The Secret Talent

For my sweet Ari,

a man of
many
talents

CHAPTER

I
should've been named Apollo.

I know it's pretty bold comparing myself to the Greek god of light, but Mr. Sunshine and I have a lot in common: We're both Greek, we both have twin sisters, we're both into culture, and we both value honesty more than . . .

Okay, that last one's a stretch. For me, the truth's a gray area, and whether I tell it depends on how much I'll suffer.

For example, if a girl asks, “Does this shirt look stupid?,” I'm never going to tell the truth. Ever.

Because I did once.

Getting hit with a bag hurts a lot more than you'd think.

Anyway, apart from the fact that Apollo was a god and I'm mortal, we're practically the same guy.

“Practically,” I said to the crumbling marble statue in front of me. Poor Apollo was missing an arm, half his face, and a leg. “Although, you seem a little more accident-prone.”

“There is
no
way you saw me smack into that display case,” said a voice beside me. “I was all the way across the room!”

I grinned and turned to my friend Vanessa Jackson, who was cradling one hand with the other. Our history class was on a field trip to the Berryville art museum, and we were all given specific instructions not to touch
anything
.

Those words have no meaning to a group of twelve-year-olds.

“I wasn't talking to you,” I said. “But let me guess. You tried to reach through the glass?”

Poor V tends to be a little on the clumsy side.

“It's just so clear!” she said, massaging her fingers. Then she looked up at Apollo. “I'm guessing you were talking to this guy. That's cool. Sometimes I talk to my dummy.”

I gasped in mock horror. “What a mean thing to call your brother!”

Vanessa giggled and punched my arm with her good hand. “No! My dressmaker's dummy.”

V designs and makes her own clothes. I'm no fashion expert, but from what I've seen, she seems to know her stuff. There's never an extra neck hole or anything.

Her style savvy is probably why her answers for the advice column are so popular. Vanessa and I, along with our friends Heather Schwartz and Brooke Jacobs, answer cries for help in “Lincoln's Letters,” the advice column for Abraham
Lincoln Middle School's newspaper, the
Lincoln Log
.

V dishes fashion advice, Heather gives friendship and relationship advice, and Brooke tackles health and fitness. I, Tim Antonides, round it out by providing the male perspective on issues, but to be honest, sometimes I wish I did health and fitness instead. Sports are a huge part of my life, and there's never a season when I'm not in some sort of uniform. Brooke is a sports nut too, but she can't give the guy's point of view like I can.

For now, I settle with being the secondary sportswriter. The stories I'm assigned aren't that interesting (“Football Team Gets New Footballs!”), but I'm working really hard to impress so that someday I can be bumped up to head sportswriter.

“You talk to your dressmaker's dummy?” I asked V. “It doesn't even have a head.”

“Oh, because if it did, there'd be a better
chance of me getting an answer?” she asked, laughing again.

For Vanessa, everything is a reason to laugh. She's one of the most upbeat people I know.

“Yeah, okay,” I said. Then I pointed to Apollo. “Did you know that Apollo could see the future?”

“Neat. Did he see you getting left behind because everyone else is in the next room?” Vanessa asked, pointing toward an archway.

I glanced around. Other than Vanessa, not a single other person from class was with us.

“Oops,” I said. “Let's go.”

We jogged out of the room to catch up with our classmates, who were checking out an exhibit on Polynesia.

“. . . live in Hawaii today,” our history teacher, Mr. Edwards, finished. He nodded to me. “Good of you to finally leave Greece and join us, Mr. Antonides.”

I gave him an apologetic shrug. “My chariot had a flat.”

I'm usually running late to stuff, so it's handy to keep a pocketful of excuses.

Mr. E smiled and gestured to another exhibit. “Dance is a large part of Polynesian culture. It is a way for them to tell stories, give thanks to the gods, and celebrate life in general.”

“Ha! Check it out.” A guy in our class pointed to a screen showing a video of a Polynesian dance.

I wouldn't say the advice column has any real enemies, but if we did, this kid Ryan Durstwich would be the closest thing. When our very first issue came out, he argued that Brooke, a girl, shouldn't give sports advice. Then he went on to try to take her job at the newspaper, saying he could do better, which ended in an advice-off.
And
every time he catches me reading a book, he makes fun of the title, like referring to
The Wind
in the Willows
as
The Wind from My Butt
.

