Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (4 page)

I poked my head around the door of Dad's office, my backpack still slung over my shoulder. He was at his desk, sticking tiny Post-its to things. His computer was on and there were at least fifteen tabs open on the screen—working on a new outline, probably. But I had to risk interrupting for the sake of familial peace and general group sanity. “Can we talk?”

He looked up and slid his reading glasses onto his head. “Well, that depends. Did you replenish the pudding cup supply? Don't think I didn't notice the sudden total depletion of said cups in the last couple days.” He stuck a Post-it to the edge of his desk. It read:
Man Bereft of Post-Breakfast Dessert Option!
“Not cool, Zona,” he continued.

I knew he was trying to be silly to break the tension, but I was determined to have a serious talk with him. “I'll get more tomorrow after school, I promise.”

“Well, all right. Lucky for you I have dinner plans tonight.” He looked down, found another Post-it, and stuck it next to the first one. It said:
Overworked Journalist Dines with Editor in Attempt to Secure Halfway Decent Advance; Will Daughter Manage to Feed Self? Story at 11.

I had to laugh. “Dad, really? How far in advance are you writing these things?”

“I gotta write what's foremost in my thoughts at the moment it comes to me,” he said. “Can't fight the muse.”

“Right, okay.” I cleared my throat.

Dad clasped his hands on top of his papers and smiled, sort of lopsided. It's my favorite Dad smile, and my heart hurt thinking about having an argument with him, but there was nothing else to do. “So, what's shakin', kid?” he asked.

I stood just inside the door frame and took a deep breath. “I've done a lot of thinking, and I want you to know I understand you have to go to Greece for the new project, and I support your work, and you, and it's not my intention to be a jerk about it.”

This was rewarded by a big Dad smile, with both sides of his mouth engaged. “Well, Ace, I'm thrilled to hear it. I know we'll both—”

“But,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “I'm not going. I don't want to leave school, and my friends, and the paper. I don't want to meet Mom's family. I'm not going, and I won't change my mind.”

Dad's smile deflated, as I knew it would.

“Zona. Come sit, okay?” He put his thumb and finger against the bridge of his nose and pressed, as if he had a headache. “I don't blame you for not wanting to go. I know this wasn't your plan for the year. And I try—I've always tried—to treat you like your own person and not tell you what to do . . . but you don't get a choice. We're going.
You're
going. It doesn't matter if you want to or not—”

“How can you do this to me?” I burst out. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't get upset, but this was just so
unfair.
When he'd ambushed me with the news at the breakfast table, I'd been too shocked to do much more than simply refuse to go.

I knew I needed to make a calm, clear, and concise argument now if I had any hope of making him understand. But I couldn't put the words together. I felt myself filling up with dread and the knowledge that nothing I said would make a difference—this thing I couldn't bear was going to happen whether I liked it or not. And that thing wasn't losing my position at the paper, or being away from Hil and Matt. And the worst part was, Dad knew exactly why I didn't want to go, and he was making me do it anyway.

I ran out of the room and flung my bag on the floor of the living room, startling Tony, who went lurching under the couch. I could hear Dad pushing his chair back, but I knew it would take him a few minutes to extricate himself from the piles of books and papers around his desk.

I managed to drag Tony from underneath the couch with little to no snuffly growling and snapped his leash into place. I carried him down the stairs at a run and stepped into the bitter chill of the late December afternoon. I shook with relief.

I knew Dad wouldn't follow me. But I also knew I'd have to talk to him again, if not that night, then soon.

I took Tony the long way, by the water. It was still lightish out, and I knew a walk would give me a chance to clear my head. Besides, we both needed the exercise.

By the time we got home, Tony was beat, we were both starving, Dad was gone—presumably to dinner with his editor—and I'd made a decision. It was time to face this Greece thing head-on.

All of it.

I fed Tony, grabbed peanut butter and a box of crackers, and went back into my dad's office. It's not off-limits, but I didn't usually go in there when he wasn't home unless I needed to grab a book or something. On the bottom shelf closest to his desk (the whole room is basically floor-to-ceiling bookshelves) was a light-blue wooden box that used to hold my mother's jewelry and keepsakes. Now it was filled with those things, plus letters and pictures.

I sat down on the floor with the box. Inside was a whole stack of envelopes, covered with my mother's familiar spiky handwriting. Of course, I couldn't make heads or tails of the Greek addresses. I
could
read the faded stamp on each one, however, since that was in both languages:
RETURN TO SENDER.

The letters were all unopened, except for the bottom one in the pile, which was in my dad's writing. It was addressed to my grandmother and similarly stamped. My dad had written the letter to tell my mother's family what had happened—that their daughter was dead but they had a healthy granddaughter.

And they'd sent it back. The only person who read it was me, years later.

After that, there were no more letters.

My dad showed me the blue box when I was seven or eight and had started asking questions about my mom. It wasn't easy to do a second-grade family-tree project with only one branch and a single leaf. (Well, two if you count Tony, and my teacher didn't.)

