Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (15 page)

Wednesday night around ten
P.M.
, my time, I finally get Hilary on Skype to tell her about my birthday and The Kiss and everything that's happened since, and I can barely get the words out fast enough.

“Ugh, I can't believe he did that! Why, Giorgos, why?!” she says, giggling. “But this Alex sounds
very
promising . . .”

“I'm making myself bonkers, though, Hil. I can't calm down and just see what happens.”

“Well, that's because you're a type A overachiever. We know this,” she says seriously, then smiles. “Honestly, though—I'm so jealous. Forget the cute guy part—I'd just like to be able to go out in the city and not feel like a dumb little kid all the time.” She groans, shaking her head. “I tried to go out in the East Village last weekend with Sara and Keri and we got
completely
shut down. It was pathetic. I mean, Matty has been going to all these cool places, and I know he's with Scott and his friends and it's not really my scene, but . . . I miss him. I wish he'd invite me even once, you know?” She picks up a sketch pad and starts doodling with a gel pen; I feel bad that she's upset, but I can't help but smile at the familiarity of seeing her distractedly drawing while she talks.

“I just feel like, you know, it's great that he's hanging out with this guy, or dating him, or whatever,” she goes on, “but I'm still here, and I'm not dating anyone, and I just feel like I'm less important now. Everything is about Scott, and Scott's friends, and doing gay stuff with them. And yeah, I have other things to do, but I feel like he doesn't think I'm as cool anymore or something.”

I pull the laptop closer to me, wishing I could actually be in the same room—on the same continent—as Hil and give her a reassuring hug. “I totally get it. And of course he cares. But it's his first crush, you know? On someone who might actually like him back, I mean. He's excited.” As I say the words, I realize how well I understand them. “You know how hard it's been for him. And he knows we think it's kind of a bad idea because of the age thing. I think he really wants this experience. I would be hurt, too, I'm not saying I wouldn't. I just—”

“At least if you were here I wouldn't feel completely ditched.
We'd
still be together.”

“Well, maybe you need to hang out with some other people for a while. Let Matt notice you're not so available, either.”

Hilary half laughs. “It sounds like we're talking about some guy I'm dating instead of Matty.”

“Nah. He's too short for you.” I sigh with relief when she smiles at my lame joke. “Honestly, I think he needs this right now. And even though you're pissed, I know you're happy for him.”

Hilary sighs. “I know. I
am
happy. I just . . . I feel lonely and I hate sounding so jealous and bitter. But I
am
a little bit. I'd like to have some guy to gush about, too, you know?”

“Yeah.” My phone buzzes with a text; I glance down and see it's from Alex.

“Do you have to go?” she asks. I shove the phone under my books.

“No, it's nothing,” I say quickly. Inside, of course, I'm aching to look and see what he wrote. Is it something cute? Something about homework? A text he meant to send to someone else? But I don't want Hilary to think I'm ditching her for a guy, too. “I, um . . . well, yeah, I think Matt just needs to have this for a bit. You have lots of friends you can hang out with til the novelty of Scott wears off. And lots to do—how's the paper? Have you been painting? Tell me—”

Hilary looks away from the computer in the direction of her door, then back. “It's my mom. She got home from work early for once and wants to eat with me. It's a miracle. Anyway, I have to go. Love you. E-mail me later, okay?”

And then the screen goes blank.

I snatch my phone, and when I read Alex's text I can't wipe a silly grin off my face. It's not anything particularly brilliant, but it's from him and it's about a private joke from the night we went out. And I've never gotten texts like this from a guy before.

I write back—an artfully composed message, of course. I haven't spent so much time or care writing anything since I got to Greece.
Who am I becoming?

I go back to studying for a while, and then check on Dad, who is elbow-deep in notes as usual. Then I call Lilena.

“It's been over an hour. Why hasn't he texted back?” I blurt as soon as she picks up.

“Oh, no, you don't—I'm not having this conversation again. Did you do the Chemistry homework yet?”

“But—”

“Chemistry,” Lilena says firmly. “Let's go over the take-home quiz.”

So we do, though I'm distracted the entire time.
I hope Lilena meets a guy she likes soon,
I think,
so I can refuse to indulge
her
when
she's
losing it. Fair is fair.

But it's fun, even with my crazy panicking—especially when I get another text from Alex in the middle of explaining my answer to a tricky question about chemical bonds. Because there is a boy, and I like him, and he seems to like me.

And I want him to kiss me again.

My flight to Greece in December, my first day at GIS . . . they both appeared on the calendar before I was even close to ready. And now, again, I feel unprepared.

Spring break is here—two whole weeks of it—and for the first time in my life, I'm wishing for less vacation and more school.

And not
just
because of Alex, by the way. He hasn't become a boyfriend or anything, but he is definitely a
something.
Not a defined something, but there has been some more kissing, which is fine by me.

Studying for exams over break is going to be awful, and being away from Dad is, too. I'll miss my new friends, especially Lilena; Yiota told me that Wi-Fi can be spotty on Crete, so I might not get to talk to Hil or Matty much, either. But nothing is as daunting as the real crux of the Easter plans: meeting my mom's entire family.

Dad has refused to budge an inch on his position and is forcing me to go. Without him. Specifically to a tiny village high on a hill outside of a bigger town called Heraklion, where the Marousopoulou clan has lived for generations.

Yiota and I finally snatched an hour for lunch one weekend before the trip, and she gave me a general rundown of who I'm going to be meeting and what it'll be like, but I honestly haven't taken in the details as well as I—Zona the person
or
Zona the reporter, for that matter—should have.

