Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (11 page)

“Do Americans still care about newspapers? I thought they were, like, dead, yeah?” Betony says.

It's the next day in study hall, and I've just described my impromptu meeting with Alex Loushas in the library. (The argument about Lilena seems to have been forgotten—at least, the girls haven't mentioned it, and I'm not going to, either.)

“What? Newspapers aren't dead!” I exclaim, outraged. This is the second time I've had to defend the legacy of the printed word in two days. What is wrong with people?!

“Why don't you make a website instead? Like a newsfeed,” Lilena suggests. “Isn't that what GIS has? Not that I've ever read it. I like the lit magazine, though.”

“Because . . . because it's not just about instant gratification, you guys. It's about crafting a story, finding the right lead, the hook, research . . . it's about quality.”

“But it's so boring.” Ashley sighs. “I'm bored just talking about it right now. See? Here's me, falling asleeeee-zzzzzz . . .” Her head falls onto the table. Hilarious.

“You're totally missing the point,” I say, trying to stay calm. “We're all so used to getting texts and posting pictures that we don't even look around to see how what's happening now connects to anything else. Think about plotting a story from start to—”

Betony imitates Ashley's head-dropping-onto-desk move. Lilena giggles, playing with bits of a granola bar that she is, of course, not eating. I give up.

“Fine, forget it. Go back to the live feeds of your lives. Don't reflect on history. Carry on.”

“Oh, thank God,” Ashley cheers. “So, what's for tonight? Anyone have a great idea?”

“What's tonight?” I ask.

Lilena smiles broadly. “Just Friday. And thank God for that—this week has been a
nightmare.
I can't believe how much homework we got in History alone.”

“Let's go dancing in Gazi—we haven't gone there in ages and Zona's never been,” Betony suggests. “I got these amazing new shoes at Christmas that I haven't even worn yet.”

“What's Gazi?” I ask.

“I have no idea what I own that'd be right for a club, since I've never actually been to one,” I admit.

“Really? Well, I'm sure you have something, or you can borrow from me,” Lilena says. “We can find out online which DJs are playing where and go to a few places. I can't believe you've never been to a club!”

“Well, I wasn't really into that kind of stuff back home. I mean, I like dancing. But I don't have an ID or . . . But my friend Matty, he goes to tons of clubs,” I offer, trying to bump my cool factor back up a notch.

“That's your gay friend?” Betony asks.

“Well, yes, but I mean, he's just my friend.
And
he's gay. Along with being a lot of other—”

“Right, so . . . your gay friend,” Ashley says.

“Guys, come on. Don't be obnoxious,” Lilena says quietly. I smile to let her know I appreciate her chiming in on my behalf; Ashley rolls her eyes at Betony. I decide it's not worth making this a big deal.

“Sure, fine. My gay friend,” I say. “So . . . ?” I'm not sure where Ashley is going with this.

“It's just interesting that he's, you know, open about it. No one here is, really. There are gay kids, obviously, but no one talks about it. Ever,” Ashley continues. “Greece is more traditional.”

“That's ironic,” I quip, trying for a bit of levity.

“Why is it ironic?” Betony asks.

“Um, Greek history? Haven't you ever . . . ? Oh, never mind.” Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I'd stuck with Artemis, my first-week buddy, this whole time. She kind of annoyed me, but she's smart and says what she thinks without worrying about the consequences. Too late now. And I like these girls well enough, I suppose. “Anyway, I know Matt struggles with that—not with being gay, but with the fact that he's one of few guys at school who's open about it. I'm sure he'd like to have other guys to talk to about stuff. Not just me and Hilary.”

“Well, it's really sweet that you're supportive,” Betony says. I don't think she's trying to be condescending, so I don't say anything in response.

“So, what do you think, meet at eleven?” Lilena suggests, changing the subject. She stands up from the table to gather her things.

“Oh, don't you want to go to dinner first?” Ashley asks pointedly. Lilena looks away.

“I'm going to eat with my parents,” she says. “So, I'll text you guys later about what you're wearing and where to meet. Glad you're coming, Zona!” And she's off.

I don't get Ashley when she baits Lilena like that, I really don't. Cry for help? Anyone? Ashley's so proud of how there are no “mean girls” at GIS, but this seems a lot like bullying to me. Maybe I
am
being uber-American and overly sensitive, but . . . well, I've already made my thoughts clear about the Lilena situation and gotten nowhere.

So I let it go. Again.

Instead I ask Betony about her new shoes and wish I could figure out what I'm doing here, so far away from my real life.

Gazi, which is not too far from where I live in Athens, is just as popular and trendy as the girls promised. There are nightclubs, bars, and cafés one after the other along a few long streets, plus people milling around in groups as they bounce from place to place. Music pulses in the night air, and the sky is bright with neon lights.

