The Truth Project
Page 12
in his life.
Because it wouldn’t have only been a lie
about who he was.
It would have been
a lie about coming to a school play
a lie about visiting every other holiday
a lie about a late Christmas card
lost in the mail.
And I finally see
how my mom
wanted so badly
to believe the lie.
I don’t know what to say
because my mind
has departed
Like I’m circling the lobby
above my head
spinning
spiraling
a seedpod with perfect fins
twirling in the gust
of a cold autumn wind.
My ears are ringing
and my eyes are as heavy
as three feet of snow
fallen in one night.
His face looks like mine
but older
and sadder,
a story that belongs to a stranger.
I feel a hand slip around mine,
and at first
I think it’s Jack
reaching for me.
But as I look down,
it’s Kodiak’s hand.
I can’t see what he’s doing,
but I can feel the heart he’s drawing in my palm.
Kodiak’s face has the story of a stranger.
It says, We have to go.
And he looks at me
like he really sees me.
Like there’s never been
a picture
where the two of us
don’t belong together.
I turn to Jack,
not my father
a crumbling paradox
I wanted
more than anything
to be real.
I turn toward the safe place
he never was.
“I have to go—
I have this poetry thing
and it starts in a few minutes.”
“Oh.”
Jack gasps the word
like a memory has suddenly caught flame.
His voice
wraps around the word,
a tender squeeze.
“Poetry.
Your mom loved poetry too.”
How
do I say goodbye
when this never
felt
like hello?
How do I say goodbye to a lie?
How do I let go of wondering
and wishing
and hoping
the truth
is something
it’s not?
How do I let go of the lie
that is me?
Walking away,
like I know I should.
Stepping out of the path
of heartache,
I look over my shoulder
where Jack stares on,
stunned.
I call back,
“There’s a presentation
in the lobby
around six.
If.
You want to come.”
My steps fall into rhythm
with Kodiak’s.
Together,
but I’m one beat
behind.
Kodiak keeps glancing at me
while I look at my feet,
aching
to go back
to my room
and cry
into my sheets
that smell like
detergent.
I tell him,
“Thank you,”
but I don’t look up
because his brown eyes
might swallow me whole
if I let myself
see him this close
after last night.
“You didn’t have to come over there.”
“That had to be hard.”
He stops,
grabbing both my hands
to force my blurry
gaze to his.
“It’s not something
anyone
should have to go through
alone.”
“I wanted this.”
I let our hands fall limp
between us
before I leave him.
Away from this.
Away from everything.
Sana-Friend ♥
Me: Okay.
I’m supposed to be paying attention at this meeting.
But I can’t.
Remember that time I got really mad you?
When you told your mom I wanted to try out for cheerleading?
And then she told my mom.
Who went all crazy and tried to coach me?
Remember how mad I was?
I forgave you.
Sana: That doesn’t
remotely
sound like an apology.
Or even remotely close to the same thing.
I’m still not talking to you.
Me: Please?
Jack showed up at the hotel.
Sana: Well fucksticks.
Ceasefire.
What the hell?
Are you okay?
Me: No.
I don’t know.
I can’t think right now.
I’m shaking so bad I can barely see my phone.
Sana: Is Kodi there?
Me: You’re calling him Kodi now?
I knew I didn’t tell him where Jack lives!
How many emails did you exchange about me?
Sana: Enough to tell him I was worried about you.
Is he there?
Me: Kinda.
It’s weird.
Last night some stuff happened with him.
And I can’t even look at him.
Sana: Wait.
So many freaking questions.
One thing at a time.
What was Jack like?
As hot as he is on Instagram?
Me: Ew!
That is so gross.
He was . . .
Sad.
Sana: You must get that from him.
Me: I must.
But you were right.
Basically everything he ever told me was a huge lie.
Sana: Damn.
Me: I’m sorry.
I owe you.
When I get home, I’ll help you with whatever you need.
Sana: Too bad.
Emma fucking Daniels is helping now.
She’s a wizard with a camera and has some really killer makeup tutorials.
And BONUS: turns out YouTube is a soccer lesson mecca.
Me: I’m really sorry.
I should have requested you.
I’m an ass.
This whole project was a mistake.
Sana: Yeah.
You should have.
But it’s working out fine.
I was going to have to figure out how to do life without your constant supervision next year anyway.
Speaking of mistakes.
What exactly happened with Kodiak last night?
Me: Oh man.
I don’t think I can talk about it yet.
I doubt you want to hear any more about that saga anyway.
Let’s just say I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at him again.
Sana: That effing ass.
Tell me now.
Or the ceasefire is unceased.
Me: Okay.
So last night he took me to a bar so I could try to find Jack.
Spoiler alert: I didn’t.
But I was upset.
And somehow we ended up back in his hotel room drinking.
Sana: Okay I don’t like where this is going.
Me: One thing led to another.
And we ended up half-naked on the bed.
Then I told him I was ready.
Sana: HOLY SHIT.
You HAVE changed.
So what did he do?
Me: I really don’t want to even talk about this.
Sana: I’m going to kill him.
Aren’t I?
What I wouldn’t give to be able to cash in cigarettes for air miles.
Come there.
And kick his ass.
I can’t believe your first time was with Kodiak Jones.
Are you okay?
Me: No.
But we didn’t have sex.
Sana: Wait what?
Me: I wanted to.
I tried.
Basically threw myself at him.
And he turned me down.
This is so embarrassing.
Sana: Sorry.
But I’m really fucking confused now.
So you took off all your clothes.
While drunk.
And you’re upset that he respected the fact you were not in a position to consent?
Me: When you put it that way . . .
It doesn’t sound as bad.
Sana: Because it’s not.
He did you good here.
Well
I mean, he didn’t actually do you at all.
