I just got asked out on my first real date! I shrieked inside my head. I couldn’t wait to tell Hilary and Matt and—well, everyone on the planet! I forced myself to remain outwardly calm, however.
“I think that works,” I said coolly. “Can I text you later and let you know?” The bell rang above our heads. “Oh, gotta run,” I said, then boldly leaned in and kissed him on the lips for half a second. No one even saw, but I felt empowered and very brave as I walked away, reminding myself not to look back.
I started grinning like a maniac the second I was out of his sight. So I suppose being back at school hasn’t been too bad.
Less happily, Lilena looks even worse than she did before I went to Crete, and I decide I can’t keep quiet any longer. I have to do something.
The night I got back from Crete, she and I met at our usual blue-tiled table. I was really excited to see her. I wanted to tell her details of my trip and see how she was doing—I felt so sad that she’d been by herself for the whole break, just waiting around for school to start again.
She was standing by the counter when I got to the café. I didn’t even recognize her at first—from behind, she looked like a child. Maybe seeing her constantly had made her thinness less noticeable; not seeing her for a while made it all the more jarring. Her face was gaunt and ashy-looking, her eyes had dark smudges under them, and around her mouth were tiny lines that made her look much older than sixteen. Even her hair looked dull and thin. It broke my heart. I wondered if, without being under the scrutiny of Ashley and her snarky comments—which, while not very helpful, did sometimes goad Lilena into eating a bite or two—she had ingested anything at all besides coffee since I last saw her.
Every time she moved I was sure I’d hear her bones snapping inside her skin. I spent the whole time thinking that the second I got back to the apartment I’d figure out a way to help her.
But it’s hard to know what to do or who to talk to about the situation. Hilary and Matt don’t know Lilena, though they are sympathetic and agree that I have to follow my instincts. Yiota is worried that Lilena might react badly and thinks I should think carefully before I do or say anything. My dad is up to his ears in his latest draft and transcribing translated interviews obsessively—I don’t want to distract him with details of a friend he doesn’t know and a problem he can’t do anything about. I can’t ask Alex about it, because that would be . . . too weird. So I settle on Betony. If I can get her on her own, without Ashley around, she might actually hear what I have to say.
I ask her to meet me to hang out a few days later. I figure I’ll warm her up with some idle chitchat, throw in a few details about Alex to get her interested, and then tell her what I’ve decided is the best course of action. My plan is to ask her to be a united front with me; I hope maybe she’ll get Ashley on board, as well.
But my plan doesn’t work out as I’d hoped.
“Zona. You can’t just . . . you can’t just call someone’s mother! Especially if you don’t even know her!” Betony says, looking shocked.
We’re sitting with mugs of tea at a corner table in Starbucks after school on Wednesday. I picked one in her neighborhood, Glyfada, knowing we’d be unlikely to run into anyone we knew there. I should be home cramming for tomorrow’s exam (especially considering how terribly I probably did on the previous ones), but I know I won’t be able to focus.
“Why not?”
“Because . . . because for one thing, it’s intrusive.” Betony is getting exasperated, which, with her high-pitched voice, would be funny if we were talking about something else. “I mean, what would you even say?”
“I don’t know, maybe something like, ‘Your daughter needs help, please do something’?” I suggest.
“You can’t do that! She’ll be so offended!” Betony looks like I suggested lighting a cross on fire on Lilena’s parents’ lawn.
“Why would she be offended?” I ask, incredulous.
“Because you’re saying there’s something wrong with her daughter!”
“Her daughter is sick!” I practically yell. Heads turn, and I duck my head, embarrassed. I just can’t believe she’s being so obstinate about this. I guess hoping Betony would be on Team Help Lilena was wishful thinking. And forget about Ashley. Am I really going to have to do this by myself?
“I think this is a really bad idea.” Betony sniffs. “It’s like tattling. Like we’re six years old.”
“Would it be like tattling if I called to say she’d been hit by a car?”
