Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (8 page)

Apparently
before,
the country paid for everything—college and books and housing . . . I couldn't believe it. Imagine college being free!

“But here is what, Zona,” Yiota adds. “There are always, historically, demonstrations in Greece. Now we are on the world stage, people are paying more attention, it seems like a new thing. But really it isn't.”

I make a mental note to tell my dad all of this for his research, then snap a picture of one of the cops texting. Unfortunately, he spots me and yells something in Greek that sounds angry, so we quickly move on.

The second half of the week, we explore places that aren't on the tourist maps, like coffee shops down tiny alleys where Yiota and her friends hang out for hours even though they only buy one cup of coffee apiece. I explain that in New York the manager would kick them out after an hour if they weren't buying anything else, but they just crack up laughing and tell me that isn't the way Greeks do things.

We get gelato (like ice cream, but somehow
more
ice creamy) and gyros, which are meat sandwiches on pita bread with a yogurt sauce called tzatziki. Of course, we have those in New York, too, but Yiota is quick to point out that
real
gyros have french fries on top, which I admit I've never seen before. Yiota gives up on making me try olives and makes spanakopita (amazing flaky pastry pie filled with spinach and feta cheese) in a funny little oven that sits on top of the counter in her tiny, light-filled apartment. It's absolutely delicious.

We spend one night walking around by a gorgeous marina in an area called Floisvos, where everyone in the city seems to be hanging out, even at midnight—kids my age, college students like my cousin, old people, mothers with tiny babies asleep in their carriages . . . and everyone just commingles. It's so odd to see, somehow, and yet it just
works.
No one is cooler than anyone else or doesn't belong.

The water at the marina is lit from below with blue lights, and there are giant black fish swimming around that follow us as we walk past. We sit at the edge of the water drinking coffee, looking at the massive ships docked at the harbor, and talking—about beaches we can get to by ferry when it gets warm out, and about school, of course. I tell her how nervous I am. She tells me about the guy she's sort of dating, and her college classes, and her friends, and how she isn't sure what she wants to do after she graduates.

“Does the economic crisis make you more worried about what comes next? It must, right?”

She pauses to think a moment, looking out over the beautiful dark water.

“You ask about this a lot, Zona,” she says, sounding a bit sad. “The answer is that I truly try not to think about it too much. Greeks want to work to live, not live to work. We aren't letting this ‘crisis'—what you call it—get to us or change our lives or stop us. We can't move ahead this way, you understand? So we just don't think about it. Well, not more than we have to.”

I can't decide if this is an incredibly silly and uninformed way to go through life or a refreshingly positive one.

Good thing my dad is the one writing the story about this,
I think. Yiota puts her arm around my shoulders and squeezes, so I know she isn't upset. We sit together like that for a while, each of us quiet with our own thoughts. And then, of course, Yiota bursts forth with another dozen ideas of things to see, to taste, to explore. And we're off again.

And throughout our week together—our fun, informative, exciting week—she keeps trying to tell me about the family in Crete. But I keep changing the subject. I can't explain it; even discovering how fantastic she is, and how nice and easy to talk to, it's still too scary to think about this big looming
family
out there waiting to pounce on me.

I'm just not ready to talk about them. Yet.

I've been trying to describe the marina at Floisvos to Dad, but as usual when he's working on a new project, he's only half listening. Not because he doesn't care, but because he gets so focused on his work that it's all he can think about. He's been wearing the same sweatpants and T-shirt for three days, sitting at what used to be the living room table but is now officially his work space. He's acquired a scratchy-looking beard and is starting to smell a bit . . . well, ripe.

“You drag me all the way to Greece to get in touch with my roots and now you don't even want to hear about it? What kind of father are you?” I ask, pretending to be stern.

Dad sighs and surveys his makeshift desk covered with papers and strips of what look like pieces of film. “The kind who has to sift through a thousand miles of microfiche looking for buried treasure. The kind who may never get up from this chair again. The kind whose wonderful daughter should be understanding and maybe also make him a sandwich?”

I give him my best furious glare, but he's already focused on his papers again. “
Exceptionally
Understanding Daughter Stores Latest Moment of Injustice Away for Future Use,” I grumble as I head toward the kitchen.

I'm bursting to tell Dad about Yiota and how great she is, not to mention all the places I've been exploring. Of course, I realize the Acropolis has been around for a while and he's seen it before. But still, now that we're in Athens and I'm actually having fun, I want to
share
it. Especially since this little respite from reality will be over in a few days and I'll be at my new school, trying to find my way.

