Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me

Also by Meredith Zeitlin

Freshman Year and Other Unnatural Disasters

G. P. P
UTNAM'S
S
ONS

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Copyright © 2015 by Meredith Zeitlin.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Zeitlin, Meredith.

Sophomore year is Greek to me / Meredith Zeitlin.

pages cm

Summary: “Fifteen-year-old Zona Lowell is finally comfortable in high school when her father tells her that they're moving to Greece for the second half of her sophomore year, and she will be forced to meet her mother's large extended family there against her will”—Provided by publisher.

[1. Moving, Household—Fiction. 2. Family life—Greece—Fiction. 3. High schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Single-parent families—Fiction. 6. Journalism—Fiction. 7. Greece—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.Z395Sop 2015

[Fic]—dc23

2014015974

 

ISBN 978-0-698-17347-7

 

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

This book is dedicated with love to every person who read the first one and asked me to write another.

And to the YA blogging community: you guys rule.

Just before the clock ticks over into a brand-new year, one that is going to be completely different from any I've experienced before, my dad and I get on a plane—my first overseas flight—heading to Greece. I look out the window, take a deep breath . . . and then we soar off into the sky.

By the time we land in Athens, I'm so keyed up and restless from endless cups of coffee and sitting in a deceptively uncomfortable chair for so many hours that I want to lie down in a nice soft bed and run laps around the airport at the same time.

My dad, on the other hand, is just plain cranky. He hates long flights, which makes his choice of career kind of ironic.

Well, he'll get no sympathy from me—this was his idea, after all. I wanted to stay in New York where I belong.

We collect Tony, our exceptionally grumpy Scottish terrier, stumble through customs, get our passports stamped (my first stamp!), and retrieve our luggage. Frankly, I didn't think it would all make it, but I suppose miracles happen every day.

Dad is riffling through a sheaf of papers, looking for the one that will tell us how to get to our sublet. It's in a neighborhood called Kallithea that is supposedly not hard to get to, but suddenly I'm not even sure I can make it to a bench before collapsing. Does jet lag set in immediately?

As we head out of the airport arrivals area, the first thing I notice is the signs: they're in English and Greek, those strange curly letters that look like hieroglyphics to me. I thumbed through an English-to-Greek dictionary back in New York, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it, so seeing the English signs is a huge relief. Maybe I won't be hopelessly lost after all . . . or at the very least, I can just hang out in the airport if I get desperate.

There's a big glassed-in smoking area in the middle of the airport, which is weird to see—in New York City, smoking is banned everywhere. My dad, who smoked like a chimney before I was born (and sometimes has been known to sneak a cigarette when he thinks I'm not looking), gazes at it longingly. “Dad!” I scold him. “This is no time to revert to atrocious habits. Pull it together.”

We changed a bunch of money at JFK before we took off, so we plunk down eight euros apiece for train tickets. Eight euros is roughly eleven dollars, I believe, which I find to be completely insane: that much money for a subway ride? According to the not-very-friendly woman at the ticket window, a regular ride (not from the airport) is only €1.20, but still. I sort of thought things would be dirt cheap in Greece, what with the economic difficulties. Apparently not.

We roll our suitcases (and poor, miserable Tony) down a long tunnel until we get to the platform. The subway is really simple here, unlike the rat's nest of colors and numbers I'm used to at home. In Athens there are three lines: blue, red, and green. It would be incredibly straightforward if not for the fact that I can't pronounce—and therefore remember—any of the names of the stations. But it's only my first hour here, so I'll try to give myself a break.

We sit down to wait for the train, which arrives at the airport every half hour according to the electronic sign. I reach into Tony's carrier to pet him; he's still groggy and looks even grouchier than usual. Poor guy. At least in Greece pets don't have to be quarantined after entering the country—then we might not have been able to bring him at all.

The train platform's waiting area is bright white and has plants all around. With the sun shining in from overhead, it actually looks like an atrium in here, minus the birds. Definitely not like any subway platform I've ever waited on, that's for sure. Maybe I'm hallucinating?

The train finally arrives. We lug our stuff through the doors, and right on cue, Tony starts howling. A nice lady offers me her seat so I can put him down, which is a surprise. My sleep-deprived brain wonders when more traditional passengers will put in an appearance, like the NYC subway staples “lady eating sunflower seeds and spitting the shells on the ground” or “guy with no pants screaming about the apocalypse.” Shockingly, their Greek counterparts don't appear; only tidy, quiet passengers fill the train. The seats are covered with fabric and totally spotless, and there isn't a single piece of litter on the floor. Even the poles look especially shiny. But, like I said, it's possible I'm just delirious from exhaustion.

After twenty minutes or so, we switch trains at a stop called Monastiraki (once again, I'm relieved to see the station names spelled out in English letters) for the green line. Four more stops and we've reached our final destination. We walk out onto a sun-dappled platform filled with potted trees and drag our belongings up the escalator and out of the station.

So this is it: my first official view of Athens, and my new home.

If you want to know the truth . . . it kind of looks like Brooklyn.

There's a cobbled platform with steps (and a ramp, thank the lord) leading from the station down to the sidewalk, and straight ahead is a store that looks like a typical deli. Past that and on the other side of the street are more shops and a restaurant, and what I'm guessing is a church, because it has a big lit-up green cross on a sign. It's a neighborhood. Just like my neighborhood in New York, really.

I guess I was expecting some massive ruins or something. Or for everything to be white from a fine layer of ancient dust. People feeding one another grapes. Something more, well,
Greek
.

To our left is a ramp leading to a highway overpass. The cars look different—boxier—and they have strange-looking license plates. And everywhere I look, people are walking, riding scooters, talking, or picking up newspapers. Not a single person appears to be wearing a toga. If it weren't for the fact that everyone's speaking a language I don't understand, we could be pretty much anywhere.

So far.

My dad has his stack of papers out again, and Tony is barking his head off at two dogs who are hanging out by the door to the station. They have collars and tags, but no leashes or obvious owners. Tony is losing his mind, scrabbling against the sides of his carrier.

“Anthony Oliver Lowell!” I reprimand him. He knows better than that.

He looks chastened and switches from barking to a low growl. I'm tempted to let him out of his carrier to stretch his legs—I'm sure he's been miserable cooped up for almost an entire day—but the other dogs make me nervous. Instead I apologize to him profusely.

“Can we get a cab? Do we even know where we're
going
?” I whine. This has been fun and all, but I think I'm ready to wrap it up. Dad is sitting on top of his big suitcase, looking like he's about to fall over. One of the strange dogs comes over and sniffs his leg.

“Dad? Dad!”

He starts, snorts, and looks back at the papers. He is holding them upside down. I sense I'm going to have to take charge.

I snap a piece of paper out of his hand and look it over. “Okay, Dad, this isn't far at all.” I look up from the directions and point. “That way, I think. Let's roll.”

I'm looking for street signs, which, after getting to the verge of bursting into exhausted tears, I eventually realize are cleverly hidden by being attached to (and camouflaged by) the buildings. No steel rods helpfully sticking out of the sidewalk here. We turn down the wrong street, which has almost the exact same name as the
right
street, and after correcting our mistake finally get to a building that looks like, well, a building. Where are the columns? Where are the decorative urns? Where are the goats?!

Wait—you know what? Hang on. It occurs to me that I may need to back up. After all, a good reporter should start a story at the beginning so that her readers have all the facts.

Let me try this again:

My name is Zona Lowell. I'm fifteen, from New York City, and a month ago my father decided to turn my entire world upside down in one fell swoop.

I've been kind of freaking out about it.