her about Sana
and soccer.
“I miss you.” Iris seems so small.
“I’m not gone yet,” I say.
Then Iris puts her ball
on the ground
and lays her head on top
of my suitcase
like it might keep me here
a little longer.
“Don’t be mad.”
Her lip quivers,
“But you haven’t really been here
in a long time.
I miss my sister.”
I replay the last weeks
and all the ways
I’ve failed her.
I also forgot to pick her up.
Forgot she’s here too
watching me
watch Mom
with an innocent set of eyes.
I finally pull my gaze to hers
and soften, trading the luggage tag
for a strand of her hair.
“I’m sorry, Iris.
It’s the project.
It changed everything.”
“Then change the project.”
To: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])
From: Vidya Nadeer ([email protected])
Subject: Re: Poetry Contest
I really think you should contribute your poetry to the spoken word contest.
Just so you know, you can sign up right until the very end.
Best,
Vidya Nadeer
To: Sana Sasaki ([email protected])
From: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])
Subject: Ms. Nadeer and her crazy ideas
All right—best friend.
The very first screener of my written words.
Most humble critic of every poem.
You get the point.
Ms. Nadeer, like, really wants me to submit a poem to this poetry contest in Seattle. I’ve been thinking about it, but I’m not sure. Can you read it and let me know what you think? Is this even worth trying to get entered?
Much love,
Cordelia
PS—Iris is a go on helping you with your project and said she’d text soon!
Attached document: seniorprojectproposal.doc
The flight check-in kiosks are barren
in the middle of the night.
Mom stands in front of me
like she’s not sure if she should hug me
or hit me.
My classmates and Ms. Nadeer are ahead
tossing their luggage onto the belt.
I run my fingers along the strap of my bag
wondering what
if anything
to say.
“Are you going to spend time with him?”
Mom chews the corners of her gnawed nails,
looking between me
and Kodiak, who is checking his bags.
I stare back at him,
printing his tickets,
and he waves
all open and eagle.
I shrug,
wondering how
the weight of the mountains,
their growing shadows,
has suffocated us.
Even if I didn’t think she understood
at least we used to be able to talk.
“That’s not who I mean.”
She’s looking at me
looking at Kodiak.
I checked up on him too, you know.
He’s in Seattle.”
The corner of her mouth twists
and she drags a bloody nail against her lip.
They’re worse than they were before.
He is between us again. Jack.
“What do you think, Mom? Would you?”
As the flight attendant’s voice
crackles overhead
I shove my phone in my bag
ignoring yet another call from Bea.
Kodiak grabs my hand
and draws a heart in my palm,
and for a second,
I forget.
Like he’s connecting us
again.
Making our
side-by-side seats
a love seat.
I whisper to him
that I am afraid,
and he leans in
until our foreheads touch,
and I can feel
his breath
filling my lungs
reminding me
to breathe.
“This big thing
doesn’t define you.
Only you
control
what makes you
who you are.”
He’s wrong,
but I don’t argue.
Instead I rest my head
on his shoulder,
where it belongs.
And listen,
as we take off
for a 3.5-hour flight,
while he recites
the words
he says
my heart gave him.
The last things I hear as I fall asleep:
The hum of a jet taking off.
Kodiak’s notebook opening.
Paper rustling as he rips the staples from the pages.
His voice quiet.
Timid.
“I was born Eagle,
my name is for Bear,
but I feel like my soul
belongs to Raven.”
When you’re trapped in a hotel
everything is
tiny soaps
tiny shampoos
tiny pockets of time
to sneak away.
It’s awkward glances in the elevator,
missed opportunities with mentors
because you’re picking at a continental breakfast
wondering how long Ms. Nadeer is going to watch you
and if you can get to South Jefferson Street
before anyone notices.
I’m missing the first day of the conference
and everything it should be—
trading breakout sessions for maps
poems for public transit routes
people with passion so strong in their bones
you want to trap their words in your heart
and tether yourself to their
memories:
for a person who might not even want to see me.
Kodiak Jones
Kodiak: Which breakout are you doing next?
Me: I don’t know.
Wanna skip with me?
Kodiak: I’d love to
but I really want to hit this next session.
There’s one about slam poetry I need to check out.
I just went to a practice session for the spoken word contest.
I’m nervous.
Me: I’m afraid I’ll run out of time.
And every minute I’m not trying to meet him
Is a minute I haven’t met him.
Kodiak: I know.
But we just got here.
I don’t want to miss out on this stuff tho.
My parents had to scrounge to get me here.
You know?
Me: I get it.
And you’re right.
I shouldn’t ask you to leave when it’s not your deal.
Maybe I’ll go on my own.
Kodiak: Wait.
Don’t do that.
What about tomorrow?
We’re supposed to go to Pike Place. Doesn’t he live close to there?
Me: How did you know that?
Kodiak: You told me.
Didn’t you?
Me: I don’t remember telling you.
Kodiak: You’re probably tired.
Meet me at the slam poetry session?
Me: Yeah.
Sure.
Sana-Friend ♥
Me: Hey.
I’m losing my mind.
I think I’m going to text Jack.
Hey.
Are you there?
Seattle smells
like exhaust puffing
and coffee brewing on every street,
with a lurking fish-stench
like Seward.
Only bigger.
And still,
the sweet scent of trees somewhere behind the city,
like an aftertaste.
Seattle feels
like it might have once been home.
Maybe it’s my heart that already knows this place
because Jack calls it home.
Ms. Nadeer walks along curbs and points out street art
she says she loves.
Her dark eyes are lighter in the city,
like she feels at home here too
the way I feel alive in my poetry
or listening to Kodiak play guitar.
There’s a gravity to Seattle
I can’t ignore.
I can’t even enjoy it,
because I’m busy wondering
if Jack is on the next street,
and what would happen if
we bumped into him.
As we turn down Stewart Street,