Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me Read online

  And throughout our week together—our fun, informative, exciting week—she keeps trying to tell me about the family in Crete. But I keep changing the subject. I can’t explain it; even discovering how fantastic she is, and how nice and easy to talk to, it’s still too scary to think about this big looming family out there waiting to pounce on me.

  I’m just not ready to talk about them. Yet.

  14

  I’ve been trying to describe the marina at Floisvos to Dad, but as usual when he’s working on a new project, he’s only half listening. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he gets so focused on his work that it’s all he can think about. He’s been wearing the same sweatpants and T-shirt for three days, sitting at what used to be the living room table but is now officially his work space. He’s acquired a scratchy-looking beard and is starting to smell a bit . . . well, ripe.

  “You drag me all the way to Greece to get in touch with my roots and now you don’t even want to hear about it? What kind of father are you?” I ask, pretending to be stern.

  Dad sighs and surveys his makeshift desk covered with papers and strips of what look like pieces of film. “The kind who has to sift through a thousand miles of microfiche looking for buried treasure. The kind who may never get up from this chair again. The kind whose wonderful daughter should be understanding and maybe also make him a sandwich?”

  I give him my best furious glare, but he’s already focused on his papers again. “Exceptionally Understanding Daughter Stores Latest Moment of Injustice Away for Future Use,” I grumble as I head toward the kitchen.

  I’m bursting to tell Dad about Yiota and how great she is, not to mention all the places I’ve been exploring. Of course, I realize the Acropolis has been around for a while and he’s seen it before. But still, now that we’re in Athens and I’m actually having fun, I want to share it. Especially since this little respite from reality will be over in a few days and I’ll be at my new school, trying to find my way.

  But I also know that when Dad’s finished, all his effort will be worth it. And I’ll be part of it, which is exciting.

  I bring Dad a hastily made sandwich and a big bunch of grapes (I still haven’t been able to find Hot Pockets at the grocery store) and put it on the edge of his “desk.”

  “Ah!” Dad looks up at me and takes a horribly chewed-up pen out of his mouth. “Darling Daughter Serves Adoring Pater in Time of Need, Will Someday Be Handsomely Rewarded!” he headlines.

  “I accept cash, you know,” I offer, perching on the arm of his chair.

  “Nice try.” He grins, sticking the pen back in his mouth and making a quick correction on the keyboard. He looks up again, leaning his head against my arm affectionately. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy, Ace. I just have to get the preliminary stuff in shape before I start interviewing . . . but I do want to hear more about Yiota and what you’ve been up to. Are you feeling totally neglected? Tony is.”

  I look over at Tony, who couldn’t look more disinterested in the two of us, much less neglected. “I’m okay. I just . . .” I consider mentioning my nerves about school, or telling him how Yiota keeps trying to talk about the relatives on Crete . . . but he’s obviously on a roll with his work. “I just have to run,” I finish. “I’m going to finally Skype with Hil and Matty.”

  “The Dynamic Duo, eh?” Dad says.

  “God, you’re old,” I say, narrowly ducking a flying, saliva-coated pen on my way out the door. I holler “Kalispera!” and dash into my room. On the far side of the room is a wall that is not actually a wall at all. It’s sort of a really big, heavy-duty wooden blind—or maybe more like a pegboard?—that goes up and down with a pulley. It leads out onto a terrace. (Definitely the most amazing thing about this apartment. I mean, private outdoor space? In my neighborhood in NYC, you get a fire escape and consider yourself lucky.) I haul the wooden panel all the way up so I can take in the view of the sky, bright blue and cloudless as usual. I like to do that even when it’s kind of chilly; I just put on a scarf and big sweatshirt and pretend it’s not cold, because I’m in Greece and it’s supposed to be warm here, dammit. In the morning the light streams in through the little holes and wakes me up—so much nicer than an alarm clock.