But I also know that when Dad's finished, all his effort will be worth it. And I'll be part of it, which is exciting.

I bring Dad a hastily made sandwich and a big bunch of grapes (I still haven't been able to find Hot Pockets at the grocery store) and put it on the edge of his “desk.”

“Ah!” Dad looks up at me and takes a horribly chewed-up pen out of his mouth. “Darling Daughter Serves Adoring
Pater
in Time of Need, Will Someday Be Handsomely Rewarded!” he headlines.

“I accept cash, you know,” I offer, perching on the arm of his chair.

“Nice try.” He grins, sticking the pen back in his mouth and making a quick correction on the keyboard. He looks up again, leaning his head against my arm affectionately. “I'm sorry I've been so busy, Ace. I just have to get the preliminary stuff in shape before I start interviewing . . . but I do want to hear more about Yiota and what you've been up to. Are you feeling totally neglected? Tony is.”

I look over at Tony, who couldn't look more disinterested in the two of us, much less neglected. “I'm okay. I just . . .” I consider mentioning my nerves about school, or telling him how Yiota keeps trying to talk about the relatives on Crete . . . but he's obviously on a roll with his work. “I just have to run,” I finish. “I'm going to finally Skype with Hil and Matty.”

“The Dynamic Duo, eh?” Dad says.

“God, you're old,” I say, narrowly ducking a flying, saliva-coated pen on my way out the door. I holler
“Kalispera!”
and dash into my room. On the far side of the room is a wall that is not actually a wall at all. It's sort of a really big, heavy-duty wooden blind—or maybe more like a pegboard?—that goes up and down with a pulley. It leads out onto a terrace. (Definitely the most amazing thing about this apartment. I mean, private outdoor space? In my neighborhood in NYC, you get a fire escape and consider yourself lucky.) I haul the wooden panel all the way up so I can take in the view of the sky, bright blue and cloudless as usual. I like to do that even when it's kind of chilly; I just put on a scarf and big sweatshirt and pretend it's not cold, because I'm in Greece and it's supposed to be warm here, dammit. In the morning the light streams in through the little holes and wakes me up—so much nicer than an alarm clock.

I flop onto my bed and open my laptop. It's about eleven
A.M.
in NYC. We haven't been able to coordinate a group session since the first week I got here because of the time difference (seven hours earlier in NYC) and their having tons of schoolwork and commitments while I've been gallivanting around Athens with Yiota. E-mail is simply not the same. Thank God Hilary found out about a phone app that lets you send international texts for free, or I would most likely die. When my dad found out how much data plans cost in Greece I thought
he
was going to die, and if I couldn't text Hil all day as usual, the results would be catastrophic.

Actually, my swanky new Greek cell phone is probably cheaper than my American one—the plans are prepaid, so you can't go over. The plan itself is called Whatsup, which I think is hilarious.

I see Hilary's screen name pop up in a window. One click and there's her familiar face, with Matt's right next to it. Tears prick up behind my eyes; even though I've only been gone a couple weeks, and I haven't exactly been miserable, I miss them so much it's physically painful. Also physically painful is the high-pitched screech they emit simultaneously when my picture pops up on their screen.

“Ohmygod, you will not believe what has been going on here,” Hilary starts, with Matty overlapping her.

“Scott and I have been hanging out—not at Starbucks, mind you. He is just . . . he's
dreamy,
Zona, and I don't use that word lightly. You wouldn't even—”

“Ben has been really cool and he
loved
the ideas I pitched for the new issue. I mean, most of them were yours, so
of course
he did, but I suggested covering the new exhibit at the MoMA and he—”

“—haven't kissed or anything, but I almost don't care. It just feels so good to have a crush on someone who might
actually
like me back, you know? I'm just so sick of—”

“—finally talk about art, and he said I could possibly illustrate the article—”

“—going to the gym more? What if he invites me to Fire Island?”

Hil turns to Matt. “If you bring up Fire Island one more time . . .”

“Developing a six-pack takes time, you know. It's already mid-January! I—”

“He is not taking a high school kid to Fire Island!”