By then he'd already told me how they met and fell in love. It's actually one of those stories you might hear and think,
Come on. That doesn't happen in real life.
But in this case, it did. My dad had been working in Turkey and a friend of his, another journalist, insisted he come to Crete to blow off steam before heading back to the States. They went exploring, my dad saw my mom, Hélenè, walking down the street with some girlfriends, and BOOM.

Love at first sight.

Well, at
his
first sight, anyway. My dad had been immediately smitten (shocking everyone, as he was a forty-five-year-old self-proclaimed bachelor) and followed my mother into a café. He sat down with her and her friends and refused to leave until she agreed to go to dinner with him. Luckily for him, she spoke a little English and one of his journalist friends spoke a little Greek.

After that . . . they really did fall in love.

She agreed to go back to New York with him two weeks later, even though he never thought he'd get married, she'd never been to America, and her English wasn't very good. Even though he was much older and her family was furious about the whole thing.

Dad told me my mother hadn't been surprised when the letters came back. She said it was typical Greek behavior, that they were old-fashioned and stubborn. They were trying to make a point, to show her they were still in charge of her life. She was confident they'd come around once I was born. She would laugh about it, he said, and tell him to enjoy the peace and quiet before the apartment filled up with noisy Greeks demanding to hold/feed/raise the baby.

But they never got the chance to find out if she was right.

After Dad got his letter back unopened, he never wrote again. He was barely holding it together between losing my mom and having to take care of a newborn, and the years just went by. I was never even sure they knew I existed, but I was happy to write them off. If they didn't want me, or my family, why would I want them?

So that was my big secret. The part none of my friends knew, and the reason I couldn't find any way to be excited about going to Greece, despite the opportunities for adventure that everyone so eagerly pointed out. That's why this trip was the worst idea on the planet, and why I'd do anything not to go. Because what kind of people refused to open letters from their own daughter?

Or worse . . . never followed up when the letters stopped coming?

When I heard the key in the door, I looked up at the office clock—it wasn't even seven
P.M.
, way too early for Dad to be back from dinner. I scrambled to get up, the letters spilling over my lap.

“Zona?” Dad called. Our apartment isn't that big, and the office is on the way to the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway when he saw me. He had a plastic bag from the deli; I could tell it was full of packages of pudding cups. He set it down on the floor. “Zo, what are you doing in here?”

“Nothing,” I said, pointedly shoving the blue box back on the shelf in the wrong place. A huge, dusty thesaurus fell over. I ignored it. “I thought you had a dinner.”

“I canceled it,” he said quietly, sitting down next to me on the floor. “We need to talk about this, Ace.”

I dragged the heel of my hand across my eyes when I felt angry tears spring to the surface. Dad handed me the cloth handkerchief from his pocket. I took it, but didn't use it, clenching it between my fists instead.

“Look, I know you don't want to meet them, kid. I don't blame you. But they're part of who you are. They're part of who your mother was—”

“They rejected and abandoned her!” I shouted, practically ripping the cloth square in half. “Seriously,
screw
them—they
aren't
a part of me. I don't want them in my life!”

Why couldn't he understand?

Dad's voice was quiet. “I'm pretty pissed at them, too, Ace. You know that. Things might have been very different if they'd reacted another way to your mom's marrying me. Who knows what might've happened if she were still here—maybe her parents would've come around like she said, and then you would've grown up with a whole other kind of family. I don't want to deprive you of that chance.”

“Well, she's not here and things aren't different. And I like our family the way it is.”

“So do I.” Dad reached over and took the crumpled handkerchief back, then attempted to wipe my cheek with it. I pulled away. He sighed and shoved it back in his pocket. “Look, Zona. I'm not gonna be around forever, and they're your only living relatives. You may need these people someday.”

“Is this your way of telling me you're sick or something?” I felt my throat starting to constrict. I reminded myself to breathe and not panic. “Because you have to—”

“No, no, no—stop. I'm not sick. I'm
fine.
I swear.”

My dad's never lied to me, ever . . . but I had to be double sure. “Swear on the Gray Lady and her legacy?” I managed to squeak.

“Yes. Times ten.” He smiled wanly.
Now
this
is our family,
I thought. Bad newspaper jokes and all. And that's all I wanted.

Dad went on. “But I also can't see the future. There's cancer in our family, and heart disease, diabetes . . . I'm just trying to look out for you.”

“Do they even know I exist? What are we going to do, show up and yell sur—”

Dad's cell phone buzzed angrily in his jacket pocket, long and loud; since I was here with him, I knew it was probably his editor. If he ignored it, the house phone would start to ring.

“Just answer it,” I said. “I want to be by myself for a while, okay? I need to think.”

Dad nodded solemnly as he stood up. I could hear him answering the call in the kitchen. I retrieved the blue box from the shelf, straightened the cover, and put it carefully back in its correct place.

I didn't know what to do next. But it was clear that my plans to dissuade Dad had failed—and I suppose, deep down, I knew they would.

Maybe it was time to try something else.