Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me

by Meredith Zeitlin

  And . . . yeah. That’s it.

  But tonight, the universe is clearly sending me a signal: I’m in a strange land, I see this gorgeous guy across a crowded cafeteria on my first day of school, and now we are having our first real meeting on my special night?! Come on.

  I still haven’t figured out why the girls think Giorgos is so weird. It’s true that he kind of keeps to himself, and reads by himself a lot . . . but so do I! Maybe we’re meant for each other.

  In the cab, everyone is asking me what I thought of the bouzoukia. From the front seat Nikos says, “You know, it interests me very much that you came here to see family, but you never mention them. I mean, is it different, staying with your Greek family, or like the same as in New York?”

  Huh. I was much happier thinking about Giorgos.

  “Well, I’m not actually . . . So, there’s Yiota, my cousin. I told you guys about her. But I’ve never, um . . . I haven’t met anyone else in my family.” I exchange a glance with Lilena, who looks at me questioningly.

  Ashley gasps. “Seriously? But I thought—”

  “Yet,” I go on quickly. “I haven’t met them yet—they live in Crete. So I’m going there for spring break.”

  “You don’t sound very excited,” Betony chirps.

  I so do not feel like going into the whole dead mom saga, especially since this is actually the anniversary of said tragic event.

  Lilena comes to my rescue, saying, “You guys, Zona doesn’t want to talk about this stuff. It’s a party! Let’s—”

  The cab screeches to a halt at the curb outside the marina. Saved. I squeeze Lilena’s hand gratefully as we’re clambering out of the backseat. She squeezes back.

  Once we get out of the cab, I sneakily reapply my lip gloss, try to remember Matty’s tips for talking to guys and being myself, and stroll onto the scene looking extremely casual. Or in a way that I think looks really casual. Same thing, right?

  And there he is, sitting with a few other people at a table. I recognize one girl, a senior with long dreadlocks and an eyebrow ring, but the others I’ve never seen before. One of them looks about forty, actually. They have many empty coffee cups and an overflowing ashtray on the table, and they’re all smoking and not talking to one another. Giorgos is underlining something in a very old paperback book. Nikos claps his brother on the back and Giorgos looks up, smiling.

  “Greekgreekgreekgreekgreek,” he says, which I assume means, Oh, Zona is here? Fantastic! Perhaps I’ll take her for a romantic walk along the water!

  He gets up and joins our group, and I think for a second I might just tip over into the water and never be heard from again.

  “Hi, I’m Giorgos,” he says to me. His voice is really deep and growly. He kisses the other girls on both cheeks, then returns to me. “Chronia polla.” I’m pretty sure that means “happy birthday” in Greek, but I choose to believe it actually translates to Zona, I have been stalking you, too. I didn’t approach you earlier because you are so beautiful and I wasn’t sure you were real.

  “Efcharisto,” I say, ambitiously using a Greek word. “We were just at a bouzoukia. There were—”

  “Giorgos, maybe you and Zona should go get some ice cream or something. She loves ice cream, don’t you, Zona?” Ashley says, not very subtly. Also not so subtle is Betony tugging on her sleeve and giggling. Lilena nudges me, and Nikos rolls his eyes at all of us. Giorgos doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring into the distance and rocking back and forth on his toes. I wonder if he’s high. Do people smoke a lot of weed in Greece?

  “Uh . . . yes, I do love ice cream. Especially outside, at night, after eating half a cake earlier.” I smile broadly. Hey, if nothing else, I can take a cue.

  Giorgos shrugs and starts walking toward a little gelato stand. Shooting a panicked/elated look at the girls, I follow him.

  “We’ll get a table!” Lilena calls after us.

  “So, um, are those your friends over there? I think I recognize one of them from school.”

  No response.

  I don’t give up. “So, you and Nikos have lived a lot of places, right? That must be so fascinating, culturally . . . sociologically. Have you ever—”

  “What flavor do you like?” he asks me in his gravelly voice.

