Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (23 page)

When I get home after school, I have second thoughts again. But I summon Lilena's face back to my mind, her sharply defined eye sockets, her sunken cheeks. It hurts my heart.

I take a deep breath and switch roles for the first time: I'm no longer a reporter, but a source.

I will myself not to hang up as the phone rings. Then a woman's voice answers, sounding rushed and a bit annoyed—probably because she doesn't recognize the number.

“Yes? Hello, who is this?”

“Hi, Mrs. Vobras, um . . .” I pause, trying to remember my prepared speech. “I'm a friend of Lilena's. From GIS. I'm calling because—oh, my name is Zona, Zona Lowell, um . . .” All those years of honing my vocabulary, and when I could actually stand to sound smart and authoritative, I'm reduced to the word
um
?! This is awful.

“How did you get this number? If you need Lilena, she—”

“No, no, Mrs. Vobras, I'm sorry. I'm a little nervous. I . . . I called to talk to you. About Lilena. I'm worried about her. She doesn't eat, Mrs. Vobras, and I think . . . I think she may have an eating disorder. She's so thin now, and I don't mean to be ratting her out, I just . . . I'm really concerned. I . . . I didn't know what else to do.”

The total quiet on the other end of the line seems to stretch on forever. She's going to hang up on me. I can feel it. Then:

“I thought I was the only one,” she whispers. “No one else has . . . I've been so busy, so I thought, if no one else noticed, maybe . . . because . . .” She takes a ragged breath, and I wonder if she's going to cry, but she doesn't. “Because no one said anything, you understand?”

“Yes,” I say in a small voice. “But I'm saying something. Because I think she's really sick, Mrs. Vobras. I think she needs help.”

Mrs. Vobras clears her throat, and her voice snaps back to all business. “Okay. Well, thank you, Zona. I'll make sure she gets help, now that—yes. Thank you for calling. I'm sure it wasn't an easy thing for you to do.”

“Please, um, please don't tell her it was me, okay?”

“No, I certainly won't. Okay, thank you. Good-bye.” She hangs up.

I press “End” on my phone and stare at it for a while. When you're writing a story, it's pretty easy to tell when you're finished and when you've got it just right. When you're a source, it isn't easy to tell at all. There's nothing to turn in or edit. You just have to wait to see what happens.

•  •  •

I don't see or hear from Lilena at all over the weekend. I'm scared to reach out, and also scared that her not reaching out to
me
means she knows. I run the conversation through my mind on an endless loop, telling myself I did the right thing, but unable to stop the doubt from creeping in.

I meet Ashley and Betony at one of the gigantic state-of-the-art malls that keep popping up in Athens; this one was built on the site of the 2004 Olympic stadium, which led to a huge real estate and finance scandal. (My dad has devoted a whole section of his research to the mall.) We window-shop for a few hours (I can't afford anything in these places, but they are sparkly and shiny and fun to explore), and the girls don't mention Lilena, so I don't, either. But of course I'm wondering where she is and if they've talked to her.

But I don't want to give myself away.

Even on my date with Alex, I'm distracted. I try not to let my thoughts wander—which should be easy, considering there's a cute guy who seems to be perfectly content to listen to anything I have to say (when he's not trying to kiss me, that is)—but it's hard. I just wish I knew what was going to happen, and that I could be sure my friendship with Lilena was going to be okay.

•  •  •

At school on Monday, my heart is beating so fast and loud that I'm sure everyone around me can hear it. Lilena isn't in first period. By lunch, the rumors have started spreading. Rumors that most likely aren't rumors—everyone is saying she's been sent to a treatment facility. Instead of being happy that she's getting help, all I can think about is whether everyone knows what I did. I keep reminding myself that I did a good thing, out of concern and care for my friend . . . so why do I feel so guilty?

By the end of the day, I can't take it anymore. I don't even hang around to see if Alex will come say hi at my locker; I rush outside to find a quiet spot where I can text Lilena.

Are you okay? Missed you at school today.

I pretend like I don't know a thing. Like no one was talking about her. Like maybe she's got a bad cold and I'm checking in, that's all.

After two minutes, I get a reply.

GO TO HELL, TRAITOR.

I've never heard Lilena talk like that,
ever.
I can't believe her mother threw me under the bus. My stomach turns inside out.