  I flop onto my bed and open my laptop. It’s about eleven A.M. in NYC. We haven’t been able to coordinate a group session since the first week I got here because of the time difference (seven hours earlier in NYC) and their having tons of schoolwork and commitments while I’ve been gallivanting around Athens with Yiota. E-mail is simply not the same. Thank God Hilary found out about a phone app that lets you send international texts for free, or I would most likely die. When my dad found out how much data plans cost in Greece I thought he was going to die, and if I couldn’t text Hil all day as usual, the results would be catastrophic.

  Actually, my swanky new Greek cell phone is probably cheaper than my American one—the plans are prepaid, so you can’t go over. The plan itself is called Whatsup, which I think is hilarious.

  Op Ed: Life Before Skype—Was It Worth Living?

  For today’s media-savvy teens, a world in which it took weeks, hours, or mere minutes to communicate seems impossible. The idea of sending a letter overseas and having to wait for one in return instills a look of horror on the average e-mailer, who is used to immediacy being a key factor in correspondence.

  “If I have to wait three minutes for someone to text me back, I pretty much lose my mind,” said Matthew Klausner, 16. “The thought of not having e-mail and Skype is . . . traumatizing. I can’t even contemplate it.”

  Mr. Klausner and his peers aren’t the only ones affected, of course. Older people who grew up with landlines and long-distance pen pals have quickly gotten used to being in touch 24/7, and most of them wouldn’t go back.

  “Of course, I loved getting letters when I was young. And the anticipation of waiting for an exciting phone call can’t be matched with a text,” said David Lowell, 62. “But do you have any idea how much easier it is to do research online instead of relying on library resources alone?”

  Check out the next installment in our technology series: “Walking, or Segways for Everyone?”

  Filed, 11:54 p.m., Athens.

  I see Hilary’s screen name pop up in a window. One click and there’s her familiar face, with Matt’s right next to it. Tears prick up behind my eyes; even though I’ve only been gone a couple weeks, and I haven’t exactly been miserable, I miss them so much it’s physically painful. Also physically painful is the high-pitched screech they emit simultaneously when my picture pops up on their screen.

  “Ohmygod, you will not believe what has been going on here,” Hilary starts, with Matty overlapping her.

  “Scott and I have been hanging out—not at Starbucks, mind you. He is just . . . he’s dreamy, Zona, and I don’t use that word lightly. You wouldn’t even—”

  “Ben has been really cool and he loved the ideas I pitched for the new issue. I mean, most of them were yours, so of course he did, but I suggested covering the new exhibit at the MoMA and he—”

  “—haven’t kissed or anything, but I almost don’t care. It just feels so good to have a crush on someone who might actually like me back, you know? I’m just so sick of—”

  “—finally talk about art, and he said I could possibly illustrate the article—”

  “—going to the gym more? What if he invites me to Fire Island?”

  Hil turns to Matt. “If you bring up Fire Island one more time . . .”

  “Developing a six-pack takes time, you know. It’s already mid-January! I—”

  “He is not taking a high school kid to Fire Island!”

  “Zona’s younger than I am and she’s been hanging out with her cousin, and she’s twenty! Zo, tell Hilary how—”

  I can barely understand what they’re saying, but I’m bursting with happiness to hear their voices and
see that nothing has really changed. And to see that they genuinely miss me. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that a teensy slice of my brain was terrified that I’d leave and they wouldn’t even be sad.

  “You guys, hang on!” I cut in, laughing. “I can’t respond to six things at once! Hil, that is fantastic—I knew he’d love the art angle, and it’s so you. Matt, what do you mean you’re ‘hanging out’ with Scott? Like, in his apartment? I don’t know how I feel about that. Do your parents—”

  “My parents?! Woman, give me a break. As long as I occasionally show up for dinner and don’t wear makeup and a dress to the table, those two don’t even remember I live at home. They have my brothers to mold, which is fine by me. And yeah, he lives in Hell’s Kitchen, which is basically the new—”

  “Zo, you would not believe how hard English Lit is already. Sinett gave us a ten-page—”

  “Are you seriously talking about homework right now?!” Matt says. “Zona, tell us more about Yiota. Am I saying that right, like Yoda from Star Wars? Oh, and give us a Skype tour of your apartment! Can you see the Acropolis from your terrace?”