  “Whatever you’re having is great. I can be incredibly mercurial when it comes to ice cream.” Oh no. The SAT words are sneaking out; English isn’t even this guy’s first language—he probably has no idea what I’m saying.

  He orders two vanilla cones and looks around the marina again. Then he breathes in deeply.

  “The air is so pungent here, isn’t it?” I say chirpily. “Salt and something floral . . . I love it, don’t you?” Jesus H, Zona. What are you talking about?

  The counter boy gives him the cones, but Giorgos doesn’t hand me one.

  Should I ask for it? Did he forget he’s holding it?

  “So, I know Nikos pretty well, but you and I haven’t, um . . . I mean, I see you’re a big reader. What are you reading?”

  He says nothing, but looks at me steadily and licks one of the cones. I try not to think about his tongue and instead look up at his eyes. Mistake. They are so sparkly, I feel like I’m being sucked into a vortex. Even his shaggy Justin Bieber haircut is adorable instead of lame. I can’t look away.

  Say something.

  “I’m a writer. I mean, I was, in New York, which is where I’m from. You probably knew that—or not. Um. I probably don’t sound like much of a writer right now, huh?”

  “You talk a lot, do you know that?” Giorgos remarks calmly. His jaw, it’s so well-cut, like he was drawn with a felt-tip marker. When he speaks it’s almost as mesmerizing as when he’s not speaking. “You should try to spend more time being quiet, I think so, yes?”

  He doesn’t seem to be insulting me, really; it’s more like he’s trying to figure me out. Though frankly I’d be happy to listen to him insult me all day long. I just want him to keep saying things. I’d like it even more if he said things and then put his hands . . . anywhere.

  He licks his ice cream very slowly, thoughtfully. I may actually pass out.

  “It’s good, you know, to just be, Zona. Can you just be?”

  I have no idea what that means. It sounds like the kind of thing a yogi or a hipster would say. Do they have either of those in Greece? I try to focus on Giorgos’s pink tongue, once again gliding smoothly over the cool, white . . .

  Then, slowly—so slowly that I’m mesmerized and don’t even realize what is about to occur—the hand holding the second ice cream comes up, up . . . over my head . . . and then down. I don’t stop him because I can’t believe it’s actually happening.

  Giorgos places the cone—cold side down—on the top of my head, delicately but firmly. Then he tilts his head to the side like a bird and gazes at me.

  “What the—are you—why would you do that!?” I sputter in disbelief, snatching the cone off. The ice cream, unfortunately, stays put.

  You might never have thought about what it would feel like to have ice cream all over your head—I certainly hadn’t. Answer: it’s freaking cold!

  “I can’t . . . I can’t believe . . .” I grind to a halt.

  He’s still just staring at me. Is this guy nuts or what?

  Suddenly, I start laughing. Everyone is staring at me, and I can’t stop laughing. The ice cream is melting, dripping down the side of my face and all over my hands as I try to wipe it off, and it’s cold, and sticky, and I’m still laughing, so hard I think my insides are going to burst.

  “See?” Giorgos says calmly. He swallows the last of his cone. “It’s okay. Just be. Just like that.”

  He goes over to the counter, then hands a bunch of napkins to me. I start to wipe my hair, but it’s a disaster there’s no help for. I’ll have to shower to get this mess out.

  “I don’t thi
nk having an ice cream cone on your head is the key to the universe. In fact, I’m not sure why I’m laughing instead of punching you right now,” I say, balling up the soggy napkins.

  “It’s because you’re not thinking about meaningless stuff, that’s why. You’re chilled out.”

  “Oh, I’m definitely chilled out.”

  “That is the key to the universe, Zona.” Giorgos takes his cigarettes out of his pocket and shakes one out. “You want?”

  “Thanks, but I don’t smoke. Also, I’m covered with ice cream, so I’m pretty sure I need to go home. But thanks for the life lesson, Giorgos. It was . . . real.”

  “You’re okay, Zona.” He nods, inhaling smoke as he lights up. “I like you.”

