Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me

by Meredith Zeitlin

  It’s precarious, but it’s home.

  Anyway, Dad was forty-six when I was born—which was after he met my mom, obviously—and he agreed to stay put in NYC for a while. I personally don’t think he ever really intended to stay, and probably he wouldn’t have . . . if my mom hadn’t died right after giving birth to me.

  So it’s been just me and my dad for the last fifteen years. And for the most part it’s been pretty cool, actually. Growing up with a dad who writes for newspapers and magazines is great. He’d take me on all kinds of trips when I was a baby and use my extreme cuteness to disarm tricky sources and interview subjects. I used to hang out at his office and play on the old typewriters. And of course I had a million crazy “aunts” and “uncles” all over the city—local informer types and other writer friends of my dad’s.

  Oh, and his nickname for me is Ace—as in “ace reporter.” Sensing a theme yet?

  World Totally Unsurprised To Learn Of Girl’s Predisposition To Writing, Journalism

  In a truly unshocking turn of events, Zona Lowell, daughter of acclaimed writer David Lowell, wishes to pursue a career in journalism like her dad.

  “You know that saying, ‘Like father, like daughter’? Turns out it’s a real thing,” said the owner of the deli near the Lowells’ apartment.

  As the masses recover from this extraordinary revelation, we will continue our exclusive coverage of how the sky is blue and gravity is real.

  Filed, 4:13 p.m., NYC.

  Now that I’m older, we’re more like roommates in some ways than father and daughter: we take turns doing the grocery shopping and staking out a machine at the Laundromat down the street, share cooking and cleaning responsibilities, and fight over what makes it onto the DVR. We maintain our piles of important personal property with only a once-in-a-while argument over who stole whose copy of Newsweek. We treat each other like equals, really. My friends are totally jealous of me for having a dad who gets so involved with a project that he doesn’t mind if I do whatever I feel like doing as long as I check in. (Not that I’m running around town doing anything particularly nefarious, but still.) He trusts me. And I used to trust him.

  But now?

  Forget it.

  Because I knew that this wasn’t just about researching his work. He could stash me somewhere for six months instead of interrupting my sophomore year of high school. I was supposed to be gathering up grades for AP classes and preparing for the SATs. How was I supposed to do that in Greece?!

  No, this was a straight-up trick. Because I knew who else was in Greece: my mother’s family, whom I’d never met and, to be honest, never wanted to meet.

  3

  I never knew my mom, obviously. She lived her whole life in Crete (which, according to various accredited sources, is the largest and most populous island in Greece. Also, Zeus was born in a cave there. So, my mom . . . and also Zeus) until the day she ran off with my dad. She died just twenty hours after I was born, and I just don’t feel any connection to her. I mean, I love her, in that sort of vague way you’d love anyone who was related to you and gave you half your DNA. But that’s kind of it.

  Don’t go thinking this is all sad or anything like that. It isn’t. You can’t miss what you’ve never had, and in my family there’s a dad and a daughter and a dog.

  And I like it that way.

  Here’s the thing, though: in the last couple of years, my dad had started tossing around random comments involving me meeting this slew of relatives. I would just laugh and change the subject, saying I was sure they’re fine people, but I didn’t know them. I have nothing in common with them. I don’t speak Greek. I pointed out that they’ve never come over to meet us, or even sent a card. I was fine with things the way they were.

  And honestly, I was.

  There’s another part to this story, as I guess there usually is when it comes to family stuff . . . but I don’t like to think about it. Not if I don’t have to.

  Anyway, I put my journalism skills to good use and came up with a theory about why Dad had been pushing the Greece angle: he’s afraid of something happening to him and me being left alone.

  I know, super morbid—but I’m not an idiot. I mean, why else would he be doing this? And of course I’ve thought about the possibility of him . . . dying. I can’t even imagine life without my dad, much less being an orphan. It’s just . . . too much. And maybe that’s an immature attitude, too, but I’m only fifteen, for God’s sake. This is the time to have an immature attitude, isn’t it? And besides, I don’t think fear of something that hasn’t happened is a reason to just pick up and move to another freaking country to hang out with people I happen to be related to.

  So when he said we were moving to Greece—moving! Not even just taking a vacation!—I saw through the whole scheme right away.

  Hilary knew all this stuff, of course. (Well, almost all of it—the part I don’t like to think about is the only secret I’ve ever kept from her. More on that later.) But I just knew that, somehow, I’d think of a way out of this mess. And then it’d all just . . . go away. And I wouldn’t have to talk about it at all. Right? Don’t things sometimes happen that way?

  So. Back to Starbucks and me not taking the news very well at all.

  “Maybe he’s just testing your level of loyalty to the Reflector. See how hard you’ll fight to stay here, you know? Like, a co-journalistic ethics and devotion test or something . . .?” Hil trailed off. I raised my eyebrows skeptically, and she wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, I guess that sounded better in my head. Ugh, this is so unfair! What am I going to do without you?!”

