Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (22 page)

“They do this in every village, you know, at the same time,” Yiota tells me over the cheering. “Next is the fireworks; we can see best from the edge of the hill.”

Why
wouldn't
we go stand directly in the path of thousands of fireworks? It seems like a perfectly logical thing to do. Just as I'm mentally outlining a Greek safety awareness profile, the show starts.

Imagine the climactic finale of a Fourth of July fireworks display. Times a hundred. The sky is so bright with color and light, it almost looks like it's daytime. The noise is deafening. The smell is overwhelming. The crowd is losing its mind, especially when the fireworks from the other side of the battle start firing in
our
direction. Cries of
“Christos anesti!”
(Christ is risen!) come from every direction. Even gloomy
Thios
Dimitris and his wife seem to be on good terms.

For that ten minutes, I can see why it might be okay to forget about things like health hazards and fire codes. It may be the most incredible sight I've ever seen in my life.

The organ soup, however, is exactly as revolting as I knew it would be. For the record, I'd rather starve than try another bite. Luckily there's enough other food to feed about six armies, so I don't have to.

The entire rest of the family gobbles up that intestine soup like it's manna in the desert. I just smile and have an extra slice of delicious, chewy clown-nose bread instead.

Then, after we sleep for what seems like five minutes, Easter Sunday arrives in a beautiful burst of sunshine. There's another church service that I'm barely conscious for and then it's back to food, food, family, music, and more food. The celebrating starts at dawn and goes on until we're all bursting at the seams. I'll say this: the Marousoupolous
really
know how to do holidays.

Kalo Pascha
to all!

The next morning, I pack my things to go back to Athens. I want to see my dad and my friends . . . but I'm not quite ready to go. I feel like this huge part of who I am is different now, but that I should have had some kind of great epiphany or realization . . . and I don't know what it is. I want a specific thought or item to carry back with me. I want a ribbon to tie around the experience. And I don't have one.

What I do have is a lot of studying that I blew off. And a very heavy heart when I think about leaving Melina,
Thia
Angela, and
Yia-Yia
behind. Being with them and
Thios
Theseus (and Yiota, of course, but she's coming back with me) was really the best part of this trip. I still don't feel like I know my mother, exactly, but I do have a better idea of where she came from. And where
I
come from.

While Yiota is saying good-bye to her friends, I finish packing, then decide to go find Melina. One of the older cousins I met yesterday is in the kitchen eating (how can anyone ever eat again after last night?) and tells me she's at her house.

Ioanna lets me in and I knock on the door of Melina's room. I poke my head inside. “You busy?” I ask.

“No, come in,” she calls, smiling. I flop onto her bed. Melina is looking at a bunch of glossy brochures.

“What's all this stuff?” I ask, picking one up. “College brochures? Are you worried about this stuff already?” Great. Melina's a grade below me, and all I can think about are the repercussions of eating too much meat in such a short amount of time.

“Well, I have to think what classes to take because school here isn't so . . . comprehensive. We have to take extra courses on our own to qualify for all the tests to go to college outside of Greece. It's expensive, but very important if I want to study engineering like Baba.”

“Oh.” I leaf through the brochure. “But why wouldn't you stay here? I mean, your family is here, and all your friends.”

“There's nothing for me here,” Melina says sadly. “Not just me, but my friends, too. We will go to school abroad and find jobs . . . even Mama knows it is for the best. To do anything with engineering, or computers, science, most things, there's no place here for us now to work. People study all these years and have nothing to do with it after. We don't know where we will get our next money, or if we can raise a family here.”

I can see her eyes filling with tears, and I know she doesn't want to admit these things out loud. I feel like I'm going to cry, too. Melina drops her head and looks at the bedspread. “Greece is sending her kids away,” she whispers. Then she looks me in the eye. “So we have to go.”

Finally, everything is eaten, packed, shoved somewhere, or hidden away.

There's nothing left to do but say good-bye.

After spending so much time together,
Yia-Yia
and I are able to communicate much better, but words aren't really needed at this particular moment. She kisses me on both cheeks for the last time and pulls me into a long hug. We stand together in the doorway to her house, me bending down so my head rests on her tiny shoulder, and I can tell—no, I can
feel
—what she's thinking: her regrets, her hopes . . . and I know she can feel mine.

