The Truth Project
Page 11
“You gotta get her outta here.
Can’t have minors at the bar,
no matter who she’s trying to find.”
My whole body sags beneath my thin layer of skin,
the weight of the information
I already knew.
It was all a lie.
Every bit.
Every ounce of promise in his emails.
The job.
The apartment.
The life.
Was a lie.
And what’s bigger—
the lie I told myself.
How everything would’ve been
if I’d grown up
strumming my fingers on his guitar,
tracing the lines of his tattoo,
and living in a different picture than the one I got.
The truth is:
I don’t belong in that picture
any more than I belong in this one.
The stench wafting from the trash doesn’t bother me,
and I don’t feel myself clasping on to his arm.
Only the stinging pain radiating from my heart,
spreading into my fingertips.
“Are you okay?”
Kodiak asks,
catching me
before I drag my feet through
the broken glass underfoot.
“It’ll never be okay,”
I say between sobs.
“I thought if I met him,
I could numb
the feeling
of not knowing.”
That maybe,
there was a way to bring myself
peace
with what Mom tried to
forget-me-not
away.
He presses his forehead to mine,
sucking in a deep breath
as if trying to reason
something in himself.
He reaches into his pocket,
sliding his fake ID
between us.
“Let’s turn this night around.”
There’s a shift in the air,
as a night breeze picks up,
to dry my tears.
Kodiak Jones smiles dangerously,
a glimmer of the boy he tried so hard to leave behind,
reminding me that before I came along
he was the one who was troubled.
After a stop at a sleazy liquor store
and a giddy walk back to the hotel,
I’m thankful for roommates who also
sneak out.
The first drink
mellows me enough
to giggle
and freely shift
into a place
inside Kodiak’s arms.
The second drink
has me laughing
so light
I almost forget
my heart
is broken.
It’s the third drink,
gulped down too quick.
My lips on his,
with the heat
between my legs
so warm
I don’t know how
I went my entire life
never feeling this.
His hands
on me,
pulling my shirt
over my head.
That heat spreading
through my limbs,
my mouth hungrily kissing,
a completely opened book.
I ignore
the care of Kodiak’s fingers
tangled in my hair.
The look in his eyes
that says he can’t get enough—
until it’s too late
to take anything back.
Kodiak Jones
Kodiak: Please.
Cordelia—
Open the door.
I look like an idiot out here in the hall texting when you can come out.
And we can have a real conversation.
Me: Go away.
Kodiak: Come on.
You know I can’t do that.
Me: Go.
Kodiak: I didn’t want your first time to be like this.
I’m sorry.
Me: What makes you think it’s my first time?
Kodiak: . . .
Sana-Friend ♥
Me: I need emotional support.
I’ve had a little bit to drink.
Sana: You’re drunk.
Me: Yes.
I need my best friend.
Sana: Better go find Kodiak then.
Me: Can’t.
I can’t ever see him again.
Sana: Yeah?
Did you accidentally forward him your senior proposal project where he found out you requested specifically not to be his partner?
Oh wait.
That’s me.
Me: Sana.
I can explain that.
Sana: No.
I seriously thought you gave a shit about me.
You actually REQUESTED him as a partner.
What are you trying to do?
Live out some middle school fantasy about hooking up with him?
It’s actually sad.
I supported you.
I even understood when you weren’t around to help me with college stuff and project stuff.
Because you were dealing with DNA stuff.
But knowing it was because you’re trying to hook up with some guy who didn’t even have time for you when he had a real girlfriend is pretty pathetic.
Me: Please stop.
Sana: And what about Iris?
Why didn’t you ask her to help me?
Me: That was an honest mistake.
I forgot!
Sana: No. I’m mad.
You know what?
I’ve got my own email to forward you.
To: Cordelia Koenig (CordeliaBedelia99@gmail.com)
From: Sana Sasaki (sasakicentral@gmail.com)
Subject: Fwd: Re: Cordelia
Looks like I’m not the only one who is frustrated about the Cordelia Show.