  Hilary Bauer and I started hanging out at the beginning of fourth grade, when we got partnered up for a book report project involving hand puppets. (Seriously, where do teachers come up with this stuff?) Hil was new in school, and we bonded immediately over her notebook, which had pictures from the Narnia movie on it. Before we met I’d been really shy and mostly kept to myself; I was used to things being quiet at home, with just one parent and no siblings. Plus, I go to a pretty swanky private school with mostly well-off Manhattan- and Brooklynites. My dad and I are considered . . . eccentric, to put it nicely. Poor, to put it bluntly. The parents of my kindergarten classmates weren’t rushing to set me up with playdates once they found out we lived in a less-than-pristine two-bedroom rental apartment in a (gasp!) non-elevator building—at least, not until they figured out my dad is that David Lowell, the one who wrote the famous piece on 9/11. And by then I’d kind of learned to do my own thing, anyway. I never minded sitting by myself with a book, but meeting Hilary was just . . . serendipity.

  (In case you’re wondering how I could afford to go to a Manhattan private school, the answer is: after my mom died from blood toxemia, the hospital settled out of court with my dad. He was pretty messed up, obviously, and didn’t want to touch the money. He had a lawyer put it in a trust for my schooling, and that’s the only thing it’s ever been used for. Again, pretty morbid . . . but like I said, it’s the only life I’ve ever known. No pity parties, please, okay?)

  Anyway, my friendship with Hilary has not only been awesome and silly and necessary, but it survived the middle-school-to-high-school transition, mutual crushes on at least four guys, her parents almost getting divorced last year, a terrible text message misunderstanding in eighth grade involving one of the above-mentioned mutual crushes (too long and boring to explain), and one of us growing boobs and the other not (I’m the “not,” unfortunately). And now we’re going to be parted by a giant body of water?!

  Hilary was drawing a sad face on the table with Splenda. “And what about Matty?” she continued. “He needs you as much as I do!”

  Matt Klausner is the third member of our trio, who joined the ranks in seventh grade during a mind-blowingly boring school dance. He’s super smart, gay, spectacularly irritable about almost everything, and I love him to pieces. What would I do in Greece wit
hout him to make me laugh when I got sad about not having kissed anyone since someone’s visiting camp friend shoved his tongue down my throat at a party last spring? Who would let me copy their chemistry homework?!

  My latte was gone and I felt worse than ever. Hilary blew away her Splenda portrait. She looked as glum as I felt.

  “I don’t know, Hil. I mean, at least you guys will still have each other. What will I do without you?”

  “Maybe your dad will change his mind and decide to write about something else,” she suggested quietly.

  I didn’t bother replying. We both knew that’d never happen. When David Lowell decided to write something, he wrote it.

  4

  When I got home, Dad was in his study working with the door closed—probably looking up ways to further sabotage my high school career/life. I headed to my room and found a Post-it note stuck to my computer monitor. It said: Ornery Daughter Comes to Senses, Celebrates Impending Adventure.

  Interesting.

  This is a thing my dad and I have done since I could write: leaving headlines around the apartment instead of regular notes. Usually I think it’s pretty clever, but not this time.

  I got out my own pad of paper and scribbled down: Despondent Daughter Ignores Father’s Annoying Note; Father Withers Away Unvisited in Bargain-Basement Nursing Home. Not the world’s most concise headline, but it’d do. I dashed down the hall and stuck it on the door to his study.

  The next morning, there was a new Post-it plastered to my forehead when I woke up. It said: Come on, Ace. Look on the bright side. For me? . . . For you?

  I crumpled it up, tossed it in the trash, and headed to school.

  “You guys. Guess what?” Matty said, sliding in next to me at the lunch table later that day.

  I eyed him warily. Despite the fact that I’d spent an hour on the phone with him the night before lamenting the unwelcome turn of events at Chez Lowell, he seemed to think that other topics were up for discussion. And when Matt Klausner leads with an open-ended question, you never know what path you might be lured down.

  “If this has anything to do with that piercing place in the Village, the answer is still no,” Hilary said.

  Matt grinned. “My cousin Paulette got her tongue pierced there, and when my uncle saw it, he helpfully removed it for her . . . with pliers. Then she watched the hole close in the mirror. She said it took two hours.”

  “This is what you wanted to tell us?” Hilary asked, horrified.

  “No, it is not, so if you’d just—”

  I glanced up from my grilled cheese, which I’d been bitterly picking at instead of eating. “Your cousin stared at her tongue in the mirror for two hours? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Well, she’s not that interesting.” Matt shrugged, stealing some tater tots from my plate. When I scowled at him, he opened his mouth to reveal the disgusting mess inside.

  “You’re seriously the worst,” Hil said.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Were you two sitting here moaning about the fact that Zona gets to leave this cesspool and live in one of the most gorgeous places on the planet? Are we having a cry-athon in the caf?”

  “Hey!” I snapped. “If you want to switch itineraries with me, feel free to—”

  “Because if you’re done with sad-sack time, I have something of great import to share with you. But maybe . . . maybe you don’t even care.” Matt glared at us, folding his hands on the tabletop.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Hilary said. “What’s up?”

  “Well, now I’m not sure you deserve to know . . .” He sniffed petulantly.

