Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me Read online

  By the end of second period I’ve figured out that Artemis is the Tracy Flick of our grade. She’s the girl who always raises her hand, always points out other kids’ mistakes (or the teacher’s), and is never late or skips an extra credit project or doesn’t run for student government. Like the super nerdy guy who asks too many questions and makes the other kids groan, or the kid who flat-out refuses to pay attention in class and gets sent to detention every other day, every grade in every school has an Artemis. I wonder briefly if being associated with her will be bad for my street cred, but then remember I don’t actually have any and get over it. After all, she is (at this point) the only person I know at all.

  But as glad as I am to have someone answering my questions and making sure I don’t get lost, Artemis is definitely not someone I would choose to hang out with. She’s nice enough, as I said, but just . . . too much. I can’t process her. So I’m not that distressed when she tells me she has to run to her locker after fourth period, but she’ll come find me later.

  As I drift into the cafeteria (easily found by following the masses on their way there), I realize it doesn’t really matter that I don’t have anyone to sit with. I have a cell phone to play with, a book I can pretend to read (or even actually read), and a million new pages of school stuff to memorize—the layout of the campus, the order of my classes, my teachers’ impossible-to-pronounce names. All I have to do is get food without humiliating myself and find a place to perch and I’ll be set.

  I get in line and am immediately crestfallen. It’s not like I expected the food to be amazing, but when I look at my choices, I don’t really know what anything is. No grilled cheese sandwiches or plain pasta here; everything is covered with olives or weird breading or drenched in mysterious sauce. I can practically feel the people behind me growing impatient, so I step out of line with an empty tray, looking around desperately for a nice safe granola bar or potato chip section.

  “Not too appetizing, is it?” a girl behind me says. I turn, not entirely sure the comment is directed at me. Sure enough, there’s a pretty dark-haired girl holding a paper bag. “I hate heavy food. You want to share my PB&J?”

  “I—I don’t want to take your—” I start, surprised.

  “Oh, I’m really not that hungry today. Had a big breakfast, so . . .” She shrugs. “Anyway, you’re in my history class. I’m Lilena. Lilena Vobras. I love your earrings.”

  “I’m Zona. And thanks,” I say, my hand instinctively going up to my right ear. The earrings are made out of soft leather that’s copper on one side and bright blue suede on the other, and they’re shaped like lightning bolts. I wore them for good luck. “My best friend makes them,” I continue, falling into step with Lilena as she heads for a table near the windows. “My best friend at home, I mean.”

  By now we’re standing beside a table full of kids, some of whom I recognize from my classes. Lilena slides into an empty seat. “Do you want to sit down?” she asks me. So I do.

  The other kids stop talking and look at me, but not in a suspicious, who’s-the-girl-invading-our-table way. Lilena points to each person in turn, making introductions. The school population is really diverse, and this lunch table is no exception. Everyone seems friendly and totally cool with my joining them. I guess I was expecting more typical cliquey cafeteria behavior, and my shoulders relax yet another small notch.

  Lilena opens her lunch bag and takes out a sandwich, an orange, and a bottle of water. She gives me half the sandwich and the orange, and when I protest she reminds me about her big breakfast. I’m so hungry that finally I just take it. I notice the two girls sitting across from me exchanging a look, but it passes so quickly that I figure it’s probably nothing.

  “So, you’re from New York, yes?” asks a guy whose name I’ve already forgotten. He has an accent that I can’t place.

  “Yes, born and raised,” I answer around a bite of peanut butter. I haven’t been able to find regular peanut butter in the grocery store near our apartment—does Lilena have a secret stash? Also, I can’t believe I just said “born and raised” out loud. I hate when people do that, like they have to prove they’re cool enough to be from New York. Ugh. I remind myself to chew and swallow and also to breathe.

  “What about you?” I ask him—Nikos! Nikos is his name!—in an attempt to recover.

  A girl with a blond pixie cut across from me giggles. “Where isn’t he from?” She pokes him in the arm. “Portugal, Arizona, Indonesia, Dubai, Greece . . .”