  It’s almost like they’re in the room with me: Matty would be sprawled out on the floor playing with one of the 3-D brainteaser puzzles he can solve in five seconds, Hilary maybe sitting at my desk sketching the Athenian skyline on a little notepad, all while talking nonstop.

  But they’re a million miles away.

  The reality sinks back in that I won’t see them for at least five more months. In just a few days I’m not going to be palling around with cool cousin Yiota, either. I’m going to be at a school with strangers, who are probably all as cliquey and drama-obsessed as the kids at my old school. And I’ll have to navigate it all by myself.

  I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat and pick the computer up. I give them a 360-degree tour of the room, then go out to the terrace to show them the gorgeous sky.

  “Just like New York, right, guys?” I quip.

  “We hate you,” Hilary grumbles. “It’s been sleeting for two days and it’s freezing and gross. I’m seriously wearing about six sweaters right now. We were going to go check out this stand-up thing at Sweet later, but Matt doesn’t want to ruin his hair by going outside.”

  “Yeah, I’m the one who doesn’t want to ruin my hair,” he says, rolling his eyes at me. (Hilary is obsessed with maintaining her curly, untamable hair.) “Listen, Zo, you okay? You seem a bit . . . subdued.”

  “I’m . . .” What do I say? Telling them I’m scared for school won’t change anything—they can’t magically be here to save me from being alone. “I’m fine.”

  Hil and Matt look at each other, then back at me. “You know you’re going to be fine, right?” Matt says. “You’re awesome, and smart, and fantastic, and—since you’ve let fabulous us”—he pokes Hilary in the arm, and she smacks his finger away—“rub off on you, you’re way less shy than middle-school Zona. So don’t freak out.”

  “Just be your amazing self, Zo. Do your thing like always,” Hilary adds.

  I sigh. I can’t fool them, obviously. I feel the lump in my throat getting bigger as I fight back tears. I’m so lucky to have two friends as supportive and wonderful as my besties are . . . I don’t care if I ever meet another person for the rest of my life, honestly. Except that I have to, and I have to hope that at least one of them likes me—or at least wants to sit next to me at the lunch table.

  “I just feel so discombobulated, you guys.”

  Hilary smiles, not-so-subtly mouthing SAT Prep Mode to Matt. I pretend I don’t see her and continue.

  “Sure, maybe my cousin turned out to be cool, but what if she’s just an exception? Maybe the rest of the family is divisive and hateful! What if my school’s full of snobs who don’t like strangers, or everyone there is obsessed with, like, Greek goth metal—”

  “Is that an actual thing?” Matty interrupts.

  “—or something and I don’t fit in and have to sit alone?”

  “Zona,” Hilary says, “no entire school is any one thing, and you know it. And even if they are, I have no doubt you can research the hell out of Greek goth metal and talk about it all day long. So stop panicking. You will make a friend. Maybe even two!”

  “They won’t be as awesomesauce as we are, of course,” Matty chimes in. “But they’ll be okay for a few months. Now, tell us more about Athens! I thought it was going to be a ghost town, but it sounds pretty rad.”

  I settle onto a lawn chair on the terrace with the computer in my lap. Tony pads out and flops down next to me with a large wheeze of contentment. I pat his head affectionately, and he starts chewing on the leg of my jeans.

  “Yeah,” I say to my friends, who are so far away, yet still so close to me. “It really isn’t what I thought it’d be like at all.”

  15

  Suddenly there’s no more time left to run around Athens playing visitor—or new resident, anyway. It’s my first official day at the Greek International School.

  According to my handy brochure, it’s K–12, state of the art, has students from all over the world (including Greek kids who want a better education than the public schools offer), everyone is required to speak fluent English . . . and I don’t want to go.

  Please let me find one person to hang out with, I think as I sit on the train clutching my backpack against my knees. Just one. I feel strongly that the universe should grant my request, especially since I didn’t also wish for there to be a super cute guy who will immediately fall in love with me. That has to count for something, right?