After making sure we're all straight on our “club names”—I was assigned Zoe by Ashley (or should I say, Anne)—we head into a club in the middle of the strip. Just like they said, we have no trouble getting in, though there's a pretty steep cover charge of twelve euros per person. And then it's lights and people and smoke and music that's a thousand times louder than it seemed from the street. And it's fun—a bit overwhelming, but really fun.

We dance and drink Red Bull with vodka (only one for me, so I have something to hold) and flirt with some random guys trying to dance with us. I'm pretty sure I've sweated off all the eyeliner that Lilena painstakingly applied on the train ride over, and I can feel the bass from the speakers down to my toes.

Suddenly I realize I have to pee—like, now. I shout my intentions to Lilena, who is pretty tipsy and dancing exuberantly next to me. She grins and goes back to bopping up and down, so I squeeze my way through the crowd and
just
make it to the facilities before it's too late.

When I come back, my friends have vanished.

I shove my way through writhing, grinding people in the general direction of the door, trying not to breathe in too deeply. The air reeks of cigarette smoke and various colognes. A hand snakes out and grasps the side of my waist, trying to pull me into the melee; I wriggle away, still scanning the room for my group. So
this
is why girls go to the bathroom together—not for moral support, but so they won't end up all alone surrounded by drunk people. I slide my phone out of my pocket. Nothing. Should I be worried, or pissed off? And, more importantly, where did they all go?

I spot a very intensely spiked hairdo and think I've finally located Nikos, so I shove toward the bar. The hair disappears and is replaced by a man who may in fact be wearing all the cologne in this whole place; I feel slightly guilty now for assuming anyone else here contributed to the stench. He isn't bad-looking, but he seems sleazy and is definitely way older than I am, both in real life
and
the age I'm pretending to be tonight.

He blocks my path. “Sorry, just looking for my friends, 'scuse me,” I mumble, trying to get past him.

“Who would leave such a beautiful girl all alone?” he says, grinning. He has perfect, weirdly shiny white teeth. I'm a little nervous he might bite me, actually. “I'm Stavros. We'll have a drink, yes?”

“Oh, that's nice, but my friends—”

“Champagne for you, yes?” He yells to the bartender, who starts bustling around with glasses. Stavros takes out a pack of cigarettes, offers one to me and, when I shake my head, sticks one between his lips and lights up.

I look around again, trying to spot anyone I know. It's weird—if Ashley or Betony were with me, I'd feel so cool that this guy wanted to buy me champagne. Not that I'd ever hook up with him—come on—but it's still flattering and I know they'd be jealous. But being by myself, it's way less cool. I don't want him to think I'm lame, though, so when Stavros hands me a glass, I take it.

I look at the fizzing liquid, trying to tell if there's anything in there that shouldn't be. Can't tell. Honestly, how have they not invented something that tells you if your drink's been tampered with? Or maybe they have and they're just withholding it from high school kids, like the morning-after pill. Now
that
would be an interesting article, I muse, forgetting where I am for a moment.

“Aren't you going to taste? It's delicious,” Stavros purrs, taking a swig from his glass. Okay, that's definitely a sketchy sign, right? Like a pushy, peer pressure-y thing to say? I think I'm ready to leave.

“Really, I should go find—” He steps in front of me as I move toward the door.

“You won't have a drink with me? This hurts my feelings,” he says, clinking his glass against mine. So now if I don't taste it, this will be even more awkward. I hesitate, fidgeting with the bracelets Lilena lent me.
But if I
do
taste it, I could end up raped and murdered in a foreign country,
I think. Awkward is better than murdered, certainly, but if he's actually just flirting with me then I'm being rude, and—

“
There
you are!” A man's voice, thick with a French accent, breaks through my reverie. “I've been looking everywhere for you!”

I look up from my glass at a tall guy, at least thirty (I think? I freely admit that everyone older than twenty looks about forty to me), who has the darkest, smoothest skin—it's almost a true black, like Lupita Nyong'o's. He has big brown eyes, and they are peering into mine almost imploringly, like he's trying to tell me something.

I instantly trust him. Which is maybe foolhardy . . . but I don't think so.

“Oh, hey!” I shout over the music. Okay, I'm stumped. What now?

“You know this man?” Stavros asks, miffed. “You want I will ask him to leave?”

The black guy laughs, like he and I are in on some big joke. “Of course she knows me. She's my cousin. Come on, everyone is waiting for you,” he hollers over the music, taking the glass of possibly roofied champagne out of my hand and putting it on the bar rail. My brain is racing.