  Nikos smiles at her. “You forgot Italy, but that was otherwise pretty good. Have you been writing a blog about me, Ashley?” I like the way he talks, and his accent makes more sense to my ears now—it isn’t really from anywhere, more like everywhere. I wonder if he and Ashley are a couple, the way they tease each other. Nikos looks at me. “My father works for a world bank. We’re on a free world tour, as my mother likes to say.”

  I laugh. “So you were born in Portugal?”

  “Yes, but we’re Greek. My mother insisted we come back to Athens, finally. That was when I was in eighth grade.”

  “Yeah, now we’re stuck with him!” Lilena chimes in, and everyone at the table laughs. She’s only nibbled around the edge of her half of the sandwich and is sort of playing with it by rolling bits of the bread into tiny balls. Oh, how I wish I were eating it instead! I try not to think about it.

  “Here you are!” I hear over my shoulder. Artemis. I turn around and smile, unsure whether I should get up and go with her or what. I sort of feel like her project, but I was just starting to get to know these new kids, and it doesn’t seem like they’re friends with her.

  To my surprise, Nikos stands up. “Do you want to sit?” Now it’s Artemis who seems torn, as her friend is waving to her from across the room.

  “Oh, thanks, Nikos.” She smiles. “Melody and I were going to go over a paper, actually . . . but you seem good here, Zona. Want to find me after?” I nod, and she wends her way over to her friend. Nikos sits back down.

  “That was nice of you,” I say to him. I can’t imagine one of the guys at home being so polite; Matty’s really the only civilized boy in our school as far as I’m concerned (Ben Walker doesn’t count, as he’s in his own category). Of course, Matt just loves to remind me and Hilary that he prides himself on being a feminist, which, according to him, means letting women stand instead of offering his seat. God, I miss that little jerk.

  Nikos shrugs, looking away. “It’s nothing.”

  The girl next to Ashley pipes up. She has a very cute, very high-pitched voice and an English accent. “We don’t really hang out with Artemis outside of school, but she’s fine. I mean, we don’t have cliques here like in the States. No one gets chased away from the lunch table like in Mean Girls or that sort of thing.”

  I feel myself blushing, as though I’m somehow responsible for the reputation of American teens being jerks. Also because it’s exactly what I’d been thinking. If I went over to a lunch table where I didn’t usually sit at home, most likely no one would offer me a seat and it would be weird. But then again, I would never do that.

  I’m mentally forming an idea for an article about cafeteria politics in different countries when Lilena leans over. “Yeah, I was surprised, too, at first. I got here a year ago, from Chicago. My family moves around a lot, and it really is different that way. People are just kinda friends with everyone here. It’s very cool, actually.”

  “We read about bullying in the States and it’s just so odd,” the British girl adds. “Did you have that at your school?”

  “Wow, uh . . . that’s a pretty intense lunch topic, um . . .”

  “Betony,” Ashley says helpfully.

  “Bethany?”

  “Betony,” she corrects me. “Just like Bethany, but no h. It’s a flower. No one ever gets it right, so don’t feel bad.”

  “Betony,” I say slowly, making sure I have it. So fa
r it’s the first tricky name that I’ve successfully said out loud, so I feel kind of proud of myself. (Even if it’s probably a British name and not a Greek one. Still counts.) “Anyway, bullying is . . . well, it happens, yeah. Someone actually committed suicide at a school near the one I go to. People can be . . . well, they can be really mean to each other. Our school paper did a whole series of articles last year about it, actually, talking about the history of bullying, new awareness, how social media affects kids . . .”

  “It just seems like things are pretty out of control in the States with that kind of thing,” Ashley interjects.

  “Well, you can’t always believe everything you read. Journalists should be unbiased, obviously, but you can only use the information you have.” I sense that I’m losing them. “I mean, Athens isn’t what I expected at all based on what I’d read before I came here.”

  “Really? What did you expect?” Nikos asks.

  “Honestly? I was kind of expecting war-torn Syria.” I eat the last orange wedge. “Like, just empty, ravaged buildings and displaced people wandering the streets . . . columns of smoke darkening the sky . . .”

