Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (12 page)

Getting a cab proves to be much harder in Athens than in New York. I finally give up trying, figuring it'll be easier to just walk to the Metro. I don't feel unsafe anymore—I'm surrounded by people. On weekends, people stay out all night, straight into breakfast. So everything around is open and well lit.

I sit down to wait for the train, wishing I had a book or newspaper to read. I take my phone out to see if I have enough battery to play Angry Birds. I let my mind wander, thinking again about Andrew and how you never know who you might meet when you least expect it.

Then, for the second time that night, I hear an unfamiliar voice over my shoulder.

“Hey. You go to GIS, right? We talked in the library?” I look up and see Alex, the guy who insisted that a website was as good as a physical paper.

“Zona,” I say, scooting over so he can sit. “Alex, right?”

“Yeah. What are you up to? Why are you all by yourself?”

“Oh, I was at a club with some friends from school,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “I just got tired. Still not used to the super late nights, I guess.”

He takes a long sip from a bottle of water. “You want some?”

I shake my head. “I'm good, thanks. So, how about you?”

He slides the bottle back into his backpack, then takes his glasses off and polishes them on his shirt. “It's going to sound incredibly lame, probably. I just like to take pictures at night sometimes.” He takes a fancy-looking digital camera—the kind with an attached lens—out of his bag and passes it to me. “There are some really cool graffiti murals around here, and some abandoned train tracks . . .”

I toggle through the pictures, and they're really good. I can see why he likes taking them at night, with the hazy colored lights from the clubs blending into shadows at the edges of the frame.

“I don't think photography is lame at all. You're obviously really good,” I say, handing the camera back.

“I just meant, you know, guy wandering with a camera, trying to look cool. Bit of a cliché, right?”

I think it's pretty interesting how self-aware this guy is. He seems a lot more relaxed than he did the first time we met. And
I
suddenly feel . . . a lot less relaxed.

I try very hard not to think about the guy I know in New York who loves carrying a camera around, even if it is a cliché. Who also happens to have gorgeous eyes and an easygoing way about him. I will not think about that at all. Because it would be too . . . coincidental. I mean, actually meeting a Greek Ben Walker? Things like that never happen to me. Besides—I'm on a quest to conquer Giorgos the Glorious, lest we forget.

The train pulls into the station and I look up. “Ah, finally,” I say, waiting for Alex to join me as I head toward the doors.

“I'm going the other way,” he says, hooking a thumb at the tracks behind him.

Is that regret I'm picking up in his voice?
I think.

Maybe I'm reading into this.

“I was serious about that website, by the way. I think we can do so much better!” I call from the mostly empty train car. The doors snap shut. Alex waves from the platform. Then my train zips out of the station and I can't see him anymore.

“You went to Gazi?” Yiota asks on the phone the next morning—well, afternoon, technically. “Did you love it? I'm so sad to never see you for so long. I have only been working all the time. I want to go dancing, too!”

I laugh. “It was . . . interesting. No, it was really fun. Just got a little weird at the end.”

“You are okay, yes?” Yiota says, sounding worried.

“Yes, I'm totally fine. It was kind of cool, actually; this guy Andrew rescued me from—” I hear shouting on Yiota's end of the line.

“I am so sorry, Zona, that is my boss yelling, and I have to go back inside. Ugh, I miss our days together! Soon spring break will be here, though, yes? Crete will be so . . .” She mutters something in Greek under her breath. She sounds annoyed. “Sorry again—I'll text you later!”

Well, it was nice to hear her voice for a minute, even if we didn't really get to catch up. Her mention of Crete makes me think of all the questions I still need answers to.

I stretch out on my bed, still tired after staying up so late. Tony pads into my room with his leash in his mouth. I guess Dad is still knocked out, which is good. I'm used to his disappearing into his work, but I don't think it's ever been this intense—maybe because here he's at the mercy of a translator, so he has to get everything ready before he starts interviewing instead of feeling things out as he goes along. Either way, he definitely needs to sleep and recharge.

Despite worrying about him, I'm also proud. How lucky am I to have such a cool dad, who treats me like an equal and trusts me enough to focus on his work instead of micromanaging my life like Hilary's parents do? Of course, she doesn't have to drag them to bed, but it's a small price to pay.

“C'mon, Tone,” I say, clipping on his leash. “Let's see what's happening in Athens today, shall we?”

For the first time since I arrived here, I reach for something besides my keys and cell phone when heading out for a walk: I grab a notebook and pen.

I haven't felt the urge to write—or even just write something
down
—in so long . . . but it feels comforting to have the tools of my trade with me anyway. Just in case.

