by Dante Medema
My first hint
of the first lie
that led to my life.
But then I see my parents.
I exhale.
I imagine crushing up that message
and throwing it in the trash.
Because what I feel now
isn’t the weight of sadness
or fear I don’t belong
in this picture.
It’s happiness so brittle
it shatters into relief,
knowing I have a place
in the picture of my family
forever.
I look to my mother
while I try to forget
Jack is lingering near the exit door.
Attempting to tell her with my eyes
what I’m about to read
was never meant for her to hear.
And as if she hears everything,
as if her heart knows mine,
she nods.
The Truth Project
by Cordelia Koenig
They say
nature brought you into this world.
But what if my roots
have grown around lies?
What if they’re coiled around a promise
two people made
but could not keep?
What if nature is just a way
to blame your problems
on what should have been?
Like my leaves
should be evergreen
because my father’s
are evergreen.
Why are mine
stained the color of tangerines?
Then my leaves fall,
scattering to the ground
like confetti celebrating the end of summer.
My father’s stay green.
And when winter’s frost sets in—
my branches bitter cold
and covered in snow.
I wonder if I will ever grow leaves again
or if they have disappeared
because I have also disappeared.
But then something magical happens.
After I’ve dusted off winter’s frost
and seen how fall’s leaves have helped me grow,
I can look beyond the nature of my foliage
to the roots that nurtured me.
And roots,
no matter what decorate the branches,
stretch out beneath the ground
—intertwined with other trees
that might not look the same
but have identical systems of growth.
Turn instead to what has always been.
Crawl into the shade of the trees that protect you,
collapse beneath the canopy
of what you know is true.
Feel how you are loved
and love them back.
After the performance,
when my hands have stopped shaking
and I can no longer hear the sound
of my heart
in my ears—
I’m escorted off the stage
to my family.
Weaving through a crowd of people
I find the ones that belong to me
in place of the one that never did.
Iris gets to me first,
wrapping me in a hug,
saying,
“I want to be a poet too.”
Bea waves from next to our parents
in that way that is familiar
and removed.
But she’s got tears in her eyes
that say she’s a little proud.
Mom is a mess,
her face
blotchy
and her
mouth
pulled back over her teeth.
I can’t tell if she’s sobbing
or smiling.
Dad pulls me in
for a hug
and I accept the promise
that almost wasn’t.
The scents of his teaching-shirt,
like paper
and books
and history.
His laugh.
While he rubs my hair
and leans into my ear
and whispers.
“A hit.
A very palpable hit.”
Over his shoulder,
I watch as Jack ruffles a hand through his hair,
smiling through stranger eyes,
like he might like the view he has.
Me.
Happy.
With my family.
“Why are you here?
I ask.
“I told you I wasn’t going to be performing.”
“We thought”
—Mom smiles,
in a slow careful way—
“you might want us here.”
Dad adds,
“We thought you might need us.”
When it’s just me
and Dad,
because everyone else
has gone for drinks
and snacks,
I look over my shoulder
scanning
everyone’s families
for the eyes of a man
who is more broken
than me.
“Honey,
who are you looking for?”
Dad asks.
I lie:
“Kodiak,”
and I point to the place
where he’s sitting,
laughing with his friends
like his wings
have been freed
and he can finally fly again.
Dad tilts his chin down,
all sympathy and love.
But shakes his head
softly with knowing.
“Are you going to stick with that answer,
my sweet, sweet Cordelia?
Because I think you’re looking for Jack.”
There’s something in me
that breaks
while his jade eyes
are drawn to mine.
As if we’ve had this secret
all along.
“I saw him leave a few minutes ago.”
I throw my arms around his neck,
the way I did the night he picked me up
from Fletcher’s.
And when I’ve finally got all the courage
I can muster,
I ask my father
how he knew
I was looking for the man
he’s not supposed to know about.
“I’m your dad—”
his voice is trembling as he speaks.
“I watched you come into this world
red faced and screaming.
I held your hand
when you tumbled into your first steps
the way you’ve tumbled through life:
headfirst.
I’m the one who was there when you
went off to kindergarten
and told us you couldn’t go back
because they didn’t teach you anything
but letters—
and you already knew those.
I’m the one who’s always been here, Delia.
