Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (6 page)

He didn’t say anything as they drove along small wooded suburban streets with big Victorian houses rising on either side. Raindrops burst on the windshield. The sky grew so dark it felt almost like nighttime. He slowed down and stopped in front of a cream-colored Victorian with green-gray shutters and a wraparound porch.

“Where’s this?” Carmen asked.

Her dad cut the engine and turned to her. “This is home.” His eyes were distant and a little mysterious. He didn’t seem to want to take on the open surprise in hers.

“That house? Up there? I thought you lived in an apartment downtown.”

“I moved. Just last month.”

“You did? Why didn’t you tell me on the phone?”

“Because . . . there’s a lot of big stuff, bun. Stuff I wanted to say in person,” he answered.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about big stuff. She turned in her seat. “So? Are you going to tell me?” Carmen was never graceful about surprises.

“Let’s go inside, okay?”

He opened his door and hurried around to her side before she echoed his okay. He didn’t get her suitcase. He held his coat over both their heads as they climbed stone steps up to the house.

He took her arm in his. “Careful. These steps get slippery when it rains,” he said, leading her up the painted wood steps of the front porch. It was as though he’d lived here forever.

Carmen’s heart was thumping. She had no idea where they were or what to expect. She felt the shape of the apple in her bag.

Her dad pushed open the door without knocking. “Here we are!” he called.

Carmen realized she was holding her breath. Who would be here?

Within seconds a woman came into the room with a girl who appeared to be about Carmen’s age. Carmen stood baffled and stiff as the woman and then the girl each hugged her. They were quickly followed by a tall young man, about eighteen, Carmen guessed. He was blond and broad, like an athlete. She was thankful that he didn’t hug her.

“Lydia, Krista, Paul, this is my daughter, Carmen,” her dad said. Her name sounded weird in his voice. He always called her sweetheart or baby or bun. He never called her Carmen. She thought that was because it was her Puerto Rican grandmother’s name, and Carmen Sr. had sent him several nasty letters after the divorce. Her father’s mother was dead. Her name was Mary.

They all stared at her expectantly, smiling. She had no idea what to say or do.

“Carmen, this is Lydia.” Pause, pause, pause. “My fiancée. And Krista and Paul, her children.”

Carmen closed her eyes and opened them again. The soft lights around the room made floaty spots in her vision. “When did you get a fiancée?” she asked in a near whisper. She knew it wasn’t the most polite phrasing.

Her father laughed. “April twenty-fourth, to be exact,” he said. “I moved in mid-May.”

“And you’re getting married?” She knew that was an incredibly stupid thing to say.

“In August,” he said. “The nineteenth.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Quite amazing, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Amazing,” she echoed faintly, though her tone wasn’t the same as his.

Lydia took one of her hands. Carmen felt as though it no longer belonged to her body. “Carmen, we are
so
thrilled to have you this summer. Why don’t you come inside and relax? Would you like a soda or a cup of tea? Albert will show you your room so you can get settled.”

Albert? Who ever called her father Albert? And what was all this about getting settled? What was she doing in this house? This wasn’t where she was spending her summer.

“Carmen?” her dad said. “Soda? Tea?”

Carmen just turned to him, wide-eyed, not quite hearing. She nodded.

“Which? Both?” her dad pressed.

She looked around the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances like rich people had. There was an oriental carpet on the floor. Who had an oriental carpet in their kitchen? There was an old-fashioned southern-style fan overhead. It turned slowly. She could hear the rain beating against the window.

“Carmen? Carmen?” Her dad was trying to mask his impatience.

“Sorry,” she murmured. She realized Lydia was poised at the cupboard, waiting for orders. “Nothing for me. Could you please tell me where I should put my stuff?”

Her dad looked pained. Did he see how distressed she was? Did he notice? Then the look vanished. “Yes. Come with me. I’ll show you your room, then I’ll bring your suitcase right up.”

She followed him up carpeted stairs, past three bedrooms, to a bedroom facing the backyard with a thick peach-colored carpet, antique furniture, and two Kleenex boxes cased in Lucite—one on the bureau and one on the night table. It had curtains and a dust ruffle all right. And she would bet one billion dollars there was at least one box of baking soda in the refrigerator downstairs. “Is this the guest room?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, not understanding what she meant. “You get settled,” he said, using that idiotic word again. “I’ll bring your suitcase up.”

He started for the door. “Hey, Dad?”

He turned. He looked wary.

“It’s just that . . .” She trailed off. She wanted to tell him it was pretty inconsiderate not to give her any warning. It was pretty harsh walking into this house full of strangers without any preparation.

In his eyes was a plea. She felt it more than she saw it. He just wanted it to be nice between them.

“Nothing,” she said faintly.

She watched him go, realizing she was like him in another way. When she was with him, she didn’t like to say the hard things.

Dear Bee,

The summer of Carmen and Al didn’t survive past the trip from the airport. My dad is now Albert and is marrying Lydia and lives in a house full of Kleenex boxes and is playing father to two blond people. Forget about all the things I imagined. I’m a guest in the guest room of a family that will never be mine.

Sorry, Bee. I’m being self-absorbed again. I know I’m a big baby, but my heart is rotting. I hate surprises.

Love you and miss you,
Carmen

“
L
ena.”

Lena looked up from her journal as Effie appeared in her doorway. Effie scrambled in and sat on her bed. “People are here, you know. The party’s starting.”

Lena had heard voices downstairs, but she was prepared to pretend she hadn’t.

“
He’s
here,” Effie continued meaningfully.

“He?”

“Kostos.”

“So?”

Effie got a look on her face. “Lena, I’m not kidding; you’ve got to see him.”

“Why?”