“All I’m saying is, I think this is a really bad idea,” she repeats. “But you do what you want. You Americans always do.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” Now I’m pissed.
“Look, I just think Lilena’s going to be furious if she ever finds out. Do you want to lose a friend? Because I don’t.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“I’d rather her not be my friend than have her starve to death! Maybe that’s just very American of me?”
“Oh, come on, Zona. You’re being so overdramatic and twisting everything I say around. Lilena just wants attention, and you’re giving it to her. No one actually starves to death on purpose. I don’t think she looks that different than she did before, anyway.”
I just stare at her. Either she’s being deliberately stubborn for reasons I don’t understand, or . . . I don’t know what.
And what if she’s right?
Maybe this is a terrible idea. Maybe Lilena’s mother will hang up on me—she doesn’t know me, after all—and tell Lilena I called and she’ll . . . hate me forever? Get everyone in school to hate me for the rest of my Grecian tenure? Have me taken to jail by her family’s fancy embassy connections?
I don’t know what to do.
But the thing is, I do know what to do. I just wish I didn’t have to do it all alone.
I tell Betony not to worry about it, that I have to go home and study, and give her a quick hug good-bye.
Slightly Out-Of-Practice Investigator Jumps Back In Feet First
Despite taking time off from the writing biz to have her entire world turned upside down, intrepid reporter Zona Lowell was able to reach back into her journalist’s tool bag today like no time had gone by at all.
“Good reporting means being willing to take on the hard tasks nobody else wants,” Lowell said. “And being meticulous about covering your tracks.”
On Friday, Lowell asked her friend, Lilena Vobras, if she could borrow her cell phone to use its calculator, alleging that her own had a dead battery. After scrolling through Ms. Vobras’s contacts, Lowell was able to text herself the cell phone number of Vobras’s mother. Mrs. Vobras, a high-ranking government official, would have been impossible to reach without this inside path to her contact information.
“I was very careful—I erased the text from her phone as soon as I sent it and scrolled everything back so she wouldn’t know what I was looking at. I triple-checked,” Lowell explained confidently.
At press time, it is unclear whether Lowell was able to reach her target.
Filed, 1:02 p.m., Athens.
40
When I get home after school, I have second thoughts again. But I summon Lilena’s face back to my mind, her sharply defined eye sockets, her sunken cheeks. It hurts my heart.
I take a deep breath and switch roles for the first time: I’m no longer a reporter, but a source.
I will myself not to hang up as the phone rings. Then a woman’s voice answers, sounding rushed and a bit annoyed—probably because she doesn’t recognize the number.
“Yes? Hello, who is this?”
“Hi, Mrs. Vobras, um . . .” I pause, trying to remember my prepared speech. “I’m a friend of Lilena’s. From GIS. I’m calling because—oh, my name is Zona, Zona Lowell, um . . .” All those years of honing my vocabulary, and when I could actually stand to sound smart
and authoritative, I’m reduced to the word um?! This is awful.
“How did you get this number? If you need Lilena, she—”
“No, no, Mrs. Vobras, I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous. I . . . I called to talk to you. About Lilena. I’m worried about her. She doesn’t eat, Mrs. Vobras, and I think . . . I think she may have an eating disorder. She’s so thin now, and I don’t mean to be ratting her out, I just . . . I’m really concerned. I . . . I didn’t know what else to do.”
The total quiet on the other end of the line seems to stretch on forever. She’s going to hang up on me. I can feel it. Then:
“I thought I was the only one,” she whispers. “No one else has . . . I’ve been so busy, so I thought, if no one else noticed, maybe . . . because . . .” She takes a ragged breath, and I wonder if she’s going to cry, but she doesn’t. “Because no one said anything, you understand?”
“Yes,” I say in a small voice. “But I’m saying something. Because I think she’s really sick, Mrs. Vobras. I think she needs help.”