I’ve been watching you hurt
these past few weeks.
Trying to find yourself
in something that wasn’t there.
Of course I knew.”
“But Mom said . . .”
“That’s a conversation for another time.
Your mother and I
had to have a lot of tough conversations
after you took that test.
Ones we’ve needed to have for a long time.
But I’ll tell you this:
I’ve known
since before you were born,
and it didn’t change anything for me.
‘I love you more than words can wield the matter;
Dearer than eye-sight,
space,
and liberty.
> Beyond what can be valued.’
I am proud to call you my daughter.
I am proud to be your dad.
No one
can change that.”
Mom comes back
without my sisters.
She loops her arms around me.
She whispers words that feel like
An Alaskan sunset at
two in the morning,
the ocean breeze in your face.
Like home.
“I’m sorry.”
And my heart is so full
and my mind is so free.
I don’t think I’ll ever
feel this whole again.
Over the loudspeaker
a crackled voice announces
they’re ready to conclude
the weekend
by celebrating winners
of the poetry contest.
All around us
my friends
teachers
and family
gather.
Mom squeezes my hand,
and two rows up
I see Kodiak throw a thumbs-up in my direction,
mouthing Good luck.
Mom whispers something about knowing
I’ll win,
for sure.
But I don’t care if my name is called
or not,
because I look at my dad,
my real dad,
and realize
I’ve already won.
“And the winner of this year’s
Young Poet Award
for the Pacific Northwest Young Poets Association
Contest
comes all the way from Tundra Cove, Alaska.”
Dad reaches for my hand,
grabbing it tight
like it might make them
call my name.
“Kodiak Jones
for his poem
‘RAVEN’!”
Ms. Nadeer is the first to shout,
standing in her seat,
yelling
like it was her words
that won.
I jump up too,
and when Kodiak reaches the stage,
head in his hands,
unable to say anything—
every other student from Tundra Cove
joins him.
Wrapping him up
in all the love
they can
for a boy
whose trouble
feels a little lighter today.
Mom looks over at me,
brushing away happy tears,
and smiles.
“Go.”
I’m the last one
to the stage,
and when I finally reach him,
Kodiak pulls me close.
His dark eyes don’t threaten
to swallow me whole
the way they used to.
He’s not so untouchable
these days.
The boy whose heart
I thought I already knew,
and whose heart I want to
get to know again.
Sometimes you can say everything you need to say
with a single look.
Something like:
I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.
I’m sorry I took up all the space
for my own hurt when you were hurting too.
I’m sorry things aren’t going to be the same,
but maybe
that’s okay
too.
I feel his kiss coming
the same way I feel the ocean
tickle my toes
before a wave.
We kiss,
and it’s like
no one else
is here.
Even with the cheer
and chaos around us
and my parents in the crowd
and everyone so close—
It’s only us
basking in the heat
of our own story,
writing our own song,
playing our own music,
projecting our own truth.
Jack Bisset
Jack: I’m sorry I didn’t stay. But when your parents showed up I figured I shouldn’t stick around. I heard your poem. It was beautiful, and you’re really talented. I wish I could say that was because of me. Seeing you happy with your dad and even your mom made me realize maybe everything happened the way it did for a reason.
Me: Thank you. I think so too.
Jack: Maybe someday down the line we can talk again?
I promise I’ll be honest next time.
Me: I think I’d like that.
ONE MONTH LATER
Sana-Friend ♥
Me: Did you change your status to “It’s complicated” on Facebook?
Sana: Mayyyyyyybe.
Dude.
Where are you?
Emma and I have been waiting at your locker.
FOREEEEEEVER.
Me: Outside Ms. Nadeer’s office.
Going to turn in my senior project.
Tell Emma hi!!!
Sana: Finally!
Maybe if you weren’t busy sucking face with Kodiak
ALL THE EFFING TIME
you’d have had it finished sooner.
Me: Have you even turned yours in yet?
Maybe if you weren’t sucking face with Emma
ALL THE FREAKING TIME
you’d have finished YOURS sooner.
Sana: Erroneous.
Me: Someone’s been studying her SAT words.
Sana: No I’m not done.
I’m busy being a YouTube Star.
