by M. C. Frank
This is the first time in fourteen years that we’ve been apart. She’s gotten into the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens, and she had to move there. She’s been going back and forth all summer to find a flat and so on, but classes start a few days from now, so she’s finally moved to the city.
“Hey, dude, guess what!” I shriek as her face pops up in my phone.
“Do I need to sit down for this?” she asks.
She looks the exact opposite from me. She’s curvy when I’m full of angles, and she dresses all girly while I’m almost always in sneakers and shorts. Her hair is wildly curly and black, her eyes large and usually shining with mischief, as they do now. She can see it in my face that I’ve got something big to tell her.
“You do.”
“Hold on a sec,” she answers and goes into the next room, coming back immediately with a huge towel draped around her wet hair, towering above her face. “Hit me.”
I tell her, and, even seated, she almost passes out. Then she starts screaming and my phone buzzes with static.
“. . .so much!” her voice exclaims as soon as my headphones start working again.
“What?”
“Right now I hate you so much,” she repeats.
“No, no you don’t understand,” I reply, “it’s the worst thing that could happen! Me and parties? You know that’s not a good combo.”
“Yeah, it’s the worst, I feel so sorry for you,” she says heartlessly. “Wait. How did you meet all these actors in the first place? You never told me. Wes Spencer? And Anna Dell? I mean, will Benedict Cumberbatch be popping out of a box anytime soon?”
I cover the screen with my palm, and she swats it away impatiently.
“Tim Halls introduced me to everyone the first day,” I tell her, keeping it simple. “I don’t have to tell you how that went!” There is no chance, of course, that I’ll tell him—or much less anyone else—about our second ‘introduction’ yesterday.
“Apparently it went better than you thought it did,” she answers.
“Oh man, when I think of that stuck-up rich kid, Wes, it’s enough to make me stay in tonight.”
“Listen to you, casually dropping names all over the place,” she laughs. “First it was Tim Halls, now ‘Wes’. . . Okay, promise me one thing. Promise me you’ll have a crazy hot fling with him.”
“You’re crazy hot.”
“No, come on, it’s just one tiny little thing for your bestest friend in the whole world. . . Please?” she is using her cute voice again, pursing her lips and blinking like a crazy person.
“Katia, the dude is freaking Weston Spencer!”
“Yes, and you already call him ‘Wes’. So you’re half-way there already!” Her voice goes low, like it used to when she was trying to explain Algebra to me, and all I wanted was to go outside and play soccer. “Or I’ll send you a pic of me wearing my new safety goggles in the physics lab. I’m warning you, it’s not going to be pretty.”
“You are so sending me that photo anyway,” I laugh.
“Deal. And you’ll consider having your first Hollywood kiss?”
I snort. Like hell. Then I think back on Weston Spencer’s green eyes locking with mine through the mist of water and the blackness that was enveloping me like a sinister charm from a fairytale as the sea was swallowing me up, and that memory sobers me up quickly.
“I’ve got to go, Katia,” I say. “Thanks for the support, you’re the best.”
“Wear cute clothes,” she begins shouting directions. “And lipstick. And try to be bubbly and witty and entertaining. . . And. . . ”
“I know, I’ll try to be like you.”
“Exactly. Fake it till you make it. Only in a less curly dimpled way, more in a freakishly tall, tomboyish way. You know, like a really athletic model,” she adds.
“You’re going to be a really dead curly dimpled physics student if you keep this up,” I say.
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
“I have no idea what you mean. Plus, you owe my future kids free tutoring lessons, just for calling me freakishly tall.”
“I owe you that anyway,” she says and begins unfolding the towel from her hair. In the background, I hear the TV turn on, and a girl’s voice shouting that the bathroom is free—must be her roommate. “Okay, gotta go,” Katia dimples, leaning down from her perch on her desk. “Gosh, I can’t wait until I can buy a proper phone with a camera and we can skype all the time, like normal people. Bye. And, Ari?”