  “You have a very . . . colorful way of speaking, Zona,” Nikos says. I blush and duck my head. I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me or complimenting me.

  “Oh my God, so not like that at all, right?” Ashley’s eyes light up. “Athens is amazing. Best city in the world.”

  Lilena grins at her teasingly. “You’ve lived here your entire life! How would you know?”

  “Because I can tell.” Ashley scowls. “And I’ve been other places. Including New York,” she adds, looking at me.

  “Wait, you’ve lived here your whole life?” I interject. “Are you—”

  “Greek?” Ashley takes a sip of water. “I know, I don’t look it and my name is Ashley, right? But yeah, Greek-American mom and Greek dad. My last name is Papadimitriou. And for the record, I liked New York. So no offense. I just think Athens is better.” She beams. “You’ll have to come out with us sometime. I’ve heard you can’t do anything cool in the States when you’re our age, but here you can do everything.”

  “That at least is true,” Lilena says, nodding.

  “Are we supposed to be having fun? Because all I’ve done lately is work,” Nikos says glumly.

  “We just don’t invite you, that’s all.” Betony giggles.

  Nikos makes a face, like he’s extremely offended. “Well, fine, then! I’ll go hang out with Giorgos!” He calls out across the cafeteria to a guy at another table. “Giorgos, these girls are being terrible to me. Come save me.”

  Ashley and Betony are laughing. Lilena turns to me. “Giorgos is Nikos’s brother—they’re twins. Fraternal, obviously,” she explains when she sees me looking.

  Giorgos turns around, waving for his brother to join him.

  Girl Witnesses Cafeteria Miracle

  It was a heart-stopping moment—not unlike the discovery of the Shroud of Turin—when Zona Lowell, NYC transplant, discovered that a guy in her school is the handsomest boy she’d ever seen in her entire life.

  “Sure, I fantasized that I’d move to Athens and meet a Greek god, but I didn’t think that would actually happen,” Ms. Lowell gushed. “How can that guy be only 15? He’s, like . . . chiseled out of stone, he’s so perfect. I think I’m going to faint.”

  Though she did not faint, Ms. Lowell did confirm that she would treasure that amazing moment when Giorgos Hadjimarkos turned around for the rest of her days on earth. And possibly beyond.

  Filed, 12:08 p.m., Athens.

  Lilena nudges my leg with her leg. “Stop staring, Zona. I know, he’s gorgeous, right? But weird. You’ll see.” Her phone buzzes, and she checks the screen. “Oh, gotta go! I’m meeting someone to work on a project during our free period. See you later?” She scoops up her mangled, uneaten sandwich and empty water bottle and dashes off before I can even thank her again for being so nice to me.

  I sweep the remnants of my lunch into a napkin and stand up, looking around for Artemis. I feel about 60 percent sure I could figure out where our next class is, but there’s no need to push myself. It’s only the first day, after all.

  “So, do you want to?” Betony chirps in her sweet little voice.

  “Do I want to . . . ?”

  “Come out with us sometime. Check out Athens,” Ashley clarifies. “Here, give me your cell number and I’ll text you so you have mine.”

  “I—oh, that’d be terrific,” I say, flustered and pleased. “I mean, great. Yes.” Stop talking now, Zona. Ashley holds out her phone so I can punch the numbers into it. This seems so weird, giving some girl my phone number, like we’re going to go on a date or something. (Also, I don’t remember my phone number and have to look it up. So lame.) But I’m excited at the same time—can I possibly have found a group of people to hang out with on my first day? Hil and Matty will be so proud!

  I hand Ashley’s phone back. “Well, I have to run to class, so . . . I’ll see you guys later? Thanks, um . . . thanks for letting me eat with you.”

  Betony and Ashley shrug and say “No big deal” at the exact same time, which makes them burst into laughter again. I smile, still a bit hesitant to step too far into THESE ARE MY NEW FRIENDS! territory.

  But my phone buzzes in my pocket with a text from Ashley as I walk to class, and for the second time since we arrived here, I’m starting to feel like this might be okay.