Sometimes, doing the right thing means losing everything. Journalists learn this every day—it's nothing new. But it's new to me.

And it hurts so much.

At home I fling myself into my room, feeling certain no one has ever felt as bad about anything as I do about Lilena hating me. I want to call Hilary, but she's in school. I'm considering telling my dad everything, even if he has no idea what I'm talking about, when my phone rings.

It's Matty, who should also be in school. When I answer, he's crying. I've never heard him cry before, and it stops me cold. Maybe there
is
someone who feels worse than I do right now.

“Scott rejected me. Outright,” Matty sputters through tears. “I tried to kiss him last night, I thought after all this time, I just . . . and he pushed me away, Zona. He
pushed me away.
”

“When did you—”

“He said he was flattered, but I'm way too young for him,” he continues. “He didn't even let me . . . I just wanted to kiss him. I'm totally in love with him, and all he can think about is age—he's not even that much older! I didn't think he thought of me like some stupid kid. I thought we were friends. I thought . . . I thought he just didn't want to rush things, I don't know . . .”

“Matty, I'm so sorry. But was he at least nice about it? He could've been a jerk,” I say. “Or worse, he could've hooked up with you and then ditched you and you'd feel twice as bad. Right?”

I am trying very hard not to say
He
is
too old for you!
right now. Because that wouldn't be helpful. And my heart aches for Matt—I know how it feels to like someone you can't have. And I know how much he wanted Scott.

“I guess.” Matty's calmer now, sniffling. “It just felt so patronizing, you know? He was like, ‘You should be with someone your own age, who's having the same kind of experiences you are.' Then he said a bunch of crap about how cool it is that I'm out and confident with who I am, and how when he was my age he was really confused and closeted and he wishes he'd been more like me. Basically, he just isn't into me.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Whatever. How was the rest of Crete?”

Matty loves to suddenly slam the door on a topic, but I'm not ready to let this one go—even though he could just hang up and end it if he feels like it. “Matty, don't change the subject. Look, I don't think Scott was being patronizing. I think he was probably being serious and trying to give you advice. He obviously cares about you and admires you. Couldn't he be like . . . a mentor?”

“Do
you
need a mentor?” Matt sounds bitter now. “Why do I have to have a mentor? Because I'm gay? That's pretty damn—”

“I would freaking
love
a mentor. Are you kidding me? Go find me one, seriously,” I jump in. “Find me two.”

“I just . . . I just wanted to finally actually date someone. Is that so much to ask?” Matt says quietly.

“And you will, I promise. There are a zillion cute guys out there. Who are the right age and want the same things as you.”

“I can't wait to be in college, Zo, seriously. I'm so sick of being the one who's different. I mean, there are, like, five guys off the top of my head at school that just
need
to come out of the closet. And it's like they're scared to just admit it. It's so lame.”

“Matty, not everyone is as self-assured as you are. It's not fair to try to force everyone to do things at your pace, right? Look, life can suck sometimes. You can either deal with it or let it be who you are. So . . . don't let it be who you are. Please?”

Matt sighs. “I'll try. Thanks for listening.”

“Of course. That's what I'm here for.”

“I'm totally going in late today. I don't even care if I get in trouble,” he says.

I swallow hard, grateful that he's on the other end of the line just when I need someone—someone who really knows me.

“Matty, I need to talk to you about something, too. Something that happened . . . I need you to tell me if I did the right thing. Honestly, okay?”

Sometimes you can see yourself a lot more clearly when you look at someone else. That's another thing I learned in Greece.

I'm in math class the next week, mostly ignoring the teacher and coloring in all the vowels on the pages of my book, when Mr. Pelidis, a guidance counselor I have spoken to maybe one time, opens the door and comes straight to my desk. He doesn't look happy as he tells me to collect my things and follow him. Ms. Blasi's voice trails off, and I shrug at Betony and Nikos as I follow Mr. Pelidis out the door.

Mr. Pelidis closes the door to the guidance office and asks me to sit. My palms start to sweat.

“Mr. Pelidis, I don't know what you think I—”

He cuts me off. “You haven't done anything wrong, Zona. I just wanted to talk to you in private. Please, don't panic until I've finished explaining what's going on, okay?”