First of all, who can remember the names of seven thousand cousins she's never even seen? And second, I can't stop thinking about my childhood and growing up without a big family, and there's this dark cloud of fear and anger that is swarming around everything.

Of course, I'm trying to keep an open mind. (Sort of.)

•  •  •

There are a few ways to get to Crete from Athens. A quick hour-long plane ride straight to Heraklion Airport is one of them, but I've been told I absolutely
must
experience the overnight ferry (which I feel seasick just hearing about). Apparently it's an all-night party where no one sleeps in the berths they paid for—they just stay up drinking and playing music and gossiping. So that's the plan.

When we get off the ferry, all the passengers start heading for their cars or the bus station a few blocks away. The dock is long and covered with stray cats. Before I have a chance to suggest rescuing them all, Yiota's cell phone rings. She looks around and then points excitedly. “Over there!” she exclaims, and then she's off, wending through the huge crowd of people, dragging her bag.

Beside an old, pale blue car stands a couple in their late fifties holding hands; she's wearing a shapeless patterned shirtdress and he's in a black ribbed tank top and olive-green pants. He has a bushy black beard and lots of bushy black hair—both on his head and his shoulders. The woman has one pair of glasses on her face and a second hanging from a chain around her neck, and a huge, gleaming smile. Yiota practically leaps into her arms, the man folds himself around Yiota and the woman, and they have a giant group hug.

I stand nearby, a bit embarrassed—the Lowells aren't big on PDAs—but everyone around me is hugging, too, and no one seems the least bit uncomfortable about the displays of affection. Even the men are hugging and kissing one another hello.

Finally the woman spots me and exclaims, “
Éla!
Zona, let me see you!” She holds me at arm's length, and I can see her eyes are wet with tears. “Oh, you look just like Hélenè.” She kisses me on both cheeks. She turns to the man, who is piling things in the car.
“Greekgreekgreekgreekgreek
Hélenè,
nay?”
She looks back at me, beaming. “Just like her, I can't believe it.”

“Yes, yes, okay,” the man mumbles. Yiota tugs on his arm and says something in Greek. He stands up and faces me. “We go now.”

“Baba!” Yiota hisses. She turns to me. “Zona, these are my parents, your
thia
and
thios,
yes? Angela and Labis. He was your mother's brother, okay?”

“Um,
kalimera,
” I say. Labis looks less than thrilled to make my acquaintance. I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, wondering if I should say something else as the silence drags on.

“Ay, Zona, it is a blessing, a blessing to have you here, and for Easter! Come, come here!” exclaims Angela, sweeping me into her arms again. She kisses me on both cheeks and squeezes my shoulders. “Just like your mother. Ay, come on, girls, get in the car before Labis leaves us here, eh?”

My uncle—my
thios
—is already in the car. We slide inside and Yiota leans over to me and whispers, “He is the oldest brother, I think I told you. Still a little angry, after all this time . . . but don't worry. He is wonderful when you know him, I promise. And my mother, she knew your mother well—my parents were married very young and Hélenè was a girl still.”

I smile at Yiota, but the truth is my insides are churning. Is this what my spring break is going to be like? Winning over these people I don't know, convincing them not to be mad at me because of what my mom did almost seventeen years ago? Because I can think of a lot more fun things I could be doing instead, like chopping down trees for firewood or pulling a dogsled through the snow.

I resolve to be strong. After all, I've only just arrived.

We drive up a hill that seems to go on forever, and the road is right on the edge of a cliff, which is terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. Yiota and her mother are talking a mile a minute in Greek, so I zone out and take in the scenery.

It's absolutely incredible. Everything is vivid green and purple and yellow, and the road we're on is so high above the ground, it's almost like we're in a plane. There are groves of silvery-green trees in dozens of neat rows down below, and just miles and miles of fields. I don't think I've ever seen so much empty space before. Here and there are little pockets of houses tucked into the side of the mountain, all white with delicate roofs the color of terra-cotta pots, but for the most part it's open land.

We get to the very top of the road and stop in front of an enormous, strangely shaped white house with an orange tile roof and a bright blue door. In front and right up to the front door are amazing flowering cacti and all kinds of trees growing fruits I can't identify. Along one side is a big wooden structure with grapes hanging off of it, and I have a feeling they aren't the fake ones they sell at Pottery Barn. On the other side is a garage filled with cars, and there are others parked up on the sidewalk as well as a few mopeds.

Yiota confirms that the whole family lives together, either in this “complex,” as she calls it, or down the street, because they ran out of ways to add on to the original main building.

I suddenly realize I'm about to be surrounded by
lots
of people—people I don't know who all want to know me, who all knew my mother, who don't want to know my father—and I am not ready.

I feel sick.

“Um,” I whisper to Yiota, not wanting her parents to hear and be offended, “I don't think I can do this. I didn't know everyone would be—”

But it's too late. The door flies open and a sea of people bursts into the street. No one's worried about cars hitting them, or my taking my stuff inside and getting settled, or whether any neighbors will be disturbed by the intense volume of everyone talking all at once. Some are smiling, some are shouting, some are little kids who only seem interested in chasing one another, some are clutching platters of food, everyone is speaking Greek . . . and one woman has a face that looks just like the faded pictures of my mother from the blue box, only much older.

And I know it's my grandmother.

And she's crying.

And then she opens her arms to me, and it's like no one else is there but us.