All the lost time, the mixed emotions, neither of us really understanding why she let my mother slip away so many years ago. But I can also feel her love for me, and I'm sending mine back to her.

We can't rewrite history, so a fresh start may have to be enough.

Finally,
Thia
Angela pulls me gently away. Then there are many, many more hugs from a thousand people. Yiota and I get into her parents' car and drive to the airport with Theseus, Ioanna, and Melina behind us in the beloved Fiat.

We park and get out of our respective cars. Labis and Angela surround Yiota and talk a mile a minute in Greek while Ioanna kisses me good-bye and slips a bar of Greek chocolate into my carry-on bag.

Theseus gives me a big hug, then grins at me slyly and hands me a silver disc in a plastic case. “A big surprise for you, baaaaaay-beh,” he says. “You watch this when you get home on your computer, then you tell me what is what!” Suddenly distracted by someone standing too close to his precious car, he dashes off, and I look at Melina in confusion.

“It's a DVD of him performing. As Elvis. I can't talk about it,” she says, rolling her eyes. We laugh and hug good-bye. Then I feel a soft hand on my arm, and of course it's
Thia
Angela. She folds me into her embrace, smelling of lemon and spices as always.

“We are so lucky to have you,” she says quietly. “Remember that we are always here for you. For anything at all,
nay
? Too many years going by, we will not let this happen again,
agapi mou.
”

I hear Labis clear his throat behind me. “Not much time to talk now,” he says gruffly. I'm sure Yiota makes a face at him from behind me, because he reaches out a hand stiffly and pats me on the arm. He opens his mouth, then shuts it. Then he says, “Be safe.”

And . . . that's it. He hugs Yiota again, and they drive away.

Labis's continued coldness confuses and disappoints me. He's not the only one who acted that way, but he's the only one whose behavior really makes me feel bad; it's like he's showing everyone else this other nice Labis he won't let me see.
Thios
Dimitris seems to be a bit of a weirdo, so I didn't really care that he mostly ignored me. The other adults who weren't especially friendly kept to themselves and didn't speak much English, and the boy cousins ignored pretty much everyone. But after everything Angela and Yiota told me about
Thios
Labis, I thought I'd see a different side of him eventually. The side that loved my mother so much.

But at the end of the day, I guess he couldn't get past blaming my dad for taking her away. And, indirectly, me.

It was easier when I didn't know any of them, honestly. Now I have hurt feelings, and it feels really unfair. On the other hand, I wouldn't want to have missed out on meeting
Yia-Yia
or Angela, Yiota or Melina or Theseus . . . so it's hard to know what to feel. Like I said: no pretty bow to wrap up the experience with. Just more questions.

Yiota and I fly back to Athens, which only takes about forty minutes. I use my old train ticket to get on the Metro like the sneaky abuser of public transportation I am. When I arrive at Kallithea, I practically sprint to the apartment, not even stopping to respond to texts from Hilary and Lilena. I dash inside, expecting to be greeted by an ecstatic Tony and a festive meal prepared by my father, who has missed me beyond measure.

What I get is an eyebrow lift and a giant yawn from Tony, who is lounging in his dog bed, and a visual of an apartment that looks like it's been hit with a paper tornado.

No sign of Dad. Not even a Post-it with a headline.

You know, sometimes it's nice to be treated like an adult by your parent, and sometimes it's upsetting. On the other hand, after being surrounded by people for two weeks, it's not such a bad thing to have some time to myself. I unpack and coax Tony into leaving the apartment for a walk in the beautiful spring air.

I can't believe it's over. This event that I've dreaded for so long has come and gone. I have a family now—a big, boisterous, funny, kind, complicated family. And I can't pretend that it's just me, Dad, and Tony any longer.

When something you've been anticipating is over, it's hard not to feel depressed or empty, and I do feel that way. Filling up the space with my GIS friends and studying—even the prospect of seeing what happens with Alex now that I'm back in town—just doesn't feel like enough somehow.

When Dad finally turns up a few hours later, he looks like he hasn't shaved in at least a week. He's got ink stains on every one of his fingers. But he also has bags from the grocery store and the bakery—filled with my favorite spanakopita and yummy flaky pastries—and I forgive him immediately for not being home when I got here.

I hug him so hard, you'd think I'd been away for two years instead of two weeks. But it's scary to reevaluate my idea of “family,” and Dad has always been the center of that idea for me. I want to make sure he knows that he still is.

