The Truth Project

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.