But he was a solid guy.
Me: You’re not helping my embarrassment.
Sana: Listen.
I know I’m not the biggest Cordiak fan.
But that’s mostly because I think you’ve been
holding on to a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore.
But you obviously see something in him
everyone else doesn’t.
He’s there for you.
He’s been there for you.
Go talk to him.
Write him a poem.
Do whatever it is you writer weirdos do.
When Kodiak Jones
writes his poems,
it’s like his whole world
bleeds into verse
on paper.
Like his soul
and his ancestor’s souls
bleed
into poetry.
When Kodiak Jones
plays guitar
and sings you back
the words you’ve written,
you start to think
he sees inside you.
That your heart and his
have met before
in another picture
making harmonious music
bleeding magnificent verse
telling ghost stories
and howling like wolves.
When Kodiak Jones
traces a heart in your hand,
it’s because he knows you need it.
That’s who he is.
The one who helps when it hurts him.
The one who doesn’t know it’s okay
to leave behind the broken ones
to make room for himself.
I’m the only iceberg in the world
who calved from her glacier,
went out into the ocean,
but then tethered herself back
to the glacier
she should have never left.
Kodiak Jones
Me: Hey.
Kodiak: You’re right in front of me.
You can just turn around and talk to me you know.
Me: I know.
But it’d be weird.
There’s a bunch of people around.
And we’re all about to go on stage.
Kodiak: Yeah.
Me: I’m sorry.
About last night.
And the night before.
I’m sorry about all of it.
Kodiak: Please don’t apologize.
Delia.
I don’t ever want you to apologize about last night.
Or the night before.
Me: You were being a good guy.
I felt rejected.
I care so much about you.
Kodiak: I care so much about you too.
Me: But I have to be honest with myself.
My reasons for liking you were made up in my head before we knew each other like that.
About your writing.
And what my perception of you was based on what you were like when we were kids.
Kodiak: Oh.
Me: The truth is you’re so much better than the version in my head.
The boy who sings his poems.
And opens his whole body up when he speaks about writing.
And before you go up there
and bare your soul
for sport,
I want you to know you’re amazing.
I don’t deserve the friend you’ve been to me.
Right before he goes on,
Kodiak paces
behind the stage curtain.
I sneak next to him,
reach for his hand,
and draw a heart on his palm.
When his name is called,
he smiles,
kisses me on the cheek,
and disappears onto the stage.
There is a boy,
who held my hand
through the hardest moment
of my life.
And I never saw
he was hurting too
until he sang his poem
on a stage
in front of people
about being a sad raven
crying for the love
of a shiny treasure
he never got to hold.
And I watched,
from the sidelines,
as his body folded in,
and the color sprang from his mouth
and he gave every
person
in the audience
an iridescent glimpse
of his pain.
His promise
to a girl
about a baby.
The picture he painted himself in
washed away
before his very eyes
while he struggled
between relief and fear,
guilt and shame.
Sadness for what was washed away
and hope for the fresh canvas.
After Kodiak.
And a guy from Seattle,
a girl from Bellingham,
and another from Oregon somewhere.
My name
is called.
Kodiak smiles down at me,
the memory of his treasure
still staining his smile.
He leans in, whispers to me,
“Go out there
and show off
what’s in that heart of yours.”
I should be nervous,
but a cool chill
settles over me,
as I step out on the stage.
And realize
saying my words
doesn’t scare me
as much as
seeing Jack
in the crowd would.
I think about the mountains
close to home where my real dad is.
And how the deep grooves
carved by forgotten snow
are home to
bears
rabbits
moose
berries
even me.
How after this,
I get to go back.
I push Jack out of my mind,
and walk on
to recite a poem
for a man
who probably won’t be there.
I’m ten steps away
from the stage,
with complete
silence
from the crowd.
My peers,
I have barely
gotten to know,
because I was too busy
getting to know myself.
And I realize,
of all the people in the world,
I want him here.
The guy who started this all.
<
br /> Because this poem,
this journey,
wouldn’t be anything
if it didn’t start with
the man I came
to meet.
My father.
I smooth my poem down on the podium,
even though I know it by heart.
It sits in my memory
like all of Kodiak’s songs
and Sana’s laugh
and Dad’s Shakespeare quotes
and Mom’s hugs
and Iris’s hashtags
and even Bea’s snark.
It’s not hard to memorize
the thing
that touches
your soul.
Both hands
at my sides,
I let myself
look for him.
Scanning the crowd,
hoping that after all this:
the flight
the heartbreak
of learning
who he really is—
he finally stepped up
and decided
to be a father.
My father.
Just for today.
I hope
with every ounce
I have left
he doesn’t let me down.
I close my eyes,
wishing
for the impossible.
I want my father here.
Please,
just this once,
be here.
Please, don’t let me down.
When I open my eyes
the lights are brighter somehow
and they shift my focus,
settling on a face
I know.
My heart
races.
It’s in a sprint
as it tries
to keep up with my mind.
My stomach churning
like pebbles
rolling along a riverbed.
Standing
almost directly in front of me,
in the center of the crowd
is my father.
My Shakespeare-loving,
quoting,
joking
father.
Standing next to him,
my mom curls her arm around his.
Iris
waving like she’s eight instead of twelve.
Even Bea flew out from school,
but she’s too cool to wave.
We’ll talk tomorrow.
She gives me a nod, a small smile
that tells me we’re okay.
They stand there,
supporting me
even when I didn’t ask for it.
I want to bask in the weightless
happiness
radiating through my chest,
but it’s something else
that creeps in.
A tightness,
a suffocation
trapped beneath ice.
Jack.
Ten or so feet away
from my exit.
I draw in
the length
of my breath,
remembering the first message
Jack sent me.