We put the spanakopita in the oven, then sit down to catch up. I try to insist that Dad tell me about his work—how far along he is and who he spoke to while I was gone—but he waves the idea away.

“Are you crazy?” he asks incredulously. “Ace, you just had the biggest adventure of your life! No way am I going to bore you with interviews about economic policy. At least not until after dessert, anyway.”

I pause, unsure how to begin. I'm still worried that he'll feel betrayed if I admit I had a good time, even though it was his idea that I go. But then it's like I can't get the words out fast enough. I want to tell him everything, without forgetting a single detail, but there are too many names and feelings and geese-related stories. I start getting mixed up, and soon he's totally confused and we're both laughing.

The timer on the oven chimes. “You know,” Dad says, pretending to be stern as he grabs two plates, “this is
not
the way I taught you to report a story, young lady. Where's my clear but intriguing opening, followed by meticulously arranged details? I can't tell if you have forty cousins or four with multiple personality disorders. And who is this Pra-La-La? Is she even a real person? I'm worried you've devolved into—I can't believe I'm saying this—
fiction.
”

I gasp theatrically. “I can't believe you'd say something like that to your only child!” I start cutting up the spanakopita. “I don't know if you deserve any dinner. In fact, I think I'll give your share to Tony.”

Tony's ears perk up at the sound of his name, and he pads into the kitchen hoping for a handout. “I've always known you'd choose that mutt over me,” Dad says, shooing a very insulted Tony back out the door. “I can see the headlines now: Cub Reporter Deserts Dear Old Dad, Sets Off on World Tour With Dog.”

I look carefully at him as he takes a big bite and wonder if maybe he's saying something without saying it. The very thing I was worried about, in fact.

I put my fork down. “Dad, I'd never desert you—not for anyone. On the Gray Lady's legacy, I solemnly swear it.”

He glances up at me again with his familiar lopsided grin. “Oh, sure—until you meet some handsome hunk in your history class or something . . . then it'll be ‘Dad
who
?' No more treats for the pooch then, either—you hear that, boy?” he calls toward the living room. But I know he heard me, and that's enough. So I let the conversation slide back into our usual teasing repartee.

Dad loads up another forkful and points it at me. “Now—tell me more about this Theseus fellow. He sounds like a character!”

I'm actually having fun being back at school (despite the exams, obviously). It's easy to slip back into my place at the lunch table, the text-message chain, the worrying about whether the guy I like is going to make a move or not.

And speaking of guys, it looks like Melina was right about playing hard to get; Alex was waiting by my locker after first period on Monday, wanting to hear all about my trip and tell me about visiting his family in Egypt.

“Well, if it isn't Miss
New York Times,
” he said, gray eyes sparkling behind his glasses. I felt myself blushing—I don't think having a cute guy pay attention to me in public could
ever
get old. “We were worried you'd decide to stay on Crete and leave all this behind.”

“Who's ‘we'?” I asked, pretending to be very busily organizing my locker. Alex leaned in, working hard to get my attention.

“You know, inquiring minds. The masses.” I give him a questioning look over the top of my stack of books. “Okay, me,” he continued, smiling. “Hey, you free for coffee later?”

Of course I wanted to shout
Yes!,
but I actually really had to study, and besides, I didn't want to seem too eager. I silently prayed that Melina knew what she was talking about, took the risk, and told him I wasn't available.

“Wow, busy girl,” he said, looking disappointed. “How about Saturday night? Exams will be over by then, and I know your little gang doesn't make plans that far in advance.”

I just got asked out on my first real date!
I shrieked inside my head. I couldn't wait to tell Hilary and Matt and—well, everyone on the planet! I forced myself to remain outwardly calm, however.

“I think that works,” I said coolly. “Can I text you later and let you know?” The bell rang above our heads. “Oh, gotta run,” I said, then boldly leaned in and kissed him on the lips for half a second. No one even saw, but I felt empowered and very brave as I walked away, reminding myself not to look back.

I started grinning like a maniac the second I was out of his sight. So I suppose being back at school hasn't been too bad.

Less happily, Lilena looks even worse than she did before I went to Crete, and I decide I can't keep quiet any longer. I have to do
something.