Mrs. Vobras clears her throat, and her voice snaps back to all business. “Okay. Well, thank you, Zona. I’ll make sure she gets help, now that—yes. Thank you for calling. I’m sure it wasn’t an easy thing for you to do.”
“Please, um, please don’t tell her it was me, okay?”
“No, I certainly won’t. Okay, thank you. Good-bye.” She hangs up.
I press “End” on my phone and stare at it for a while. When you’re writing a story, it’s pretty easy to tell when you’re finished and when you’ve got it just right. When you’re a source, it isn’t easy to tell at all. There’s nothing to turn in or edit. You just have to wait to see what happens.
• • •
I don’t see or hear from Lilena at all over the weekend. I’m scared to reach out, and also scared that her not reaching out to me means she knows. I run the conversation through my mind on an endless loop, telling myself I did the right thing, but unable to stop the doubt from creeping in.
I meet Ashley and Betony at one of the gigantic state-of-the-art malls that keep popping up in Athens; this one was built on the site of the 2004 Olympic stadium, which led to a huge real estate and finance scandal. (My dad has devoted a whole section of his research to the mall.) We window-shop for a few hours (I can’t afford anything in these places, but they are sparkly and shiny and fun to explore), and the girls don’t mention Lilena, so I don’t, either. But of course I’m wondering where she is and if they’ve talked to her.
But I don’t want to give myself away.
Even on my date with Alex, I’m distracted. I try not to let my thoughts wander—which should be easy, considering there’s a cute guy who seems to be perfectly content to listen to anything I have to say (when he’s not trying to kiss me, that is)—but it’s hard. I just wish I knew what was going to happen, and that I could be sure my friendship with Lilena was going to be okay.
• • •
At school on Monday, my heart is beating so fast and loud that I’m sure everyone around me can hear it. Lilena isn’t in first period. By lunch, the rumors have started spreading. Rumors that most likely aren’t rumors—everyone is saying she’s been sent to a treatment facility. Instead of being happy that she’s getting help, all I can think about is whether everyone knows what I did. I keep reminding myself that I did a good thing, out of concern and care for my friend . . . so why do I feel so guilty?
By the end of the day, I can’t take it anymore. I don’t even hang around to see if Alex will come say hi at my locker; I rush outside to find a quiet spot where I can text Lilena.
Are you okay? Missed you at school today.
I pretend like I don’t know a thing. Like no one was talking about her. Like maybe she’s got a bad cold and I’m checking in, that’s all.
After two minutes, I get a reply.
GO TO HELL, TRAITOR.
I’ve never heard Lilena talk like that, ever. I can’t believe her mother threw me under the bus. My stomach turns inside out.
Sometimes, doing the right thing means losing everything. Journalists learn this every day—it’s nothing new. But it’s new to me.
And it hurts so much.
At home I fling myself into my room, feeling certain no one has ever felt as bad about anything as I do about Lilena hating me. I want to call Hilary, but she’s in school. I’m considering telling my dad everything, even if he has no idea what I’m talking about, when my phone rings.
It’s Matty, who should also be in school. When I answer, he’s crying. I’ve never heard him cry before, and it stops me cold. Maybe there is someone who feels worse than I do right now.
“Scott rejected me. Outright,” Matty sputters through tears. “I tried to kiss him last night, I thought after all this time, I just . . . and he pushed me away, Zona. He pushed me away.”
“When did you—”
“He said he was flattered, but I’m way too young for him,” he continues. “He didn’t even let me . . . I just wanted to kiss him. I’m totally in love with him, and all he can think about is age—he’s not even that much older! I didn’t think he thought of me like some stupid kid. I thought we were friends. I thought . . . I thought he just didn’t want to rush things, I don’t know . . .”
“Matty, I’m so sorry. But was he at least nice about it? He could’ve been a jerk,” I say. “Or worse, he could’ve hooked up with you and then ditched you and you’d feel twice as bad. Right?”