To: Sana Sasaki (sasakicentral@gmail.com)
From: Bea Koenig (b.koenig@brown.edu)
Subject: Cordelia
Sana,
I haven’t been able to get in touch with Cordelia for a while.
I’m sure you know better than anyone what’s going on with her—unless she’s alienated everyone but Kodiak. I should probably wait until I can get on the phone, but at this point I probably have a better chance of her calling me back if you pass the news on.
I know.
Last week, after we talked, I checked my GeneQuest account. I went into Settings and turned on the Connect option so I could add her as a relative—only the weirdest thing happened. It told me that she is my half sister. So yeah, I know. I’ve been trying to talk to her about it, but she won’t answer any of my calls or texts—not that I blame her. I acted terrible when she tried talking to me about it. It’s no wonder she’s upset with me, but I’m starting to get worried, especially as I hear how awful she’s doing.
I feel trapped. Like I have no choice but to talk to our parents. What do you think?
Bea
The following is a list of people I have lost the ability to text amid crisis in the past three weeks:
Mom
Dad
Iris
Sana
Kodiak
Jack
Sana-Friend ♥
Me: Please.
I feel like I have lost everything.
Sana: Go to bed. You’re drunk.
Or call Bea.
She’s dying to talk to you.
Sister-Bea
Me: Hey.
I just texted Sana.
I know you know.
I’m sorry.
Please message me back.
Bea: It’s late.
Babe, get some rest.
We can talk tomorrow.
The following is a list of people I have l
ost the ability to text amid crisis in the past three weeks:
Mom
Dad
Iris
Sana
Kodiak
Jack
Bea
I cry myself to sleep
on white hotel sheets
that smell like detergent
and sadness.
It feels like hugging a stranger
and waiting for them to suddenly
transform into a friend.
And then sleep takes me
like fog
settling over the mountains
frosting grass
to thaw
tomorrow.
I drag a fork through eggs,
squishing them against a plate
full of food
I’m too nauseated
to eat.
The lobby of people
filled with light
and no regret
about the things they did
and said
last night.
Kodiak sits on the other side
of the lobby
with his roommate,
sneaking glances at me.
He’s a sad otter today,
bobbing
on the other side
of the ocean.
The sting of tears
reaches my eyes
when a hand drops
to my shoulder.
I look up
at Ms. Nadeer
and her inviting smile.
“Might I have a moment?”
“I’ve noticed a lot of changes in you this semester.”
Ms. Nadeer sits,
looking over her shoulder
where Kodiak is pushing food
with his fork too.
“It’s not him.”
I sink lower in my chair.
“I know.”
Her voice
is love—
“Your poems.
They aren’t poems that ache from the heart
in the traditional sense—
but a matter of identity,
am I right?”
My bottom lip trembles,
shattering the mask
she can already see through.
“There was a time
after I’d graduated college.
I applied for a job
I really wanted
but was passed up.
Then another.
And another.
“I thought to myself,
what I was doing
wasn’t working.
So I went back for grad school
and got my masters,
then realized my passions for helping
and teaching
and guidance.
“When something isn’t working for you,
Cordelia,
you need to go back.
Find a way to better yourself.
Put wonderful things out in the world
and see if they help you find a path.
More often than not,
if you are hung up on someone
or something
it isn’t about them.
It’s about you.
“Tell me.
Why did you come here?”
Ms. Nadeer sips
from a Styrofoam cup,
leaving berry-colored lipstick
on the rim.
“For the poetry conference.”
Her smile says, Okay.
Her eyes say, Try again.
“To find part of myself.”
“Well, have you?
Did you find yourself?”
“I think so.
I’m not sure
I like
what I found.”
A single tear
slides down my cheek,
but there are
four billion more behind it.
“I’ve watched you these past weeks
trying on different hats.
