Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (5 page)

I never told Hilary about the blue box, even though I tell her everything, because I didn't know how to explain it. I didn't want her to feel sorry for me. It's one thing to whine about missing school or having to leave New York. It's another to tell your best friend that an entire group of people rejected you before you were even born and now you're going to show up on their doorstep.

I guess I could've told her, or Matt, sometime, even shown them the letters . . . but there was never really a good moment to. Why make everyone pity you for no reason? And now it felt like it was too late, like I should've told them before and I was going to look like a freak.

But at least I'd be a freak whose best friends understood her. Which seemed like it might be what I really needed right now—because being depressed and angry with my own personal “Greece Is Awesome!” cheerleading squad wasn't working out so well.

Hilary came over the next day after school. Matty had taken up residence at his favorite Starbucks, and I figured it would be easier to do this one person at a time, anyway. We grabbed snacks and went up to my room, where I'd left the blue box on my bed.

I didn't explain, just handed it to her. I knew she'd understand when she saw the sealed letters and the one my dad wrote.

“So . . . does this mean these people don't even know you
exist
?” Hilary gaped at me after she'd finished reading my dad's heartbreaking letter. Her mouth was actually hanging open like a fish.

“Well. I guess they do now,” I mumbled around a mouthful of pudding. “I mean, right? I don't actually know.”

Hilary plucked out a picture of my mom and dad in Greece. My mom was super tan, with long, wavy dark hair and wearing a blue bikini. My dad was wearing board shorts that looked absolutely ridiculous and holding a bottle of beer. They were both laughing.

“Wow, awesome picture,” Hilary said. “Your dad looks so young!”

“I know. And look at his long hair! I don't know
what
they were thinking back then, seriously.”

Hilary rolled onto her stomach and fished another photo out of the box. A picture of my mother, hiding her face behind a big hat on the beach. My dad took it the first week they met.

“How come you never showed me this stuff before? I mean, obviously you can do whatever you want. Family stuff is, you know, it's private, I get that. It's just, you talk about your mom like it's no big deal, so I never guessed . . . I just didn't, I dunno. I'm rambling. Sorry.”

“No, it's okay.” I slipped the old picture of my parents back in the box and took out an even older one of my mom posing with a bunch of people—her brothers and their wives, probably. My dad wasn't sure who they all were, and the label on the back was in Greek, of course. “Honestly? I guess when I learned about the letters I was upset, but you and I didn't know each other yet, and then later . . . there was just never a time to mention it, I guess, without it seeming overdramatic or whatever. I mean, I didn't think about it much—why would I? It never occurred to me I'd ever have to meet these people.”

“Have you looked them up online yet? I bet you have cousins. What about getting someone to translate the stuff on these pictures? It might give you a better idea of what you're up against, you know?”

“Who do you know who speaks Greek?”

“Zo, seriously? You live in New York City, for crying out loud. We'll find someone. Now let's look online.” She grabbed my laptop. “What's their last name?”

“Marousopoulou,” I said slowly. It was the first time I'd ever said it out loud, actually, and I had no idea if I was pronouncing it correctly. Hilary looked at me, her fingers suspended over the keys.

“I'll type it,” I said with a laugh, and carefully punched it in.

Hilary and I stared at the seemingly endless list of entries on the screen—page after page on Google, and half of them in Greek. “Maybe ‘Marousopoulou' is like ‘Smith' in Greece?” she finally suggested.

“No clue.” I sighed. “Maybe I'll just ask my dad. I mean, he must have some kind of plan to contact them, right? If he hasn't already?”

“
You
didn't find out all the facts? Shame on you, and on your dad for letting you get away with it!” Hilary chided, smiling.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, no need for us to stalk random people like this.”

“What else is there to do?” Hil asked, flopping back onto my bed. She had a point.

She took out her cell phone and scrolled through while I picked a playlist for us to listen to. Suddenly, I heard her gasp behind me.

“You okay? What's wrong?”

She was staring at her phone like she'd seen a ghost.

“I, um . . . I just got an e-mail.” she said slowly.

“Okay . . . Hil, what's going on?” I asked. “Is everything . . . Hil, talk to me. You're scaring me!”

She looked up and swallowed. I braced myself for the news that something terrible had happened.

“It's from Ben. Ben Walker. He . . . he asked me to be features editor. For when you leave, I mean,” she said, her words tumbling over one another. “But, you know, I didn't . . . I mean, he had to choose someone, and he says all the upperclassmen who applied are doing other things by now, so . . . But of course if you . . . I mean . . . Um. Zona? Are you . . . are you okay?”