“What now?”
“Pics or it didn’t happen. Tag me.”
I lower my phone with a sigh, and flick back to the recent texts I received. And there it is, at the top, the text from Anna Dell, the one that started my day in a panic. I sweep another glance across it, just to make sure I didn’t imagine it. Yep, it’s all there.
Hey, girl. Anna here, Matt gave me yr number, hope its ok. We’re having a getting to know each other party tmrow nite @this place called Drop, u know it? Be there 10ish. xx p.s. Ollie asked if you were coming ;)
I sigh and fling the phone on the bed.
I spend the day at the Rubble with Coach, perfecting my dive, and then we go for a little driving—not normal driving, stunt-driving. He proclaims me ready for anything.
I am just so relieved and thankful not to have a splitting headache today. Maybe I overreacted before. I feel perfectly fine now. It was probably nothing, I say to myself.
And then, in the darkening afternoon, as I ride my bike through the narrow cobblestone streets that will take me home, the kantounia, as we call them, it begins to drizzle. All my good mood suddenly evaporates like the sizzling heat of the day.
Light raindrops land on my damp, newly-showered hair, and the thin wheels of my bike skid along fresh puddles.
Then it hits me.
What if Wes tells Tim about my accident and they decide to pull me?
My heart freezes. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let it even be a possibility.
Crap. Now I really have to go to the stupid party.
◊◊◊
I swear, my dad is the coolest person you’ll ever meet. Or he was until tonight. Tonight he spends a large part of his evening outside my bedroom door, waiting for me to come out in different outfits. I’m sure it’s as much fun for him as it is for me.
Finally we—but mostly he—decide on a fitted lacy dress over a dark brown top and mauve leggings. My tan looks cool next to the light-colored fabric, which hangs loosely around my waist. I try to put on a little makeup, but without Katia here I completely mess it up and end up wiping most of it off.
I let my brown hair just hang in waves down my back, dragging a brush through its tangles and that’s all the time I’m prepared to dedicate to that.
“Knock ‘em dead, Ars,” my dad tells me in an attempt to get me in a good mood. I think he senses how scared I am.
“Lose the weird accent and let me change the dress for my denim shorts, and you’ve got yourself a deal,” I tell him.
“Only if you also change your sandals for a sensible pair of ballerina whatsits, ‘cause the streets are wet outside.”
“Fine,” I say. “And it’s ballet flats.”
He lifts his hands in the air, in surrender. Then, so fast I don’t even see it coming, he stands up and sneaks a tiny kiss on the top of my head.
“Have fun,” he whispers.
“Won’t you tell me to be back before. . . sometime?”
“Should I?” he looks at me seriously. I know this isn’t about the party anymore, nor is it about the need of a curfew.
“Don’t worry about me, dad,” I say, as calmly as I can. “Everything is going to be fine.”
The look he gives me fills my stomach with butterflies, and I know I haven’t convinced him, not by a long shot, but he lifts his hand to tell me to go on. And that’s what I do.
Drops is built right above the sea level, and as you arrive at it from the road, it gives the impression that it’s floating on
top of the Ionian. It’s one of the most prestigious night haunts of the Town of Corfu.
Long, floor-length windows open into the dark sky, and the city lights blink from the shoreline, mingling with the stars. During the summer months, Drops is packed with people, young bodies swinging along to the beat, laughter ringing across the street, glasses sparkling with cocktails.
Today it’s closed to the public, booked entirely by the crew. I slide in and find the darkest corner. I try to merge in with the walls, feeling the beat of the house music that’s bouncing off of every smooth surface, and I begin to dig in my black clutch for my phone.
Then, a voice to my left. “There you are, girl, what are you drinking?” It’s Anna.
She’s wearing a thigh-length, white, shimmering sheath dress and sandals with incredibly high heels, and next to her I look like I just got out of the shower.
“Hey,” I say, turning to her, and then my smile slips away.