You know what a great way to keep someone from panicking is? Not saying “don't panic” to them. Because that will
make them panic.
My hands start shaking.

“Wait—what's wrong?” I ask, instantly terrified.

“There was a major demonstration today, at the Parliament. You knew about it maybe, yes?”

“Of course,” I blurt impatiently. “My dad is covering it for his story; he has an interview with . . .” I put the pieces together. “Oh, no.”

“Someone brought tear gas. Your father . . . Well, the details don't matter. There was a riot, things got violent, and he was caught in the middle when things got very bad.”

I feel my chest caving in on itself, and I can't get any air into my lungs. Tears roll down my face and my throat is on fire. I grip my legs, trying not to fall out of the chair.

“Zona, please don't panic—he's alive! Please, I need you to listen. Can you do that?” Mr. Pelidis waves his hand; I realize he's signaled his secretary to bring me a cup of water, which I take but can't drink.

“He is at the hospital. He was trampled and they know his leg is broken and they think his spleen has ruptured. He is in surgery and will be there for several hours. He—”

Now that I know he's alive—that I'm not being told I'm an orphan by a man whose first name I don't even know—I manage to breathe. And I'm sobbing.

I'm sobbing all the tears I never cried for my mom, I'm dropping the cup of water and only sort of feeling the wetness as it splashes against my legs, I'm falling into my own lap and heaving giant gulps of noisy air into my body.

I can't stop sobbing, even though I can tell that Mr. Pelidis is trying to tell me more things that are probably important in a calm voice he probably learned at guidance counselor college.

And then, suddenly, I
can
stop. I take a big, difficult breath, I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, and I focus.

He's alive,
I remind myself.
You are not all alone. He's alive, and this man is trying to help you. So listen to him.

“Zona. Zona, okay. Okay, good. So, your father, he is at the hospital across town. Miss Papadakis has offered to drive you there.” His secretary puts her hand on my shoulder; I'm too upset and simultaneously weirdly calm to even be embarrassed about the fact that she was probably standing there during my meltdown. “So you can go right now, okay?” Mr. Pelidis stands awkwardly.

I wipe my face again and stand up, too, but my legs are shaky and it takes me a second before I can follow them out of the office.

I don't even stop at my locker. I follow Miss Papadakis down the hall and out the door. I see Betony outside our math classroom holding the bathroom pass, obviously waiting to see what happened. She starts to come over when she sees my red, blotchy face. I shake my head at her, and then Miss Papadakis and I are outside.

In the car, I send a short group text to my GIS friends so they don't think I've been hauled off to jail. Then I ask Miss Papadakis, “How did the hospital know where I was? Was he . . . conscious? Was he in
pain
?” I feel the tears starting again and I swallow hard to try to keep it together.

“He told them your name and your school before surgery. I'm sure he's in very good hands, Zona, okay?” she says. “Now, who can we call to meet you at the hospital?”

I have no idea how to answer this question. Dad's my legal guardian. What if they won't let me see him? What about paying for the surgery and everything else—I don't know anything about our health insurance or . . . do they even take health insurance in Greece? Is it free here? Is it only free for Greek citizens?

I take a deep breath, trying not to panic. “I can call my cousin,” I say, bringing up Yiota's number. At the very least she might know how to help.

Miss Papadakis pulls into the parking lot while the phone is ringing. I get Yiota's voice mail. I send a text saying it's an emergency, hoping she's just in class or something and will step out to take the call. I try again as we cross the parking lot, getting closer to the doors and to my dad.

Yiota picks up, sounding out of breath. “Zona, are you okay? Sorry, I was—you guys,
greekgreekgreekgreek
!—Sorry, Zona, I'm just with some friends and . . . Where are you?”

“I'm at the hospital,” I gasp with relief. My voice breaks and the tears start again, but I fight to get my words out. “My dad was at the riot, he's in surgery, and I . . . I don't know what to do. Can you come?”

I hear Yiota yelling in Greek to her friends, who are laughing and playing music in the background. She comes back to the phone. “Of course, Zona—please, do not worry, yes? At which hospital are you?” I give her the information and hang up.

Miss Papadakis looks nervous. This is not what she signed up for, and she can't really do anything to help but sit with me until my cousin arrives.

We walk through the sliding doors, her hand on my back and my heart in my mouth.