  16

  Ashley is true to her word and invites me to join them in the city that first weekend; I still feel nervous, even though they’re so friendly, but I force myself to go. And it’s fun. Not as easy as hanging out with Hilary and Matt, of course, but I didn’t expect it to be.

  So when Lilena offers to show me her favorite spot in Kallithea the following Tuesday after school—like Yiota, she’s found a tiny coffee shop hidden down a narrow side street—I agree right away, despite the crushing amount of homework I have. It was exciting to discover that Lilena lives in the same neighborhood as Dad and I do. It makes me feel another notch less lonely.

  We sit down on rickety iron chairs in the winter sunshine, happy to put our heavy backpacks down.

  Local Café Run By Poorly Disguised Sorceress, Teens Surmise

  Lilena Vobras, schoolmate of recently matriculated GIS sophomore Zona Lowell, was elated to share a hidden gem of the area with her new neighbor.

  “Honestly, I never would’ve noticed this place if she hadn’t pointed it out,” Ms. Lowell revealed. The café itself, which has no name that the girls could ascertain, offers outdoor seating only—regardless of the weather. The ancient blue-tiled tables and mismatched chairs lend it an antique flair. But the real draw is the proprietress, Ms. Lowell explained.

  “It’s run by this super scary old Greek lady who refused to speak to us directly. Instead she slouched over to the table and slammed down cups of coffee and a bowl of wizened grapes—without even asking what we wanted. Then she scurried away again, muttering under her breath the entire time!”

  Ms. Lowell found the dining experience to be “hilarious and fascinating.” We’re sure Zagat would agree.

  Filed, 3:30 p.m., Athens.

  “I’m pretty sure she just cast a spell on us,” I whisper to Lilena as the old lady lurches back inside to what I presume is her secret witch’s lair.

  “She does that every time!” she hisses back. “I can’t ever tell what she’s saying, and Ashley never wants to come here because Betony hates coffee and the wicked witch won’t give her tea.”

  “Can’t Ashley come without Betony? Just to translate?”

  Lilena giggles. “Yeah, right.” Her phone buzzes, and she glances at the screen. “Did you get your quiz back in Chemistry today? Nikos wants to know.”

  “No, not yet, thank God. Ugh, I can’t believe you’ve survived a whole year at GIS already.” I groan, le
aning back in my chair. “I don’t think I’ll make it to the end of one if they keep piling on the work like this. And I thought my school in New York was bad!”

  “I know—it’s crazy, right?” Lilena agrees, taking a sip of her coffee.

  “Do you miss Chicago?” I ask, adding sugar to mine.

  “Um, yeah, I guess. But I only lived there for a year, so it wasn’t really . . . I don’t really keep in touch with anyone from there. I like Athens better. It’s warmer, that’s for sure!” she adds.

  “I didn’t realize you moved around so much. You and Nikos . . .”

  “Yeah, it’s because of my mom’s job. We’ve lived in, like, ten places since I started school, so I’m used to it by now,” she says quickly. “How about you? Are you missing New York, or more excited to be in Greece? I mean, it’s kind of crazy that you have this whole family you’ve never met before!”

  “Well, I do miss New York. A lot,” I explain. “It’s kind of complicated . . . So, what exactly does your mom do? That must be pretty cool, getting to experience so many different cultures and—”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Lilena cuts in. She has a look on her face I can’t quite read, but it isn’t a happy one. She changes the subject back to me again. “Your mom must be happy to be back home. It’s your mom’s side, right?”

  “Yes, but, um . . . my mom died. It’s just me and my dad, so . . . But yeah—it’s her family.”

  Lilena looks stricken. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

  “It’s okay. Of course you didn’t know. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “Thanks.” It’s always such a weird and awful moment telling someone my mom is dead. They always say “I’m sorry,” and I think, Why are you sorry? It isn’t your fault. And then I always say “Thanks,” which makes no sense either, but I don’t know what else to say. Sometimes I wish the person would just say, “Wow, that totally sucks,” so I could say, “It sure does” or “Well, I didn’t know her.” At least that would be honest.