So yeah, I'm not a Ryan fan.

The entire class gathered to watch the video of the Polynesian men who were hooting and hopping around.

“All the guys are wearing skirts,” Ryan said with a laugh. “They look dorky.”

“Hey!” cried Vanessa at the same time I said, “That's not dorky!”

Everyone's attention shifted from the video to V and me.

“I just started dating a guy from Hawaii . . . Gil Pendleton,” explained Vanessa. “And if he wore a grass skirt, I wouldn't care.” She frowned. “Unless he matched it with the wrong shirt.”

Several people laughed.

“What about you?” A guy next to me, Berkeley Dennis, bumped my arm. “You seem almost as mad as Vanessa.”

“Me?” I repeated.

Okay, so here's the thing.

I'm a Greek folk dancer. Sometimes our costumes have skirts. And tights. And shoes with fluffy pompoms on the toes. It doesn't look very cool, especially for the dance numbers when the guys hold hands and skip in a circle. Only five people at school know my secret, one of them being my sister, Gabby, but only because she dances too.

But nobody else is ever going to find out.

Especially not Berkeley Dennis.

Think of the coolest, sportiest, dudeliest guy you know. Now have him sitting on a pile of money. That's Berkeley.

I mentioned earlier that our advice column was pretty popular, and it gets me a lot of attention from the girls. Needless to say, a lot of guys don't like that. Ordinarily, I wouldn't care, but my best friend, Gus McDade, moved away over the summer, so I've been searching for new
people to hang out with. Berkeley and I have a few classes together, and he helped rescue my shorts from the swimming pool when someone threw them in (seriously, the guys are
jealous
), so he's at the top of my potential friend list. But I had a feeling he wouldn't be if he knew of my frolicking ways.

As soon as Berkeley asked about my outburst, Ryan chimed in.

“Yeah, why does it bother you so much?” he asked with a smirk. “Do you dance around in a skirt too?”

The other kids snickered.

Nope. Nobody else was
ever
going to find out.

“Actually, I agree with Vanessa,” I said in my calmest, coolest voice. “It's important to respect people's backgrounds. Just like I'd never insult
your
family for swinging from trees and scratching their armpits.”

Everyone in the class roared with laughter. Except Ryan.

“Oh yeah?” he said. “Well,
your
family . . . They're . . .”

“Capable of complete sentences?” I finished for him. “Don't worry, Ape Man, you'll get there someday.”

More laughter until Mr. E quieted everyone down. “Why don't we move on to Polynesian art?”

We all followed him into the next room, and Berkeley bumped my arm again. “Way to put him in his place.”

“He's had it coming,” I said. “Believe me.”

He nodded. “Listen, my cousin Alistair's coming to town the weekend before Christmas, and a bunch of guys will be at my house to meet him. You should come.”

I froze in my tracks, causing Vanessa to walk into me from behind.

“Sorry!” she said.

I didn't respond to her. I was too busy staring openmouthed at Berkeley.

“Alistair, as in Alistair Dennis? Your cousin is Alistair ‘Adrenaline' Dennis?” I finally managed.

Berkeley grinned. “Well, to me, he's just Alistair, but yeah.”

“Who's that?” asked V.

“Who's . . .” I regarded her with an expression of disbelief. “He's only one of the best motocross riders ever! He can do a front fender grab with Indian air and end with a no footer on a single jump.”

“Wow, cool!” Vanessa bounced up and down. “What's motocross?”

I held up a hand to block her out and turned to Berkeley. “I would
love
to go, dude.”

He nodded. “I'll have you added to the guest list.”

He hurried to catch up with his friends, and I
turned to Vanessa with a huge smile.

“I get to meet Adrenaline Dennis!” I pumped the air with my fist.

She clapped. “I still have no idea what motocross is!”

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Motorcycle racing. All those other things I mentioned were different tricks.”

“Neat!” She gave me a thumbs-up. “And thanks for helping me stick up for Gil earlier.”