The night I got back from Crete, she and I met at our usual blue-tiled table. I was really excited to see her. I wanted to tell her details of my trip and see how she was doing—I felt so sad that she'd been by herself for the whole break, just waiting around for school to start again.

She was standing by the counter when I got to the café. I didn't even recognize her at first—from behind, she looked like a child. Maybe seeing her constantly had made her thinness less noticeable; not seeing her for a while made it all the more jarring. Her face was gaunt and ashy-looking, her eyes had dark smudges under them, and around her mouth were tiny lines that made her look much older than sixteen. Even her hair looked dull and thin. It broke my heart. I wondered if, without being under the scrutiny of Ashley and her snarky comments—which, while not very helpful, did sometimes goad Lilena into eating a bite or two—she had ingested anything at all besides coffee since I last saw her.

Every time she moved I was sure I'd hear her bones snapping inside her skin. I spent the whole time thinking that the second I got back to the apartment I'd figure out a way to help her.

But it's hard to know what to do or who to talk to about the situation. Hilary and Matt don't know Lilena, though they are sympathetic and agree that I have to follow my instincts. Yiota is worried that Lilena might react badly and thinks I should think carefully before I do or say anything. My dad is up to his ears in his latest draft and transcribing translated interviews obsessively—I don't want to distract him with details of a friend he doesn't know and a problem he can't do anything about. I can't ask Alex about it, because that would be . . . too weird. So I settle on Betony. If I can get her on her own, without Ashley around, she might actually hear what I have to say.

I ask her to meet me to hang out a few days later. I figure I'll warm her up with some idle chitchat, throw in a few details about Alex to get her interested, and then tell her what I've decided is the best course of action. My plan is to ask her to be a united front with me; I hope maybe she'll get Ashley on board, as well.

But my plan doesn't work out as I'd hoped.

“Zona. You can't just . . . you can't just call someone's mother! Especially if you don't even know her!” Betony says, looking shocked.

We're sitting with mugs of tea at a corner table in Starbucks after school on Wednesday. I picked one in her neighborhood, Glyfada, knowing we'd be unlikely to run into anyone we knew there. I should be home cramming for tomorrow's exam (especially considering how terribly I probably did on the previous ones), but I know I won't be able to focus.

“Why not?”

“Because . . . because for one thing, it's intrusive.” Betony is getting exasperated, which, with her high-pitched voice, would be funny if we were talking about something else. “I mean, what would you even
say
?”

“I don't know, maybe something like, ‘Your daughter needs help, please do something'?” I suggest.

“You can't do that! She'll be so offended!” Betony looks like I suggested lighting a cross on fire on Lilena's parents' lawn.

“Why would she be
offended
?” I ask, incredulous.

“Because you're saying there's something wrong with her daughter!”

“Her daughter is sick!” I practically yell. Heads turn, and I duck my head, embarrassed. I just can't believe she's being so obstinate about this. I guess hoping Betony would be on Team Help Lilena was wishful thinking. And forget about Ashley.
Am I really going to have to do this by myself?

“I think this is a really bad idea.” Betony sniffs. “It's like tattling. Like we're six years old.”

“Would it be like tattling if I called to say she'd been hit by a car?”

“All I'm saying is, I think this is a really bad idea,” she repeats. “But you do what you want. You Americans always do.”

“What the hell is
that
supposed to mean?!” Now I'm pissed.

“Look, I just think Lilena's going to be furious if she ever finds out. Do you want to lose a friend? Because I don't.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

“I'd rather her not be my friend than have her starve to death! Maybe that's just very
American
of me?”

“Oh, come on, Zona. You're being so overdramatic and twisting everything I say around. Lilena just wants attention, and you're giving it to her. No one actually starves to death on purpose. I don't think she looks that different than she did before, anyway.”

I just stare at her. Either she's being deliberately stubborn for reasons I don't understand, or . . . I don't know what.

And what if she's right?

Maybe this
is
a terrible idea. Maybe Lilena's mother will hang up on me—she doesn't know me, after all—and tell Lilena I called and she'll . . . hate me forever? Get everyone in school to hate me for the rest of my Grecian tenure? Have me taken to jail by her family's fancy embassy connections?

I don't know what to do.

But the thing is, I
do
know what to do. I just wish I didn't have to do it all alone.

I tell Betony not to worry about it, that I have to go home and study, and give her a quick hug good-bye.