I sat down heavily in my desk chair.

“Yeah, I'm okay,” I managed. I was trying very hard to remain calm and rational, like a good newspaperwoman should. (And which lately, it seemed, I was less and less good at doing.) After all, this wasn't a betrayal. I was leaving. They couldn't hang up the features editor position like a retired football number. Though the fact that Ben chose another sophomore to replace me made me far less special . . . But like she said, my previous, older competitors were committed to other extracurriculars now. It made sense.

And Hil is very organized, and she's a pretty good writer.

And she's my best friend.

And yet.

“This is totally unfair of me, and I'm not mad at you, but I . . . I just need a second. I'll be right back. Okay? I just—I gotta go.”

I dashed across the hall into the bathroom, turning the sink on full blast. I sat down on the toilet lid and started taking deep breaths.

I knew I was being unreasonable. It's not like there was some nefarious plot to take my job. (A job I worked very, very hard to get, as you may recall. A job that was a jumping-off point, part of a trajectory, and the most important thing I'd ever achieved in my young life, just to review.) Hilary obviously felt terrible about being asked to take over. This wasn't personal.

Although,
an evil little voice inside my head said,
she could say
no.
She could tell them she refused and that they should let me do the job from Greece. Why didn't she suggest that right away? Maybe she wanted the job all along!

A sensible voice chimed in.
Hilary doesn't even
like
writing!
it said.
She's only working on the
Reflector
because her parents made her. You know that.

The sensible voice had a point. Hilary is an incredible artist. She can draw and paint and make jewelry and create mixed-media pieces—you name it, she's amazing at it. But her parents think art is “nice, but not an appropriate choice for a serious future.” They want her to be a lawyer or a doctor, like they are. So instead of working on the arts magazine or taking photography lessons or designing her own fashion line as an independent study, Hilary works on the
Reflector
—because the Bauers think it'll look like a “more serious endeavor” (they're
obsessed
with serious endeavors) on her college applications.

Of course it wasn't her fault—but then, whose was it? Ben Walker's? My dad's? Mine?

I felt like a bad friend, and a bad person. All I wanted was to have things be the way they were a couple of weeks ago, when my entire world was two best friends, my dad, writing, and living in New York City. When my biggest problem was Ben Walker not being in love with me. When things were essentially perfect.

I turned off the water and went back to my room. Hilary was still sitting on my bed, looking lost.

“Any more pudding cups in here?” I said, coming inside. I sat down next to her on the bed.

“I think you ate them all,” she said hesitantly. “Listen, Zo—”

“If there's no pudding, then we're out of distractions. So let's plan your reign as features editor,” I interrupted. I reached over to my desk and snatched up my precious silver notebook. “I'm going to give you this.” As I handed it over I wondered if I was insulting her—if she'd assume I didn't think she could handle the job on her own. “If you want it, I mean,” I added quickly.

“Oh my God, yes
please,
” Hilary exclaimed, clasping it tightly to her chest. “I know these ideas are your babies, but I have no idea what I'm doing. Or what
to
do. I haven't written back to Ben yet. Should I say yes? If you don't want me to, I won't.” She looked at me, and I could see in her eyes that she was totally panicking.

“Of
course
you should. I'm sorry about how I reacted; I just . . .”

“I know,” Hilary said. “You don't have to explain. Ugh, why is everything so
complicated
lately? Your dad is kind of ruining our lives.”

“Tell me about it!” I laughed and pulled Hil into a bear hug. She hugged back, hard, and I knew in that moment, despite everything, that it would all be okay. Because we had each other.

“Honestly, Zona,” she said, “if I do this, I'm gonna need your help. This feels like a disaster waiting to happen. I can barely put an article together without you, much less a whole section, and editing other people's stuff—”

“It won't be a disaster, I promise,” I said, giving her my most reassuring smile. “You're going to be brilliant. We can Skype every day and work on it together, okay? I'm going to be your right-hand man. Woman. Person? Right-hand person.”

Hilary smiled tentatively. “I would love it if you'd be my right-hand person. This just isn't what I'm good at, Zo. I don't know what Ben was thinking.” She stopped smiling and looked down at the notebook in her lap. “This is supposed to be
your
job, not mine.”

“Well, it's your job now,” I said. “You're going to do a
phenomenal
job, Hil, even without my help. But if you want it, I'm all yours.”

And I really meant it.

I crashed backward into the door of the girls' room at school on Monday morning, gasping with laughter, Matt hot on my trail.

“Matty! You can't follow me in here, you idiot! This is a safe zone!”

