Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (14 page)

•  •  •

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.”

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.

“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 way 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.

“I don't know,” I tell her now, fiddling with one of the grapes brought over, as always, by the scary lady. “I'm nervous I'll do something that will make him stop liking me before he even gets to really, really like me.”

“You know you sound insane, right? I mean, what could you possibly do?” Lilena adds another packet of calorie-free sweetener to her coffee. Her wrists are so thin poking out of her long-sleeved shirt that it hurts to look at them. But I try not to think about it.

“Say something. Or
not
say something. Or, I don't know, be inscrutable or laconic or overtly flirtatious or . . . something!”

“I don't know what ‘laconic' means. Does it mean
crazy
? Because that's how you sound right now,” Lilena asks, grinning crookedly at me, her poor, totally smitten friend.

I sigh. “It means quiet or not talkative.”

She bursts out laughing. “I don't think that's ever going to be your problem, Zona!”

I throw a grape at her and the owner starts banging pans together for no reason. “I just don't want to mess it up. It's so perfect right now,” I groan hopelessly.

“But you've only hung out one time. Well, like one and a half, I guess. He's just a guy. I mean, are you always like this about guys?”

I think about that for a second. “No, actually.” I sip my coffee. “I guess maybe it's because Alex is the first guy who's ever been someone I might actually . . . date. All the other guys I've liked have been . . . unreachable. You know what I mean?”

Lilena looks thoughtful. “Well, just see what happens. See if you even really like him that much—get to know him better.”

“You're right. I know you are. That's what I'd tell myself if I weren't, you know, me. I know in the rational part of my mind that I'm being ridiculous. We hung out once. That's nothing. But, I don't know, I just can't stop myself!”

“Well, it's always easier to see something from the outside,” she says comfortingly.

“Have you dated anyone at GIS?” I ask.

“Nah,” she says, looking away. I know she's going to change the subject back to me like she always does.

“What about at your old school?” I try again, hoping she'll open up, even a little bit.

“Nope. I was only there for a year, and the guys were so lame . . . This Alex situation is good, though. Maybe someday I'll meet a cute boy on a train platform and you can give me advice.”

I think about giving her some advice—some
real
advice—but I bite my tongue, remembering Ashley and Betony. Better to leave it alone. “Well, technically we met in the library,” I remind her. “So, what are you doing for spring break?”

“Probably nothing. We're supposed to go to one of the islands, but I'm sure it'll get canceled. I'll probably ask if I can go visit my friend in Switzerland—we lived there before Chicago—and my mom will say yes, but then change her mind because of security risks. So . . . nothing.”

“Want to go to Crete and pretend to be me?” I ask, only half joking.

“Have you talked to your cousin yet? About what the family knows and stuff?” Lilena asks.

“No, she's been so busy. I didn't want to ask her in a text,” I reply. “Thanks, by the way, for changing the subject in the cab the other night. It's not that I want to keep it a big mysterious secret, it's just . . .”

“Private. I totally get it. Ashley and Bet can be pushy, but it's not mean-spirited. They just like to know what's going on, you know?”

“Oh, totally,” I assure her. “Anyway, I don't know when I'm going to be able to talk to Yiota—really talk, I mean. It may have to be on the boat ride there!”

“Well, I bet she'll have good guy advice for you, too,” Lilena says, grinning. “Or maybe she'll know a cure for boy-craziness. Like a lobotomy.”

“Hey!” I laugh, tossing another grape at her. It hits her in the forehead, and she lobs one back at me. We start laughing like lunatics, and the proprietress is
not
pleased. I have a feeling we just lost our grape privileges. Oops.