  I extricate a knit hat from my bag and shove it over my disgusting hair. At the table, the girls are cracking up, but not in a mean way—more a “We tried to tell you!” way—and Nikos is shaking his head. Giorgos is still smoking by the water, looking into the distance, rocking back and forth again.

  I thank the others for an amazing and totally unique Sweet Sixteen experience. I promise to hug them properly when I’m not, you know, covered with vanilla ice cream.

  • • •

  Obituary: Death Of First Official Greek Crush Confirmed

  It was with a heavy heart this evening that Zona Lowell, 16, said good-bye to her love for Giorgos Hadjimarkos on the pier in Floisvos. Following months of stalking him around school while imagining shared conversations and cozy makeout parties, Zona had no choice but to admit that theirs was a relationship that could never be.

  “I’ve obviously heard that boys flirt by doing weird things,” Ms. Lowell explained, “but this wasn’t like that at all. He really is just . . . odd. I mean, he put ice cream on my head. Plus he’s a smoker—nail in the proverbial coffin.”

  We applaud Ms. Lowell for keeping her chin up during this dark time and hope she finds another object for her affections soon.

  Filed, 11:23 p.m., Athens.

  23

  I follow Lilena’s directions to the nearest train, not wanting to pay the fare for a cab by myself. I’m very sticky but mostly bemused; it’s always nice to solve a mystery, I suppose. And who was I kidding, anyway? Giorgos was no more interested in me than Ben Walker ever was.

  I resolve not to get depressed about dumb guys on my birthday—after all, the day isn’t over yet! I look up at the beautiful night sky, lit by stars and the glow of lights from the marina.

  Pretty nice place to spend a birthday.

  As I approach the station I see a familiar pair of metallic green glasses sitting next to a camera bag on a bench. They look just like Alex’s, but I don’t see him. How weird. I turn back around and spot him perched on a low wall, camera against his face. I’m tempted to run—do I really need to be seen by anyone else I know with ice cream all over my head?—but it’s such a funny coincidence, running into him again at a random train station, that I feel like I have to say hi.

  I yank the hat farther down to make sure my disgusting hair is covered, then wait until I’m sure he isn’t about to take a picture and step into the frame.

  “Hi again,” I say.

  He pulls the camera away from his face. “Miss New York Times! Are you stalking me or something?” he says, hopping down.

  “I could ask you the same thing.” I grin. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without his glasses on, and he looks awfully cute. This night gets more and more interesting, I think.

  “You caught me,” he says, walking over to the bench. He puts his specs on, wiggling his nose to get them situated right. “I like to shoot without them sometimes, just to mix things up; I let the camera do the focusing instead of my eyes. I dunno—just an experiment.” He shrugs.

  “Clever,” I say. “I don’t know much about the actual art of photography, honestly. But I like the idea of it.”

  “Thanks,” he replies, smiling. “I guess I’ll find out when I go through them. Getting good pics at night is hard anyway, so I’m just making it harder on myself. You know—for fun.”

  We both laugh, and he picks up his bag. “What are you doing over here? And what’s with the hat? It’s not that cold.”

  My hand flies up to my head. “Oh, I was with some friends celebrating my birthday at the marina. We went to a bouzoukia first, which I’d never been to before.”

  “Oh, nice!” he says excitedly. “Did you dance and throw roses and everything? Happy birthday, by the way.”

  “Thanks!” I can tell that I’m blushing, because my cheeks feel warm. “Yes, we did the whole bouzoukia thing. It was pretty awesome. And the hat . . .” I pause, trying to think how much to share. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “Really? Now I want to hear it—no one’s ever told me a long story about a hat before, I don’t think. Wanna grab a bite or a drink or something?” he offers. “Unless you’re all birthdayed out, that is.”

  “As long as it isn’t ice cream and you don’t make me take my hat off, I’d love to.”