I checked the area and stepped closer. “I wasn't sticking up for him, actually. I was doing it for myself.”

“Oh, right. Because of your . . .” She lifted an imaginary skirt hem and started high kicking.

I sighed. “We don't dance like that, but yes.”

She shook her head. “I don't know why you're keeping this a big secret. I mean, you're dancing in some Christmas show. Everyone's going to find out.”

“I'm not dancing in just any Christmas show,” I corrected her. “I'm performing for Christmas Around the World at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago! And I promise you, nobody from our school is going to go. It would mean expressing an interest in culture.”

Vanessa stuck her tongue out. “You know what? The Three Musketeers were
going
to go, but now we won't.”

The Three Musketeers were what she, Brooke, and Heather called themselves. They've been best friends since kindergarten. Now that Gus was gone, I envied that. The longest other friendship I've had is with Gabby, but she's not exactly one of the guys. Even if I draw a mustache on her, she's still a girl . . . just an angrier one.

“Well, thank you for the support,” I told V, “but I'd rather not have the three of you giggling in the front row.”

“We wouldn't!” she said, looking insulted. Then she stared into space and giggled.

I sighed again. “You're thinking about me dancing, aren't you?”

She stifled her laughter behind a hand. “No. I was thinking about . . . um . . . motocross.”

A girl from our class walked toward us. “Hey, Mr. E says the Polynesians settled Hawaii faster than you two can cross a room.”

“Sorry,” I said. “We were busy picking coconuts.”

“You're so funny!” The girl giggled and then ran back to the rest of the class.

Vanessa rolled her eyes and pushed me forward. “If we had coconuts, I would've knocked you over the head with one long ago.”

I flashed a smile. “What can I say? I've got a way with the ladies.”

Except when it comes to my editor in chief, Mary Patrick Stephens.

Once upon a time I would've described Mary Patrick as a wolverine in a skirt, but she's one of the few people who knows and understands my secret dancing life. I've since downgraded her to a honey badger. Because that's what she constantly does: badger us.

As soon as our history class walked back into the school building, Mary Patrick was waiting by the front doors, tapping her foot at a rapid pace.

“You're going to wear a hole in the carpet, you know.” I pointed to the floor.

She glanced down. “Who says I haven't already?”

“What's up?” asked Vanessa.

“Brooke is being impossible!” She stamped her foot.

“Actually, she can't be impossible, because by the very nature of her
being
. . .” I stopped after seeing the toxic look from Mary Patrick.

Vanessa put a hand on Mary Patrick's arm. “Explain,” she said.

“I asked her to come up with a special advice idea for our holiday issue since winter break is only a couple weeks away. She suggested a column on how to relax because she said I could use it!” Mary Patrick threw her hands into the air.

This time I was smart enough
not
to respond.

“We'll talk to her,” Vanessa promised, pulling me toward the hall.

“Actually, I can't,” I said. “My uncle's picking me and Gabby up.”

“Oh, right!” Mary Patrick said so loudly both Vanessa and I jumped. “Because you're building a house for orphans!” She gave an exaggerated wink.

I winced and stepped closer. “I appreciate the effort at secrecy, but maybe keep the cover-up simple?”

“Gotcha,” said Mary Patrick with another
wink. Then in a louder voice, “HAVE FUN AT THE ZOO!”

I gave Vanessa a pained look, and she stifled a giggle. “I'll talk to
her
too,” she whispered.

With Christmas only weeks away, it was crunch time for dance rehearsals, so Uncle Theo showed up after school a few times a week to take me and Gabby to the studio. Luckily, it was in a building on the edge of town, so no one from school was going to see me, but I still hurried inside every time my uncle parked the car.

“He's so motivated to dance!” Uncle Theo crowed after me that Thursday. “Get your Greek on, my boy!”

I cringed and pulled my gym bag up closer to my face.

Out of my entire family, Uncle Theo is the proudest of our heritage. The man will use any excuse to bring up Greece. One time, I was lacing my baseball cleats, which happened to be
Nikes, and Uncle Theo said, “You know, Nike was the goddess of victory. She's probably the reason you play so well, watching over every pitch you throw.”