“So, tomorrow is my birthday. My sixteenth birthday. My sweet sixteen? A day I thought would have a great deal of significance, or at least warrant some kind of small gathering?” I mention casually to Dad over dinner—sandwiches in the living room—on a Thursday night in late March. I can't believe how quickly the time is passing here, but suddenly it's almost spring, with spring break (and Crete) looming ever closer.

Dad doesn't look up from his notes.

“Yes, definitely . . . September 2009,” he mumbles. He makes a squiggly mark on the top page, then throws it on top of about sixty similarly marked pieces of paper on the floor.

“Nope. Not even close. But good chatting with you.” I grab my book and head out to the terrace to text my GIS friends.

Father unmoved by birthday imminence. Want to do something tomorrow eve?

And everyone does. In fact, they seem more excited than I do.

Ashley says she has a great idea that will be very, very Greek. I'm intrigued and a little nervous, but I go with it. Why not?

Don't forget to bring the chocolates tomorrow!
she adds.

Chocolates? What do you mean?
Um, shouldn't someone be bringing me a cake? With sixteen candles and one to grow on?!

My phone rings. “Zona!” Ashley exclaims the moment I answer. “You have to bring chocolates, sweets, whatever you like, for the whole class. It's how we do it here—the person whose birthday it is brings treats.” Ashley sounds incredulous. Apparently I've been missing some vital information. “People have been bringing things in all year, almost every day for birthdays or name days; didn't you notice? I know you ate some!”

“Yes, but . . . I guess I just thought they were being nice?”

“Nope. I mean, maybe, but it's your turn to be nice now. Don't forget!” And she hangs up.

The next morning, after giving away my meager savings to my entire class in the form of chocolates, I float through school on a wave of well-wishes and go home for a lovely dinner with my dad. He has not only left his notes-laden desk to prepare said meal, which is being served on real plates
with
silverware and eaten at the table, but he even showered and dressed to eat! Tony spends the meal happily sitting on my feet. Dad and I share a celebratory glass of raki (an extra-distilled wine from Crete that he loves; I think it tastes like rubbing alcohol, but I have a few sips anyway to be festive), yummy cake from the decadent bakery down the street, and our first real conversation in what seems like forever.

“So. How's school?” he asks through a mouthful of chocolate icing.

“Oh, I dropped out two months ago. I joined a gang and we spend our days looting and pillaging.”

“Hardy har,” he scowls. “Ugh, Ace. I'm sorry—I know I've gone AWOL on you. But I do want to know everything you've been up to. I just—”

“Dad, it's fine. I'm used to being neglected. You can repent by leaving me your fortune in your will.” I sigh heavily, leaning back in my chair, trying to look forlorn.

“Young Writer Abandons the Pen, Takes Up Acting?” he says dryly.

“Actually,” I say, cutting myself another slice of cake, “I wanted to talk to you about that. Seriously, I mean.”

“Why, what's up?” Dad leans closer. “You know, if you want to do something other than write, I'd support you no matter what, right?”

“Yeah, I know—it's not that. It's more like . . . it's not that I don't
want
to write. I still think about it all the time. Just, since I've been here, I haven't had the urge to sit down and
do it.
And I don't know what that means.”

“Zona, you've had a lot going on. You know, back home that was your thing and it came very naturally to you. But part of being a journalist is knowing when you're objectively reporting on a situation and when you're inside the story; sometimes that makes it a better story, and sometimes it makes it not your story to tell. I'm experiencing that myself, with this piece. It's hard to frame something so personal—do I include my experiences? Do I not?”

“But you're doing it,” I interject. “You sit down every day and work. I just sort of . . . I don't know.”

“Yes, but I've been doing this for a long, long time. Believe me, kid, when I was your age I didn't do a damn thing.” Dad tips his head to the side and gives me his lopsided Dad smile. “If you need to just experience things and not write about them for a while, that's okay. The writing will still be there—maybe you'll discover a different kind of storytelling that inspires you. Maybe not. But obviously your brain is busy with just . . . figuring things out. And that's great. I'm really proud of how well you've adjusted to being here. Not that I ever doubted a daughter of mine, of course!”

I laugh, but it feels halfhearted. I want to believe what he's saying, but it's hard to let go of the feeling that I'm slacking off somehow. Even though I know that's kind of silly; I'm a fifteen-—wait, sixteen-!—year-old girl who writes articles, not a real reporter. It's not my job, or even an extracurricular activity anymore. But still . . .

“I think it's time for some
presents,
” Dad says, tossing his fork onto his empty plate. He gets up and retrieves two wrapped boxes from under his chair, a medium-size flat box and a second tiny box. He hands them to me, singing off-key: “Happy birthday, dear Zona . . .”