  Teen Has Impromptu Date; Cannot Believe It Is Actually Happening

  Very early Saturday morning, GIS Sophomore Zona Lowell found herself on what seemed to be her first real date—ever—with junior Alex Loushas, also 16. “I’m not even really sure how it happened,” Ms. Lowell was overheard explaining to a schoolmate on the phone the next day. “One second I’m heading for the train with ice cream–covered hair, and the next he’s describing where he grew up in Egypt and telling me he’s only a quarter Greek but his parents really wanted to live in Athens. Apparently he’s always gone to American schools, which is why he has no discernible accent. He asked if I’ve been to all these places around the city where he likes to take pictures, what I got for my birthday, and about my dad’s work. Just joking around and . . . flirting. I mean, really flirting. Not just being nice.”

  It has been confirmed at this time that Mr. Loushas, who is not, according to an inside source, known around school to be a player or an idiot, did in fact request Ms. Lowell’s phone number under the guise of “talking about the newspaper website sometime.”

  She elected to give it to him.

  Filed, 1:12 a.m., Athens.

  Alex insists on waiting for the train with me even though he isn’t taking it himself—he rode his bike. I mention how nice it is to be able to take the train so late at night and not really worry about walking alone, like I would in New York. (Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t in a million years be out at almost two in the morning in New York, alone or otherwise.)

  “Athens is a special place,” Alex says. “A lot of people have the wrong idea about it. Don’t get me wrong—there are problems, obviously. But I like living somewhere where people feel safe at night. Especially pretty girls.” He smiles.

  Wait. He means me, right? Maybe he’s just, uh . . .

  “I—”

  “Pretty girls with ice cream stuck in their hair, I mean,” he adds quickly, cutting me off. Then he leans down and kisses me softly on the lips, just as the train blasts into the station.

  Giorgos? Giorgos who?!

  Best. Birthday. Ever.

  24

  “Zona. This is supposed to be the fun part. You’re just flirting. He obviously likes you. He kissed you. He texted you. That’s fun. Right?” Lilena is chastising me over coffee at our usual café on Sunday afternoon (forty hours and sixteen texts after The Kiss).

  I’ve been driving her—and myself—completely crazy since Friday night. Well, Saturday morning, if I’m being accurate.

  Liking Alex feels different from liking Ben. Ben was sort of . . . further away. And Giorgos was even more of a fantasy. It didn’t feel scary to like him like this does. This feels like I want to cry and laugh at the same time. I barely know Alex—we aren’t even Facebook friends!—but when he kissed me, it was the first kiss I’ve ever had that felt . . . the wa
y it’s supposed to feel. I can’t explain it any other way. I can’t prove it with background information or witnesses. I just know it’s true.

  But now my imagination has been running rampant and leaving my rational self behind. I spent most of Saturday imagining us making out for hours instead of doing my homework. How he’d tell me things he’s never told anyone else and maybe I’d meet his parents.

  And just a split second later, while that happy feeling was still swishing around in my brain, I immediately panicked that he would never call me and it was just a kiss that didn’t mean anything.

  Then I thought: what if he did call me and then he didn’t think any of the things I like are cool and he never talked to me again and it hurt so much that I couldn’t even feel anything after a while? And then what? How would I sit there in school knowing Alex wouldn’t talk to me or look at me if I ran into him in the hall or the caf? What if he started flirting with someone else?

  Of course, none of this had even happened. I was being completely nuts. But I couldn’t stop myself; it was like I had a little hamster on a wheel inside my head and he was just running and running and wouldn’t stop.

  Finally, on Saturday afternoon, when I was in the middle of yet another bonkers meltdown, my phone buzzed . . . and it was him.

  Last night was a really nice surprise, Miss New York Times. See you Monday.

  I actually shrieked out loud in my bedroom when I saw it. Loudly enough that Tony, who looked embarrassed for both of us, sneezed at me and left the room.

  I was happy for all of ten minutes before the hamster wheel started spinning again. What if I texted back the wrong thing? What if he was just being nice? What if . . .

  Hilary wasn’t answering her phone. I couldn’t pull it together to write her a coherent e-mail. So I called Lilena, who at first was super excited to hear about my post-birthday adventure . . . and now may or may not want to throw me into the sea.