Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (13 page)

After we escape the mania of plate-throwing Australian tourists, laughing like loons all the way down the street, I pause for a second to really feel the evening. Here I am on a pretty big birthday, outside without a coat, surrounded by people I don't know that well, really, and they've all gotten together to show me a great time. I feel kind of, well,
special
—which, I suppose, is how you're supposed to feel on your sixteenth birthday.

And just when I think it couldn't get any better unless Hilary and Matt suddenly appeared, Nikos says, “Come on, let's go down to the marina. Giorgos is there with some people for drinks.” And then the five of us are piling into a taxi and speeding toward the hottest guy I have ever seen, who I've been ogling for three straight months. And it's
my birthday.
I mean, you can't make this stuff up.

Maybe I should be up-front about my past experiences with guys: they're pretty lame. I've hooked up a few times, but nothing too exciting. My first kiss was at that same interschool dance where Hilary and I first became friends with Matt. It was awkward and I never saw the guy again. The three of us snuck into a couple of upperclassman parties last year—not my idea, of course—and at one of them I got kind of drunk (the first and only time I've had more than a couple of beers) and made out with a guy who tried to hang out with me again after that, but I freaked out that he wanted to be my boyfriend. I barely even remembered making out with him. Not my best display of maturity, I have to admit. Then there was one random but actually very nice kiss with Hilary's cousin when I stayed with her for a few weeks when my dad was out of town on assignment.

And . . . yeah. That's it.

But tonight, the universe is clearly sending me a signal: I'm in a strange land, I see this gorgeous guy across a crowded cafeteria on my first day of school, and now we are having our first real meeting on my
special night
?! Come on.

I still haven't figured out why the girls think Giorgos is so weird. It's true that he kind of keeps to himself, and reads by himself a lot . . . but so do I! Maybe we're meant for each other.

In the cab, everyone is asking me what I thought of the
bouzoukia.
From the front seat Nikos says, “You know, it interests me very much that you came here to see family, but you never mention them. I mean, is it different, staying with your Greek family, or like the same as in New York?”

Huh. I was much happier thinking about Giorgos.

“Well, I'm not actually . . . So, there's Yiota, my cousin. I told you guys about her. But I've never, um . . . I haven't met anyone else in my family.” I exchange a glance with Lilena, who looks at me questioningly.

Ashley gasps. “Seriously? But I thought—”

“Yet,” I go on quickly. “I haven't met them yet—they live in Crete. So I'm going there for spring break.”

“You don't sound very excited,” Betony chirps.

I so do not feel like going into the whole dead mom saga, especially since this is actually the anniversary of said tragic event.

Lilena comes to my rescue, saying, “You guys, Zona doesn't want to talk about this stuff. It's a party! Let's—”

The cab screeches to a halt at the curb outside the marina. Saved. I squeeze Lilena's hand gratefully as we're clambering out of the backseat. She squeezes back.

Once we get out of the cab, I sneakily reapply my lip gloss, try to remember Matty's tips for talking to guys and being myself, and stroll onto the scene looking extremely casual. Or in a way that I think looks really casual. Same thing, right?

And there he is, sitting with a few other people at a table. I recognize one girl, a senior with long dreadlocks and an eyebrow ring, but the others I've never seen before. One of them looks about forty, actually. They have many empty coffee cups and an overflowing ashtray on the table, and they're all smoking and not talking to one another. Giorgos is underlining something in a very old paperback book. Nikos claps his brother on the back and Giorgos looks up, smiling.

“Greekgreekgreekgreekgreek,”
he says, which I assume means,
Oh, Zona is here? Fantastic! Perhaps I'll take her for a romantic walk along the water!

He gets up and joins our group, and I think for a second I might just tip over into the water and never be heard from again.

“Hi, I'm Giorgos,” he says to me. His voice is really deep and growly. He kisses the other girls on both cheeks, then returns to me.
“Chronia polla.”
I'm pretty sure that means “happy birthday” in Greek, but I choose to believe it actually translates to
Zona, I have been stalking you, too. I didn't approach you earlier because you are so beautiful and I wasn't sure you were real.

“Efcharisto,”
I say, ambitiously using a Greek word. “We were just at a
bouzoukia.
There were—”

“Giorgos, maybe you and Zona should go get some ice cream or something. She loves ice cream, don't you, Zona?” Ashley says, not very subtly. Also not so subtle is Betony tugging on her sleeve and giggling. Lilena nudges me, and Nikos rolls his eyes at all of us. Giorgos doesn't seem to notice. He's staring into the distance and rocking back and forth on his toes. I wonder if he's high. Do people smoke a lot of weed in Greece?

“Uh . . . yes, I do love ice cream. Especially outside, at night, after eating half a cake earlier.” I smile broadly. Hey, if nothing else, I can take a cue.