Effie leaned forward on her elbows. “I know you’d think he’d be this little . . . Grandma’s boy, but Lena, he is . . . he is . . .” When Effie got excited she didn’t finish her sentences.

“He’s what?”

“He’s . . .”

Lena raised an eyebrow.

“Stupendous,” Effie declared.

Lena was naturally a little curious, but she wouldn’t admit it. “Ef, I didn’t come to Greece to find a boyfriend.”

“Can I have him?”

Lena smiled for real. “Effie,
yes
. Does it matter that you already have a boyfriend?”

“It did until I saw Kostos.”

“He’s that great, huh?”

“You’ll see.”

Lena stood. “So let’s go.” It was handy to have Kostos built up so much. When she saw him he would certainly be disappointing.

Effie paused. “You told Grandma you were coming up to change.”

“Oh, yeah.” Lena rifled through her bag. It was cool now that the sun had set. She put on a brown turtleneck—her least sexy piece of clothing—and pulled her hair back in a severe ponytail. Still, the Pants were the Pants.

“You know, those pants do seem kind of magical,” Effie enthused. “They look great on you. Like, even better than usual.”

“Thanks,” Lena said. “Let’s go.”

“Wheeee,” Effie said excitedly.

So Kostos wasn’t disappointing. He was tall. He looked more like a man than a boy; he looked at least eighteen. He was good-looking enough to make Lena suspicious.

Granted, Lena was suspicious of many things. But she had earned her suspicions about boys. Lena knew boys: They never looked beyond your looks. They pretended to be your friend to get you to trust them, and as soon as you trusted them, they went in for the grope. They pretended to want to work on a history project or volunteer on your blood drive committee to get your attention. But as soon as they got it through their skulls that you didn’t want to go out with them, they suddenly weren’t interested in time lines or dire blood shortages. Worst of all, on occasion they even went out with one of your best friends to get close to you, and broke that same best friend’s heart when the truth came out. Lena preferred plain guys to cute ones, but even the plain ones disappointed her.

She personally thought that the only reason most girls put up with most boys at all was because they needed reassurance that they were pretty. That was one thing, maybe the only thing, Lena knew about herself without reassurance.

Lena’s friends called her Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty. The beauty part was more or less on target, but the love part was a joke. Lena was not a romantic.

“Lena, this is Kostos,” Grandma said. Lena could tell Grandma was trying to be cool, but she was just about blowing a gasket with excitement.

“Kostos, this is my granddaughter Lena,” Grandma said with a flourish, as though she were presenting a game show contestant with his new red car.

Lena stuck her hand out stiffly and shook his, heading off any spontaneous Greek cheek-kissing.

He studied her face while he shook her hand. She could tell he was trying to hold her eyes for a moment, but she looked down.

“Kostos is going to university in London in the fall,” Grandma bragged, as though he were hers. “He tried out with the national football team,” she added. “We are all so proud of him.”

Now Kostos was the one looking down. “Valia brags more than my own grandmother,” he mumbled.

Lena noted that his English was accented but sure.

“But this summer, Kostos is helping his
bapi
,” Grandma announced, and literally brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. “Bapi Dounas had a problem with his . . .” Grandma patted her hand over her heart. “Kostos changed his summer plans to stay home and help.”

Now Kostos looked genuinely uncomfortable. Lena felt sudden sympathy for him. “Valia, Bapi is strong as ever. I always like to work at the forge.”

Lena knew he was lying, and she liked him for it. Then she had a better idea.

“Kostos, have you met my sister, Effie, yet?” Effie had been bobbing around nearby the whole time, so it wasn’t hard to find her elbow and pull her over.

Kostos smiled. “You look like sisters,” he said, and Lena wanted to hug him for it. For some reason, people always paid more attention to their differences than their similarities. Maybe it took a Greek to see it. “Who’s older?” he asked.

“I’m older, but Effie’s nicer,” Lena said.

“Oh, please,” Grandma said, practically snorting.

“Just a year older,” Effie chimed in. “Fifteen months, actually.”

“I see,” Kostos answered.

“She’s only fourteen,” Grandma felt the need to point out. “Lena will be sixteen at the end of the summer.”

“Do you have brothers or sisters?” Effie, the eager subject-changer, asked.

Kostos’s face became subtly guarded. “No . . . just me.”

“Oh,” both girls said. Judging from Kostos’s expression, Lena could tell there was more to the story than that, and she silently prayed Effie wouldn’t ask any more about it. She didn’t want to get into intimacies here.

“Kostos . . . uh . . . plays soccer,” Lena tossed in, just to be sure.

“Plays soccer?” Grandma practically shouted as though scandalized. “He is a champion! He’s a hero in Oia!”

Kostos laughed, so Lena and Effie did too.

“You young people. You talk,” Grandma ordered, and she vanished.

Lena decided this could be a good opportunity to give Kostos and Effie a moment. “I’m going to get more food,” she said.

Later, she sat on the single chair outside the front door eating delicious stuffed grape leaves called
dolmades,
and olives. As many thousands of times as she’d eaten Greek food back in Maryland, it had never tasted precisely like this.

Kostos peered out the door. “There you are,” he said. “You like to sit alone?”

She nodded. She’d chosen this spot mostly for its one chair.

“I see.” He was very, very handsome. His hair was dark and wavy, and his eyes were yellow-green. There was a slight bump on the bridge of his nose.

That means you should go away,
she urged him silently.

Kostos walked into the passageway that led past her grandparents’ home and wound up the cliff. He pointed downhill. “That’s my house,” he said, pointing to a similar structure about five doors down. It had a wrought-iron balcony on the second floor painted a vibrant green and holding back an avalanche of flowers.

“Oh. Long walk,” she said.

He smiled.

She was about to ask whether he lived with his grandparents, but then she realized that would be inviting a conversation.