Stavros sneers, gazing at him skeptically. “Your cousin?”

“That's what I said.” The French accent makes the guy's reply sound sophisticated and menacing at the same time.

“This is your
cousin
? This man?” Stavros isn't giving up.

“I'm adopted,” I say, looking him straight in the eye.

My “cousin” cough-laughs, and Stavros scowls.

“Thanks for the drink!” I call over my shoulder as my savior (kidnapper?) grabs my arm and steers me past the crowd and out the door.

All the lights in the city are on now. It's beautiful, and only a little cold.

The second we're on the sidewalk, past the throng of people still lining up to get inside, he drops my arm and backs up. I rub my bare arms in the night air, wishing I had brought a coat even though Betony insisted there'd be nowhere to leave it.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

I nod, feeling a massive sense of relief. I may not actually have been in danger, but now I see that I definitely
could
have been. The fact that I'm still not sure tells me I'm lucky this guy stepped in.

“Yeah, I'm okay,” I say, smoothing my hair off my sweaty face. “I . . . Thank you so much, that was so nice of you. That guy wouldn't let me leave, and I didn't want to be—”

“I figured,” my savior (pretty sure by this point) says, nodding. “I was about to leave myself when I saw you. You looked quite frightened. I'm glad you played along. I'm Andrew, by the way.”

“I'm, uh . . .” Crap. Am I supposed to tell him my fake club name? He just did a really awesome thing for me, so maybe my real name?

“It's fine.” Andrew smiles kindly. “You don't have to tell me. Seriously, I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Do you have a way to get back to where you're staying? Do you need money for a taxi?”

“I . . . um, my friends were . . .” I don't know what to say. Andrew has been so nice to me, and now I just feel like an idiot. “You're so sweet to offer. I mean, you must think I'm really stupid. I actually am here with people, they just—”

“ZOE!” Ashley bounds up behind me, just as exuberant and tipsy as when I last saw her. Which seems like it was hours ago, but was probably only thirty minutes. She takes a drag off her cigarette. “Where have you been? We've been looking everywhere! Uh, hi?” She looks from me to Andrew. “I'm Anne. Do you need something?”

“This is Andrew,” I say, embarrassed by her rudeness. “I don't really know how hard you were looking for me since you're outside,
Anne.
”

“Well, we couldn't find you, so we thought you came out to get cigarettes or something. We were waiting for you.”

“I don't—”

“So, yeah, Betony—I mean, Beth—knows another club that has some good bands tonight, and we're gonna go there. So, um . . . Andrew, do you want to come with us, or . . . ?”

“I think I'm going to call it a night, thanks. Have fun, girls. Be careful, okay?” Andrew directs this last line to me.

“Wait, are you sure? Because I want to thank you for—”

“
Zo,
he said he's going home. We don't want to keep him.” Ashley is dragging me off. Not sure why I'm letting her. I kind of want to punch her, actually. “Nice meeting you, Andrew! Bye!”

Andrew gives a little wave, and I feel stupider than ever.

“Thank you again!” I call to him. And then he's gone.

Lilena is waiting for us with Betony and Nikos by a fountain. “Where have you been?! I am
freezing
!” she says, teeth chattering. My first thought is that if she weren't so skinny, she wouldn't be so cold. But of course I keep that to myself.

“Um, Zona found some old guy to hang with, apparently. You weren't actually going to hook up with him, were you? He was, like, forty! Did he at least buy you a drink?” Ashley says, laughing. Now I
really
want to punch her.

“No, actually, he was—”

“Girls, come on. I'm bored,” Nikos whines, putting out his cigarette. “Let's go already, huh?”

I look at these people, my friends—my sort-of friends—and I wish so much that I were home with Hil and Matty. Hell, I actually wouldn't mind being home with my dad right now. That sounds pretty great, to be honest. I look at my phone and realize it's two
A.M.
already.

“You know what, guys? I'm gonna head home. I'll see you later, okay?” I start to head back to the street to flag down a cab. I think it's okay to splurge on one this late at night. I can see Betony looking at Nikos and shrugging. Lilena follows me, a bit unsteady on her high heels.

“Hey, are you okay? I really thought you were coming outside—we didn't mean to ditch you, I swear,” she says. “Zona?” She looks worried, like I'm mad at her.

“It was really loud in there. Don't worry about it,” I say, scanning the street for an available taxi.

“Listen, if you liked that guy—”

“No, no, it's fine.” I turn to her and smile. “I'm just really tired.” I'm not really mad. More like homesick.

“Okay, well . . . I hope you had a good time, at least. We'll talk soon, 'kay?” She gives me a big hug, then plants a kiss on each of my cheeks and totters away.

“Sure thing,” I reply to myself.