I am trying very hard not to say He is too old for you! right now. Because that wouldn’t be helpful. And my heart aches for Matt—I know how it feels to like someone you can’t have. And I know how much he wanted Scott.
“I guess.” Matty’s calmer now, sniffling. “It just felt so patronizing, you know? He was like, ‘You should be with someone your own age, who’s having the same kind of experiences you are.’ Then he said a bunch of crap about how cool it is that I’m out and confident with who I am, and how when he was my age he was really confused and closeted and he wishes he’d been more like me. Basically, he just isn’t into me.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Whatever. How was the rest of Crete?”
Matty loves to suddenly slam the door on a topic, but I’m not ready to let this one go—even though he could just hang up and end it if he feels like it. “Matty, don’t change the subject. Look, I don’t think Scott was being patronizing. I think he was probably being serious and trying to give you advice. He obviously cares about you and admires you. Couldn’t he be like . . . a mentor?”
“Do you need a mentor?” Matt sounds bitter now. “Why do I have to have a mentor? Because I’m gay? That’s pretty damn—”
“I would freaking love a mentor. Are you kidding me? Go find me one, seriously,” I jump in. “Find me two.”
“I just . . . I just wanted to finally actually date someone. Is that so much to ask?” Matt says quietly.
“And you will, I promise. There are a zillion cute guys out there. Who are the right age and want the same things as you.”
“I can’t wait to be in college, Zo, seriously. I’m so sick of being the one who’s different. I mean, there are, like, five guys off the top of my head at school that just need to come out of the closet. And it’s like they’re scared to just admit it. It’s so lame.”
“Matty, not everyone is as self-assured as you are. It’s not fair to try to force everyone to do things at your pace, right? Look, life can suck sometimes. You can either deal with it or let it be who you are. So . . . don’t let it be who you are. Please?”
Matt sighs. “I’ll try. Thanks for listening.”
“Of course. That’s what I’m here for.”
“I’m totally going in late today. I don’t even care if I get in trouble,” he says.
I swallow hard, grateful that he’s on the other end of the line just when I need someone—someone who really
knows me.
“Matty, I need to talk to you about something, too. Something that happened . . . I need you to tell me if I did the right thing. Honestly, okay?”
Sometimes you can see yourself a lot more clearly when you look at someone else. That’s another thing I learned in Greece.
41
I’m in math class the next week, mostly ignoring the teacher and coloring in all the vowels on the pages of my book, when Mr. Pelidis, a guidance counselor I have spoken to maybe one time, opens the door and comes straight to my desk. He doesn’t look happy as he tells me to collect my things and follow him. Ms. Blasi’s voice trails off, and I shrug at Betony and Nikos as I follow Mr. Pelidis out the door.
Field Report: Getting Called Out Of Class Seriously Uncool
Previously perfectly behaved sophomore Zona Lowell was summoned from class today in front of her peers and had no idea why, according to witnesses.
“I’ve literally never been in trouble at school in my entire life. There must be some kind of mistake,” Ms. Lowell insisted on her way out the door. Her classmates weren’t as sure.
“Everyone knows she’s the one who ratted out Lilena Vobras to her parents,” said a student who did not wish to be identified. “Probably it’s about that. I mean, yeah, I guess it’s good that girl is getting help, and I guess no one is, like, mad at Zona, but come on. Lame.”
Ms. Lowell was adamant in her belief that she had done the right thing, however, and that this summons had nothing to do with Ms. Vobras. In brighter news, Ms. Lowell stayed mostly cool and collected on her way out the door.
Filed, 1:16 p.m., Athens.
Mr. Pelidis closes the door to the guidance office and asks me to sit. My palms start to sweat.
“Mr. Pelidis, I don’t know what you think I—”
He cuts me off. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Zona. I just wanted to talk to you in private. Please, don’t panic until I’ve finished explaining what’s going on, okay?”
Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me Page 21