He hooted dramatically and turned on his heel. “You can't hide forever, woman! I will have my revenge!”

I escaped into the safety of the bathroom, wiping away tears of laughter.

The water was running in one of the sinks. I figured someone who cared nothing about the future of our planet left it on, so I went around the tiled corner to shut it off . . . and there she was, standing at the sink with intrepid reporter Lexi Bradley. My rival for Ben's affections: Kelsey Finkelstein.

“Uh . . . what are you guys doing?” I asked.

Kelsey heaved an enormous sigh, shaking her head, and Lexi giggled. “Oh, Kels just thought it would be a good idea to stomp through a newly poured sidewalk during a free period. NBD.”

“I didn't
know.
There was no
sign.
How many times do I have to tell you this?” Kelsey muttered bitterly. Lexi rolled her eyes at me, and I tried not to laugh.

“Do you . . . do you mean the sidewalk across the street? They've been doing construction there for—”

“Apparently the guy who was supposed to be putting the new cones down ran to get a snack at the exact time Kelsey decided to go to Barnes and Noble. By the time I got there to help her, he was back. And yelling a lot,” Lexi explained.

“He yanked me out.
And
he was
very
rude. I should totally sue,” Kelsey grumbled.

“He lifted you out because when you tried to
step
out you lost your boots and ended up making it even worse!” Lexi insisted. “What was he supposed to do, leave you there til the cement hardened?”

Trying not to laugh wasn't going well at all. You know, maybe she's earned Ben Walker—I've never heard of someone with worse luck than Kelsey Finkelstein.

“Do you need . . . shoes? I might have—” I offered.

“I've got sneakers and some gym pants in my locker,” Kelsey cut in. “But thanks, Zona, that's really nice. Unlike
some
people, who just think this is hilarious,” she continued, glaring at Lexi.

“Well. It is
kind
of hilarious,” I agreed tentatively. I didn't really hang out with Kelsey, and I didn't want her to think I was making fun of her. “You want me to write an article about it? ‘Student Cruelly Accosted by Quick-dry Cement'?”

Kelsey smiled wryly as she stepped into her half-wet pants. “Thanks, but no thanks. My tenure at the
Reflector
is over, thank God. Good headline, though,” she added, wringing her socks out.

“You okay?” Lexi asked me while handing Kelsey a bunch of paper towels to dry her feet with. “Did you . . . come in here to pee, or . . . ?”

“Oh! No, no. Just hiding from Matty. Matt Klausner,” I clarified. “We were . . . never mind. Had to be there.” I felt awkward now, standing by the door watching Ben's girlfriend wriggle into wet socks.

“Oh my God, this is . . . disgusting,” Kelsey exclaimed. “I'm just not going to wear socks.” She stripped them off and shoved her bare feet into the wet leather boots. “I'll probably get some kind of rash and have to have my feet amputated. Why do I even leave the house?” Lexi helped her up and handed her the turquoise sweater.

“'Kay, well, see you later. Hey, you doing anything cool for New Year's Eve?” Lexi asked on the way out the door.

“Oh, I'll be . . . I'll be in Greece. Well, in a plane on the way to Greece, actually. I'm moving there. For the rest of the year,” I added hurriedly. Saying it like that sounded so final.

“Really? That's amazing! I think Ben mentioned that, actually,” Kelsey said. “Have an awesome time.”

“You gonna do a foreign correspondent column for the
Reflector
?” Lexi asked, pausing with her hand on the door.

“I . . . Actually, that's a great thought,” I said slowly. “I don't know what I'm going to do. Hilary's taking over for me as features editor, so . . . I may help her, or—”

“Just thinking out loud.” Lexi shrugged. “Anyway, see you later!”

There was still a little time before the bell, and it was nice to be alone for a minute. I took a look at myself in the mirror of the now quiet bathroom. The bathroom I share with my dad at home is pretty small and has terrible lighting, so I didn't usually spend a whole lot of time in there taking stock.

I thought about the pictures of my mom in the blue box. I know I look like her, but I usually don't mull it over much. I wondered what the rest of her family looked like, and how it would feel to be in a room with a bunch of people who all look . . . related.

I didn't think I was going to like it. Just thinking about it made me feel pressured and claustrophobic. Saying “I'm moving to Greece” just then, like it was the truth (even if I still didn't want to accept it), and having it feel not so scary was one thing. But the other part, the family part . . . I didn't think I could do it. I didn't think I should
have
to do it.

But with every passing day, it was becoming more and more clear that I really
didn't
have a choice.

Hilary was right: I
should
have all the information. Knowledge is power, after all.