  I get off at my stop, check the map on my phone for the eighteenth time, and start walking through a small plaza. I can feel my heart racing and I try to tell myself to calm down: It’s just school, it’s just what you’ve been doing for pretty much your whole life, only in a different place. Talking to people is not hard, and you will be fine. Pretend it’s all research for a story.

  My internal pep talk isn’t helping. My mouth is dry and my palms are wet. I try to imagine Hilary and Matty walking beside me. Trying to calm my nerves, I think of the most complicated vocabulary words I can: Abnegate. Rapacious. Extrapolate. Persiflage. I turn down a little path and come to a massive gate; it reminds me of prisons I’ve seen in movies.

  This doesn’t look very promising at all.

  I walk past a security guard booth and into a big courtyard with a lawn surrounded by a bunch of buildings. Little kids with giant backpacks are being herded by teachers, older kids are in clusters comparing homework and laughing. It looks . . . well, it looks a lot like my school in Manhattan, actually. I relax a bit.

  I have only a vague idea of where I’m going as I try to find the administrative office to get my schedule and check in as a new student. I get sucked in to the sea of students who, as I look more closely, all appear to be dressed like the kids back home. Another notch of tension dissipates—at least I won’t be the weird new kid dressed totally wrong.

  For the first time since I got to Athens, everyone around me is actually speaking English. It’s crazy how that sounds strange all of a sudden, being able to understand people’s conversations and not just letting the sounds drift over me.

  When I get to the third floor, I ask a tall girl where to find the admin office, and it turns out I’m actually in the wrong building. I feel like an idiot, but she tells me her name is Maria and offers to walk me over to the right place, which is really sweet. I feel less awkward having someone to walk with.

  “You just moved here?” she asks in totally unaccented English.

  “For the rest of the year, yes. I mean, not permanently,” I stumble.

  “Oh, interesting. Parent’s job or something?”

  “My dad’s, yeah. He’s a—” Before I can explain, Maria’s cell rings in her bag.

  “Sorry—forgot to turn it to vibrate. Hang on.” She fiddles with her phone for a s
econd, and by the time she looks up at me again, we’re outside.

  As we head into the correct building, an older woman points at her wrist as if to say Don’t you miscreants know you’re late for class? but Maria just smiles and we turn down a corridor. The walls are covered with pictures painted by little kids.

  “They moved the admin offices to the Lower School last year—it’s confusing,” Maria explains when she sees me looking. “Anyway, here you are. Good luck—I’m sure I’ll see you around. I gotta run to class.” And with another big smile, she’s gone.

  Well, at least she was nice. And I’m not lost. So far, so good.

  This Just In: School Is Pretty Much School, Meets Expectations

  Zona Lowell was both relieved and slightly disappointed today when she received a class schedule, map, syllabus, and school handbook that were almost identical to the ones she had at her high school in New York City. Additionally, as she went about her first day of classes, she discovered that 15- and 16-year-old kids are pretty much the same everywhere, as are teachers.

  “I don’t know what I was expecting to be different, exactly, but . . . everyone speaks English and seems nice, they eat in a cafeteria, we have gym class . . . It’s just normal. Kind of confusing and overwhelming, but still, you know—it’s just school.”

  Hilary Bauer and Matthew Klausner, former classmates of Ms. Lowell’s, were unavailable for comment, but were reported as looking “extremely smug.”

  Filed, 11:08 a.m., Athens.

  I was assigned a buddy to take me around the first few days, a girl who is in all my classes. She’s really nice, but kind of a lot. Exactly the type of person who would volunteer to be a buddy: she’s very chatty, involved in lots of activities (which she tells me about at lightning speed every time we change classes), very “on” in general. Her name is Artemis, which I had no idea was an actual name outside of The Odyssey, and she’s pretty great about introducing me in every class. Her little speech about my being from New York City and living in Greece just for the rest of the year saves me from having to do anything at all except smile and sit down. Basically, my dream come true.