“Zona's younger than I am and she's been hanging out with her cousin, and she's twenty! Zo, tell Hilary how—”

I can barely understand what they're saying, but I'm bursting with happiness to hear their voices and see that nothing has really changed. And to see that they genuinely miss me. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that a teensy slice of my brain was terrified that I'd leave and they wouldn't even be sad.

“You guys, hang on!” I cut in, laughing. “I can't respond to six things at once! Hil, that is fantastic—I knew he'd love the art angle, and it's so you. Matt, what do you mean you're ‘hanging out' with Scott? Like, in his apartment? I don't know how I feel about that. Do your parents—”

“My parents?! Woman, give me a break. As long as I occasionally show up for dinner and don't wear makeup and a dress to the table, those two don't even remember I live at home. They have my brothers to mold, which is fine by me. And yeah, he lives in Hell's Kitchen, which is basically the new—”

“Zo, you would not believe how hard English Lit is already. Sinett gave us a ten-page—”

“Are you seriously talking about homework right now?!” Matt says. “Zona, tell us more about Yiota. Am I saying that right, like Yoda from Star Wars? Oh, and give us a Skype tour of your apartment! Can you see the Acropolis from your terrace?”

It's almost like they're in the room with me: Matty would be sprawled out on the floor playing with one of the 3-D brainteaser puzzles he can solve in five seconds, Hilary maybe sitting at my desk sketching the Athenian skyline on a little notepad, all while talking nonstop.

But they're a million miles away.

The reality sinks back in that I won't see them for at least
five more months.
In just a few days I'm not going to be palling around with cool cousin Yiota, either. I'm going to be at a school with strangers, who are probably all as cliquey and drama-obsessed as the kids at my old school. And I'll have to navigate it all by myself.

I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat and pick the computer up. I give them a 360-degree tour of the room, then go out to the terrace to show them the gorgeous sky.

“Just like New York, right, guys?” I quip.

“We hate you,” Hilary grumbles. “It's been sleeting for two days and it's freezing and gross. I'm seriously wearing about six sweaters right now. We were going to go check out this stand-up thing at Sweet later, but Matt doesn't want to ruin his hair by going outside.”

“Yeah,
I'm
the one who doesn't want to ruin my hair,” he says, rolling his eyes at me. (Hilary is obsessed with maintaining her curly, untamable hair.) “Listen, Zo, you okay? You seem a bit . . . subdued.”

“I'm . . .” What do I say? Telling them I'm scared for school won't change anything—they can't magically be here to save me from being alone. “I'm fine.”

Hil and Matt look at each other, then back at me. “You know you're going to be fine, right?” Matt says. “You're awesome, and smart, and fantastic, and—since you've let fabulous
us
”—he pokes Hilary in the arm, and she smacks his finger away—“rub off on you, you're way less shy than middle-school Zona. So don't freak out.”

“Just be your amazing self, Zo. Do your thing like always,” Hilary adds.

I sigh. I can't fool them, obviously. I feel the lump in my throat getting bigger as I fight back tears. I'm so lucky to have two friends as supportive and wonderful as my besties are . . . I don't care if I ever meet another person for the rest of my life, honestly. Except that I have to, and I have to hope that at least one of them likes me—or at least wants to sit next to me at the lunch table.

“I just feel so discombobulated, you guys.”

Hilary smiles, not-so-subtly mouthing
SAT Prep Mode
to Matt. I pretend I don't see her and continue.

“Sure, maybe my cousin turned out to be cool, but what if she's just an exception? Maybe the rest of the family is divisive and hateful! What if my school's full of snobs who don't like strangers, or everyone there is obsessed with, like, Greek goth metal—”

“Is that an actual thing?” Matty interrupts.

“—or something and I don't fit in and have to sit alone?”

“Zona,” Hilary says, “no entire school is any
one
thing, and you know it. And even if they are, I have no doubt you can research the hell out of Greek goth metal and talk about it all day long. So stop panicking. You will make a friend. Maybe even two!”

“They won't be as awesomesauce as
we
are, of course,” Matty chimes in. “But they'll be okay for a few months. Now, tell us more about Athens! I thought it was going to be a ghost town, but it sounds pretty rad.”

I settle onto a lawn chair on the terrace with the computer in my lap. Tony pads out and flops down next to me with a large wheeze of contentment. I pat his head affectionately, and he starts chewing on the leg of my jeans.

“Yeah,” I say to my friends, who are so far away, yet still so close to me. “It really isn't what I thought it'd be like at all.”