Elle is with her. Of course. They both—both—kiss me on the cheek and insist that I join them for margaritas. So I go over to their table, which is right by the floor-length screen, overlooking the dark open sea, bathed in the moon’s white glow.
“So, you’re Greek, right?” Elle asks me in a husky, slightly-out-of-breath voice that tries to sound super-polite but ends up sounding weird. I’m guessing she’s not as good an actor as she thinks she is.
“I’m half-Greek, on my father’s side,” I answer. “Although my—” I stumble over the word, but it comes out eventually. “Αlthough I’ve hardly ever seen my mom. I’ve grown up here.”
“All your life?” Elle asks, her eyes widening. Anna elbows her.
“So,” I say after a couple minutes of awkward silence, “I haven’t seen the entire script yet. They only gave me a list of the things I may be expected to do, and that’s it. Surfing, driving, diving, that kind of thing.” At this Elle shudders visibly and nods to a waiter to fill her glass again. “What’s the story?”
“Like you even need to know,” Elle scoffs, stretching back on the white sofa, at the same time that Anna says:
“Well, it’s based on Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.” Elle was right, the stunt actors aren’t always given the entire script, nor do they need it. Still, Anna tries to explain it to me. “You know, the famous Darcy and Elizabeth romance, but set in the modern era. Darcy is a recluse, a writer, and Lizzie is a waitress.”
And that’s when it all begins to go wrong.
“Darcy who?” I ask.
“Did you say, Darcy who?” a familiar voice hisses above me.
texts
Wes: Ols, where are you mate? You said you’d be on the L&H by 8. Am having girl overload here, they’re getting ready for tonight, asking me all these weird questions, does this go with this and stilettos and earrings aaargh help!
Ollie: too busy having the world drop from under my feet
Wes: What?!?
Ollie: she’s done it again. mom.
Wes: There’s one word one never wants to hear from you.
Wes: What’d she do now?
Wes: Whatwhatwhatwhat
Ollie: even you won’t believe this.
Wes: She coming here? Cause if she is, I’m getting out.
Ollie: no, this is something she did, 20 years or so back.
Wes: What kind of ‘something’?
Ollie: She lets me know by email. Can you believe it?! 2 seconds ago. Said she has an important secret, kept it from me and stuff, and now is the time. Has something to do with Europe, she spent a summer here back in the day and did some naughty things. Reporters will be all over this place (and me) within days, or hours. She doesn’t want the truth to find me unprepared.
Wes: What truth?
Ollie: She did something so. . . Dammit, I can’t just write it on a text, I just can’t. . . She said she’s waited all these years because of the past and the distance and blah blah blah BOMB
Ollie: I’ll tell you everything in person. just get me out of here.
Wes: Where are you right now?
Ollie: dunno what it’s called. Lots of columns and trees. Ancient greek style kinda like a palace. Kept running until I couldn’t breathe.
Wes: ok stay there I’ll find you w gps
Wes: got you. Be there in a few.
three
I turn around slowly and he’s there, in all his Tristan glory, glass in hand, tan jacket fashionably sculpted to his narrow frame, his eyes mocking me beneath their bored lashes.
“Hey,” I say awkwardly.
“Hey!” a warm voice answers me as Ollie emerges behind him. “We’ve been looking all over for you guys.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. For the first time since I got here, I begin to relax.
“Is it possible that you haven’t read Austen?” Wes lifts his eyebrows at me. “Can you believe this?” he turns to Elle. She leans into him, her white-blond curls brushing against his thigh as she’s seated and he standing.
“Oh, no.” Ollie laughs behind me.
I get up, taking a swig of my drink. The strong taste hits me so hard that I wobble a bit as I swallow and I grab on to the little glass table that’s decorated with tiny cream tea-lights to steady myself.
Wes’ eyes fly to my glass immediately. “You’ve never read Austen,” he says. He doesn’t ask, he just says it in that deep, condescending voice, his gaze looking past me. “Don’t you have schools in Greece?”