Did I tell you a scout for the University of Denver saw my video and wants to chat scholarships?
Me: Only three times.
Today.
About ten yesterday.
Sana: Looks like I might go to Denver after all!
And without your help might I add!
Me: Okay. Ms. Nadeer’s last student is leaving.
I gotta go!
“Please, Cordelia, sit!”
Ms. Nadeer points toward the chair.
I push my project
typed and stapled,
hidden in a manila folder,
toward her.
The poems I’ve worked on all spring
so personal
so private
I had no intention of ever using them
for this project.
“You worked harder than almost any other student
to find yourself this year.
It’s admirable.”
Her voice soars
like she’s in the clouds
just looking at me.
“What is it that you learned?”
I smile.
I’ve thought a lot about this.
How my question this year was to understand
how ancestry shapes me.
I think ancestry only shapes you
if you want it to.
How you can go your whole life
never knowing what you were meant to be
and never knowing what you could have been
and still
be you.
How family
is the thing that shapes you.
The nurturing from the people closest to you
and the experiences you share
are the things that make you whole.
I learned,
through this project,
that the man who contributed to my DNA
isn’t the one who made me who I am.
That was the man who raised me,
who watched my first steps,
and encouraged me every step after—
even when it took me away from him.
I shrug,
a shrug that almost hurts,
diminishing the last few months
to an essay question.
“Nothing I didn’t already know,
deep down.”
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, thank you Reader. The fact that you chose to read my words means everything to me.
To Talon, my Tlingit Lovebird, without your help and sacrifice I wouldn’t have been able to write this book or any book. Thank you for the late-night conversations where we get to share our worlds. Ich liebe dich. To my daughters for inspiring me. I hope one day you follow your dreams too. You are my world.
To my sisters (in all forms) for being my first readers. Beth, Crystal, Danae, Caprice: your cheerleading kept me going past that very first rough draft of that very first book. To my parents (Dad, Mom, etc.) for giving me all sorts of crazy things to write about;) and my parents-in-law (Dawn and Max) for the support in babysitting during conferences and retreats and Diane Walter for the same. Kali and Rajessica, for constant and unequivocal support amid your own chaotic lives. And to Amy Wamy, my very own Sana—thank you for reading the whole thing out loud with me and whispering “it’s so good” after every part.
My family at The Bent Agency: Louise Fury, agent extraordinaire, thank you for seeing something in this story and me. Molly Ker Hawn for passing my manuscript to Louise. Amelia Hodgson, thanks for all that you do. Jenny, Victoria, and the rest of The Bent Agency team—your support through this entire adventure has meant the world to me. And a very special thanks to Kristin Smith for believing in this book.
To everyone at HarperTeen and Quill Tree Books: Rosemary Brosnan and Jessica MacLeish for believing in this book enough to acquire it. Jessica, hearing you talk about Cordelia like she was an actual person was unforgettable. Alyssa Miele, thank you for helping me breathe even more life into Cordelia and the rest of my characters. And for following me down many an enneagram wormhole. Jon Howard and Robin Roy, thank you for making sure The Truth Project was as polished as could be. To the design team: Erin Fitzsimmons, Amy Ryan, and Lisa Vega—you helped make magic out of my words. And Emma Leonard for the stunning artwork—the first piece of the story people see. And a very special thanks to the marketing team.
To my Alaska writing friends: Alaska Writers Guild for being my home. Stefanie Tatalias and the rest of the crew at SCBWI Alaska for all your support. To everyone at The Writers Block for the good coffee and delicious food to draft with. Brooke Hartman, thank you for tearing up the rough draft’s intro page. 1) you were right and 2) I’ll never say that again. Marc Cameron (or is it Tom Clancy? I can never remember) for that incredible pep talk at the conference. Sarah Squared: I love our Sunday Squad. You both keep me excited to write.
Clelia Gore and Jessica Faust: for being there that first night and crying with me over a glass of Spenard Roadhouse’s finest champagne. Jessica Grace Kelly (who, it should be known, was Kodiak Jones’s first fan) for sharing so much of yourself so I could write this story. Scott and Jeremy (and Harvey and Archie) for giving me a place to write and being my Seattle on-the-ground research team. Katie and Sylvia, thank you for being here for every step of this journey.