Giorgos shrugs and starts walking toward a little gelato stand. Shooting a panicked/elated look at the girls, I follow him.

“We'll get a table!” Lilena calls after us.

“So, um, are those your friends over there? I think I recognize one of them from school.”

No response.

I don't give up. “So, you and Nikos have lived a lot of places, right? That must be so fascinating, culturally . . . sociologically. Have you ever—”

“What flavor do you like?” he asks me in his gravelly voice.

“Whatever you're having is great. I can be incredibly mercurial when it comes to ice cream.” Oh no. The SAT words are sneaking out; English isn't even this guy's first language—he probably has no idea what I'm saying.

He orders two vanilla cones and looks around the marina again. Then he breathes in deeply.

“The air is so pungent here, isn't it?” I say chirpily. “Salt and something floral . . . I love it, don't you?”
Jesus H, Zona. What are you
talking
about?

The counter boy gives him the cones, but Giorgos doesn't hand me one.

Should I ask for it? Did he forget he's holding it?

“So, I know Nikos pretty well, but you and I haven't, um . . . I mean, I see you're a big reader. What are you reading?”

He says nothing, but looks at me steadily and licks one of the cones. I try not to think about his tongue and instead look up at his eyes. Mistake. They are so sparkly, I feel like I'm being sucked into a vortex. Even his shaggy Justin Bieber haircut is adorable instead of lame. I can't look away.

Say something.

“I'm a writer. I mean, I was, in New York, which is where I'm from. You probably knew that—or not. Um. I probably don't sound like much of a writer right now, huh?”

“You talk a lot, do you know that?” Giorgos remarks calmly. His jaw, it's so well-cut, like he was drawn with a felt-tip marker. When he speaks it's almost as mesmerizing as when he's not speaking. “You should try to spend more time being quiet, I think so, yes?”

He doesn't seem to be insulting me, really; it's more like he's trying to figure me out. Though frankly I'd be happy to listen to him insult me all day long. I just want him to keep saying things. I'd like it even more if he said things and then put his hands . . . anywhere.

He licks his ice cream very slowly, thoughtfully. I may actually pass out.

“It's good, you know, to just
be,
Zona. Can you just
be
?”

I have no idea what that means. It sounds like the kind of thing a yogi or a hipster would say. Do they have either of those in Greece? I try to focus on Giorgos's pink tongue, once again gliding smoothly over the cool, white . . .

Then, slowly—so slowly that I'm mesmerized and don't even realize what is about to occur—the hand holding the second ice cream comes up, up . . . over my head . . . and then down. I don't stop him because I can't believe it's actually happening.

Giorgos places the cone—cold side down—on the top of my head, delicately but firmly. Then he tilts his head to the side like a bird and gazes at me.

“What the—are you—why would you
do
that!?” I sputter in disbelief, snatching the cone off. The ice cream, unfortunately, stays put.

You might never have thought about what it would feel like to have ice cream all over your head—I certainly hadn't. Answer: it's freaking cold!

“I can't . . . I can't believe . . .” I grind to a halt.

He's still just staring at me. Is this guy nuts or what?

Suddenly, I start laughing. Everyone is staring at me, and I can't stop laughing. The ice cream is melting, dripping down the side of my face and all over my hands as I try to wipe it off, and it's cold, and sticky, and I'm
still
laughing, so hard I think my insides are going to burst.

“See?” Giorgos says calmly. He swallows the last of his cone. “It's okay. Just be. Just like that.”

He goes over to the counter, then hands a bunch of napkins to me. I start to wipe my hair, but it's a disaster there's no help for. I'll have to shower to get this mess out.

“I don't think having an ice cream cone on your head is the key to the universe. In fact, I'm not sure why I'm laughing instead of punching you right now,” I say, balling up the soggy napkins.

“It's because you're not thinking about meaningless stuff, that's why. You're chilled out.”

“Oh, I'm definitely
chilled out.
”

“That
is
the key to the universe, Zona.” Giorgos takes his cigarettes out of his pocket and shakes one out. “You want?”

“Thanks, but I don't smoke. Also, I'm covered with ice cream, so I'm pretty sure I need to go home. But thanks for the life lesson, Giorgos. It was . . . real.”

“You're okay, Zona.” He nods, inhaling smoke as he lights up. “I like you.”

I extricate a knit hat from my bag and shove it over my disgusting hair. At the table, the girls are cracking up, but not in a mean way—more a “We tried to tell you!” way—and Nikos is shaking his head. Giorgos is still smoking by the water, looking into the distance, rocking back and forth again.

I thank the others for an amazing and totally unique Sweet Sixteen experience. I promise to hug them properly when I'm not, you know, covered with vanilla ice cream.