I just gape at him. Is he kidding me right now? Why won’t he let this go?
“Well?”
“We do,” I answer him evenly, “but we mostly study ancient Greek geniuses, not English nobodies.”
He goes pale.
I mean, I can’t be sure, because it’s dark in here and people keep pressing in on us from every side, but he visibly winces.
“English nobodies?” His left eyebrow flies to his hairline.
I sigh. What is his problem? “Oh, I don’t know. We study Homer at school, he lived three thousand years ago. When was yours born?”
Now it’s his turn to gape. His mouth actually falls open for a split second; he wasn’t expecting my retort. Then he’s bored again.
“Do yourself a favor,” he says, fixing those green eyes on my face, “and read it asap. I mean, you already can’t swim, so you might at least be familiar with the story we’ll be playing out. What was Tim thinking. . . ?”
I cut him off.
“Athletes don’t read,” I say, trying to imitate Elle’s nonchalant attitude, but without the drunk. I take another swig from my glass.
Fake it till you make it, wasn’t that what Katia said?
Wes suddenly takes my arm and pulls me away from the table, as though he’s embarrassed to have this conversation with me in front of his friends. My glass gets jostled around and a few drops fall out.
“What are you doing?” I shout at him over the noise.
“That’s not reading,” he says, “that’s only the most famous work of literature to date, excepting maybe the Bible. That’s educating yourself. That’s opening your mind.”
“With a soppy love story?” I retort. Even hearing about it a minute ago bored me to tears.
He looks surprised.
“Darce, dude, you do me proud,” Ollie’s laughing voice drifts over to us, but Wes looks as though he didn’t even hear him, and I don’t get it, so neither of us answers.
The girls begin to giggle and ask him to come sit with them, but he doesn’t even acknowledge them with a glance.
“It’s not a soppy love story,” he explains calmly. His eyes are glowing and that bored expression is nowhere to be seen. “It’s a story of misunderstanding, of overcoming one’s worst faults and of social comedy.”
“Okay,” I say carefully, because standing here in the most prestigious club that Corfu has to show, talking about books with Hollywood’s most popular teen actor is definitely not a situation I ever imagined finding myself in.
“When Darcy and Elizabeth first m
eet, they thoroughly dislike each other,” he goes on. “But neither of them understands that this intense dislike, almost hate actually, on the part of Elizabeth at least, is in fact the sparks that fly when two people are attracted to each other. Not to mention it makes for pretty entertaining dialogue.”
“Wow, you seem to have really studied this book,” I say, half amazed, half wondering if this is a topic that usually interests American film heartthrobs.
Unexpectedly, he bends down his head and studies his shoes. Are his ears turning red? “I. . . uh. . . I read quite a lot.” He lifts his gaze to mine. His eyes are filled with an intensity that takes me by surprise. “They don’t write that about me, ever,” he adds with a grin. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t,” I say, trying not to look confused. Is this the same guy who called me ‘stupid’ the other day? “Anyway, this masterpiece of yours, it doesn’t make sense. I mean, two people hating each other and all the while they’re falling in love?”
“Well, they are behaving as though they hate each other. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, like people often stop in the middle of an argument to kiss.”
He lifts a sandy eyebrow. “People don’t say what they mean very often. You have to read between the lines of their behavior, of what they say, to get to what they truly feel. That’s what good literature is all about—what Austen did better than anyone.”
“What difference is there between calling someone an idiot and a ‘twit’, whatever that means, like, five times in a row, and actually hating them?” I ask fiercely.
“There’s a difference if they say it and don’t believe it. If, say, they’d been so scared, so damn terrified that their fear came out as. . . ” he stops himself and takes a different tone, the one I know really well by now. Bored and slightly mocking. “Anyway, as I said, it takes a truly superior education to get what a work like that is all about, and that’s why if you start reading it now, maybe in a few years you’ll begin to grasp its meaning.”