  I knew when a battle had been lost. “Pleaaaaaase, Matty, most handsome of men. Please, pretty please, tell us the exciting news. It’s all we want in the world.” Hilary and I batted our eyelashes at him dramatically.

  We’re dorks, but it’s so fun.

  “Okay, you’ve forced it out of me!” Matt exclaimed at last. “The news is: I. Like. Someone.”

  Silence.

  “Hello? Anyone? This is a landmark event. I’d like a reaction.” Matt folded his arms across his chest. I looked at Hilary. She looked at me.

  “Is this a joke?” Hil finally said.

  “How dare you! I’ve never been so insulted in my—”

  “It’s just that . . . you never like anyone. Ever,” I pointed out quickly. “I mean, is it someone at this school? The school filled with ‘horrible, hideous, juvenile, totally uninspired guys you could never in a million years imagine touching with a ten-foot pole’? Because I definitely remember that speech.”

  “Ugh, of course it isn’t someone from this freak show. It’s”—Matt leaned in conspiratorially—“the counter guy at the Starbucks on 12th Street. I’m in love, I’m in lust, I don’t know what to do with myself!” He flung his arms in the air triumphantly.

  Today’s Special Interest Story: Deluded Teen Professes Love For 30-Year-Old (Minimum) Barista

  Matthew Klausner, a Manhattan resident, revealed today that he thinks he has a snowball’s chance in hell of going on a date of any kind with the much older and most likely not looking to be put in prison Scott NoIdeaLastName.

  Klausner’s friends tried to say encouraging things after the young man’s revelation, including, “Well, it’s great that you figured out your type!” and “Have you completely lost your mind?!” but the subject of their best intentions remained unmoved.

  For more information, please see “Mary-Kay Letourneau” and “Truly Terrible Ideas.”

  Filed, 12:18 p.m., Manhattan.

  “Should I say ‘Is this a joke’ again?” Hilary asked. “Because I totally will.”

  “Scoff all you want, but we have a connection. He gave me a free package of those chocolate-covered graham crackers today,” Matt said smugly.

  “Wow. Did he hand them to you through the window of his white van before asking you to climb in?” I said. Hilary laughed. Matt did not look amused. “Matty, come on. You can’t be serious. This guy is like . . . old. Too old.”

  “Love knows no age restrictions. Weren’t your parents, like, twenty years apart or something?”

  Twenty-five years, actually. So not the point.

  “Besides,” Matty went on, “he’s not old, he’s mature. And I’m sixteen, not nine. He can get me into clubs. And maybe you guys, too, if you’re good.”

  “Gee,” I said with wide eyes, “I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more than hanging out with you and your new faux-boyfriend in a—”

  “What do you call a cougar if he’s a guy?” Hilary interjected thoughtfully. “A lion?”

  “—club, but I have to move to another continent instead. Thanks for the invite, though.”

  “Oh, here we go. Back to Sadsville.” Matt slumped in his chair. “Can’t you take a minute to be encouraging? Should I ask him out or what?”

  “NO!” Hilary and I said together.

  Hil flung her sandwich crust at him. “Definitely not,” she added.

  “You two just want everyone to be as miserable as you are.” Matt narrowed his eyes and flung the bread back.

  “Matty, that’s not fair. Of course we want you to meet someone. Just not someone who is elderly and works at Starbucks,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. I knew Matt got bummed out because there were basically no other gay guys in our school—well, not many who’d admit it, anyway—and he wanted to hook up and have crushes like everybody else.

  “He’s not elderly! He’s probably, like . . . twenty-four!”

  Hilary and I gave him the exact same look. He scowled at us again. Then the bell rang and we all heaved a collective sigh. “Well, this was fun,” Matt said morosely. Then he brightened. “I’ve got a free period . . . Anyone want to go get coffee?”

  “Seriously, though, you guys, what’s a male cougar?” Hilary asked again. “A tiger?”

 
; “I have no idea, Hil. I’m gay, not an expert on gay terminology. Zona, why don’t you do a little undercover journalism and find out for us? I’ll ask Scott where you should look for leads.”

  “I have History,” I said firmly, scooping up my tray and ignoring Matt’s suggestion. “Also, you’ve had enough coffee for today, sir. Hilary, I’m leaving you in charge.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Hilary rolled her eyes resignedly and looked pointedly at Matt. “No coffee for you.” He sniffed haughtily and started doing something on his phone—probably tweeting about how no one understood him. I winked at Hil and headed to class.

  5

  Young Journalist Daydreams Through Entire Meeting

  Instead of paying attention during what would likely be one of the last opportunities to contribute in her official capacity as features editor, Zona Lowell spent the entire weekly Reflector meeting wondering if she could somehow make her dad change his evil, stubborn mind. She also gave some thought to what the paper’s editor-in-chief, handsome senior Benjamin Walker, would look like with his shirt off.

  When called on for her thoughts, Zona managed to say, “Oh, yeah—totally agree,” which made absolutely no sense, since the question was “What are you thinking for the features theme next month?”

  Filed, 2:24 p.m., Manhattan.

  It was hard to believe I was sitting in our usual Friday meeting like I hadn’t had my world upended a few days earlier. And yet, here I was, same as always.