And that’s fine.
It’s part of learning who you are.
But at the end of the day,
you have to be okay
with the you
inside your heart.”
I’m struggling to think of something
anything
to say, when Ms. Nadeer fills the space
between us.
“You know,
it’s not too late
to sign up for that poetry contest.”
Ms. Nadeer points
to a white sign-up sheet
and smiles
as if she knows
that deep in my heart
my name is already on it.
I think back to
the Cordelia
before the truth.
And I remember
how she thought
she could coast
through this entire project
because poetry
was as much a part of her
as breathing.
A girl who wanted so badly
to see herself in her roots
and prove
once and for all
that she might fit somewhere.
How the bonus
of using the project as a chance
to listen
up close
to the boy who sings
his poems
was too much to pass up.
How she thought she
didn’t have to work
at finding herself
because she already knew
who she was.
Early accepted
poet
dreamer
quiet muse
wonderer
friend
sister
daughter.
The truth changed so many things
My life
My view
My basic understanding of the world.
But it didn’t change me.
Not really.
Not where it counts.
SIGN-UP SHEET
for
FOURTH ANNUAL
PACIFIC NORTHWEST YOUNG POETS ASSOCIATION
Poetry Contest
Poems must be original work, performed by writer, and written in the last calendar year. A mandatory meeting will take place Sunday morning from 11:00 am–1:00 pm. If you are not there by 11:00 am, you forfeit your ability to participate.
Please sign up below. One entry per person.
I scrawl my name,
at the end of the page,
along with my grade
and school.
And when I step away,
I already feel
a little more
like me.
I turn to see Kodiak
staring at the floor,
reciting his poem.
When he finally looks up
at me
he doesn’t smile
or nod,
but tightens his brows
jerking his head
in the other direction.
Kodiak’s wings stay tucked close,
like he’s afraid to fly.
I collect my things
and toss the food
I’m too hung over
to eat.
I can’t help
the unshakable feeling
that someone
is still watching me.
I scan the cafeteria.
Nearly everyone
has drifted from the lobby
like an iceberg at sea.
There’s a small group of women
laughing wildly in the corner,
but it’s a man with a plaid shirt
near the hotel doors
who catches my eye.
It’s unbuttoned in the front,
creating a V in the neckline
just enough
to reveal a tattoo
on his collarbone
of a woman
with devil horns.
From across the expanse of this lobby,
he is watching me,
running a hand through his hair
like he’s afraid
to come talk to the girl
who shares his blood.
The girl he spun a tale to.
A snapshot of a foggy past,
an impossible future,
a lie I can’t escape.
As he rubs the place
on the back of his head
where his motorcycle helmet
probably meets his neckline,
I want to scream.
To let every sound
I can make
explode from my mouth.
To let him hear
the invisible pain
he left in the wake
of his lies.
Promises
that were easy to make
because he never
had
to
make
them
true.
I take one step,
then another,
until I’m charging.
My feet slice me through
the thick air between us
like sleek hungry puffins
surging through arctic waters.
“It’s you.”
I almost exhale my words.
“Was it all a lie?”
“Most of it. Yeah.”
I listen to his voice,
finding my reflection
in the single tear
on the rim of his eye.
“But the way I felt,
how much I wanted to know you,
that was all true.”
I’ve been cut open
and spread out
so everyone can see
how every moment my heart pumps
is a moment it bleeds.
With my eyes tinged pink
and tears smeared down my face,
I shake my head
again
and
again
like if I do,
it’ll wipe away
the past weeks
as a false memory.
“Why?”
I scream the poison,
leeching the infection
from my shaking body
“I didn’t want you to think
I’m the loser
your mom remembers.”
At last
the dam
has broken.
This picture
made real.
His eyes
his voice
telling me what I already knew
but desperately hoped wasn’t true.
I stand there,
crying.
While Jack doesn’t say
a word.
Because there’s no place
or time
where I fit