Two
presents. I have no idea what they could be; usually Dad takes me to a store and lets me pick out something I can't afford to splurge on myself, or we go to an exhibit or a show or something. This is new.

“Well, it's not every day my favorite daughter turns sixteen, is it?” He smiles and I grin back. “These are both things I've been saving for you for a long time. Open that one first.”

I rip into the bigger one as directed, and under the paper is a shiny gray leather box, plain but pretty, like from the Container Store or something. Inside are clippings from newspapers. Old newspapers. As I sift through them, I realize they're front pages from newspapers all over the United States and the world . . . all from the day I was born. March 28, 1998.

“I had a whole network collect those for me, all your biggest fans,” Dad brags, and I imagine all his colleagues and sources finding these and sending them to Dad in the weeks after my birth, and maybe even years later.

“Dad, it's . . .
perfect.
Thank you so much.” I wipe tears away with the back of my hand, a little embarrassed. Dad pushes the smaller box toward me, obviously pleased by my reaction.

I tear the paper off, and it's a jewelry box. Inside is a simple gold band. I don't have to examine it to know that there are initials engraved on the inside:
DL+HM.
It was my mother's.

“You don't have to wear it if you don't want to,” he says hurriedly. “Or you can. Or you could wear it on a necklace . . . I just thought you'd like to have it. To keep with your things, I mean, instead of with hers. Since, you know. We're here now and everything.”

I don't know what to say. Despite being here and getting to know my cousin, I haven't exactly developed this grand connection to my mother. I still don't know her. I'm still not particularly jazzed about meeting the rest of the family. But I know what this gift means to my
dad,
and that's the most important thing. I put the ring back in the little box and get up to hug him. “Thanks, Dad—for everything. I'll keep them all together. Memories from both families, right?”

He looks relieved, and I know I've said the right thing. We clear the dishes and I get dressed to go out with my friends.

My cell rings and I pick it up without looking at the screen, assuming it's Lilena calling for an outfit consultation.

“HAPPY SWEET SIXTEEN!!!!!!!” I hear on the other end of the line. It's Hilary and Matt, and I'm totally surprised. I got hilarious cards from both of them in the mail already, and we usually have Skype chats on (USA) Sunday mornings if we can. “You guys!” I say. “Where are you? Isn't it, like, one
P.M.
or something?”

“We're in the computer lab at school,” Hil says. “You didn't think we'd miss calling on your actual birthday, did you?”

“No, of course not!” I say, trying to put on mascara and balance the phone with my shoulder at the same time. “I just didn't think you'd call now. I miss you guys.”

“What're you doing for the big event?” Matty asks. “Dressing up in a toga and eating fancy yogurt with John Stamos?” Hilary laughs.

“Yeah, exactly,” I reply sardonically. “How'd you ever guess? No, I ate with Dad—I have to show you what he gave me, it's amazing—and now I'm going with my GIS friends somewhere, but I don't know where it's going to be.”

“Oooh, is Gorgeous Giorgos going to be there? Maybe that'll be your
real
gift,” Hilary coos. (Yes, I have surreptitiously taken pictures of him and sent them to my friends. That's called undercover work, thank you very much.)

“Oh my God, I think I'd age twenty years instead of one if he actually spoke to me,” I say, adding another coat of mascara. “Great, now I'm panicking.” I sit down heavily on my bed.

“Oh, cut it out. Guys like confidence. Just be yourself and say what's on your mind,” Matt advises. “Trust me. That's what I did with Scott and now we hang out all the time.”

“
Literally
all the time,” Hilary adds. “Not that I've ever met this guy, by the—”

“Now, let's not go misusing the word ‘literally' just to make a point,” I scold her. “Matty, stop neglecting Hilary. Hilary, you should be focusing on the
Reflector,
anyway. You haven't told me what's—”

“And . . . she's off!” Matt interrupts. “It's your birthday, woman. Go out. Have a drink. Kiss a guy.
Be
the story for a change, huh?”

“Ha, funny—that's what Dad said,” I say thoughtfully.

“About Giorgos?!” Hilary squeaks.

“No, about writing. Because, you guys, I haven't written a thing since I got here. I'm sort of . . . I don't know. I just want to at least know things are going smoothly back home!”

“I'll send you the new issue later,” Hilary promises. “But Matty's right. And so's your dad—go be in the story!”

After we hang up, I audition all my clothes as potential birthday going-out outfits before deciding on the very first thing I tried on. I get a text with directions from Lilena, say good-bye to Dad, and head out for a birthday adventure.