by Linda Gerber
Maybe it wasn’t fair, but since Grampa had always been the one with the jokes and the peppermint candies in his pocket, I had always gravitated toward him. Gramma scared me a little bit.
“She never let me get away with anything,” Mom had told me, “that’s for sure.”
Gramma was what Grampa used to call a “no-nonsense, hardworking kinda gal.” She expected the same hard work and no nonsense from everyone.
“You just have to get to know her soft side,” Mom had said. “She does have one, you know.”
“Cassidy!” Gramma knocked on the stairway wall. “Don’t make me come up and get you!”
She would, too. I knew that from experience. “I’m coming!” I yelled; and because I knew she would be listening for sounds of life before she’d give up, I pushed the covers back and sat up, bouncing just a little so she’d be sure to hear the bed creak.
I was learning that Gramma’s soft side only looks like it has hard edges. Like when she would bark at me to get out of bed or when she’d stare a nosy reporter down. She seemed tough on the outside, but she was only showing that she loved me.
I found out that she liked to put her feet up, too. Don’t laugh—it was something of a revelation to me. In all the times we’d stayed at the farm, all I ever remembered was Gramma working, working, working. I could hear her cooking breakfast before we got up in the morning, or running the washing machine after we went to bed. I wasn’t even completely sure she ever slept.
But now that it was just the two of us, she liked to spend evenings relaxing. We’d read books or play canasta, or, if I was really lucky, watch TV.
You’d think with a daughter who made her living on television, Gramma would have watched more of it, but she never saw the value in it, she said. Except for my mom and dad’s show.
When in Rome came on Thursday evenings in Ohio, so I always knew we’d spend those evenings with a bowl of popcorn in front of the TV.
“Turn it up!” she’d say as soon as Mom came on screen. Or “Is this the episode you’re in, dear?”
I had to explain to her every time that the shows were scheduled months in advance. The Spain episode taped in August wouldn’t air until October. But still she anticipated it every week.
When I realized it had gotten quiet downstairs, I jumped out of bed and pulled on my sweats. Eventually, Gramma would stop asking for help, and then she’d go and tackle a job by herself. The only thing I hated more than scrubbing the baseboards was the guilt of knowing Gramma had been on her knees scrubbing the baseboards because I was too slow to get to it.
I trudged down the stairs without even brushing my hair. It was dark (why hadn’t Gramma turned on the lights? weird….), and I had to feel along the wall for the light switch.
“Gramma?” I called. “Gramma?”
She must have gone out to milk the cow. Yeah, she only had one by then. Which meant we didn’t have one of those handy milking machines. We milked by hand, and can I just say…. ick?
Finally, I found the switch and turned on the lights and—
“Surprise!”
Mom and Dad stood in front of me with their arms outstretched. As soon as I recovered from my shock, I jumped into them. “How did you…. ? When did you…. ? I thought you were in Malta.”
“We finished shooting early,” Mom said. “We wanted to surprise you.”
“We’ve missed you so much, Cassie-bug,” Dad added, stroking my hair. “It hasn’t been the same without you.”
“Does that mean I can come back with you?” I blurted it out before it dawned on me that I might be hurting Gramma’s feelings. “I mean…. uh…. I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” she said. “A child needs her parents.”
Mom and Dad exchanged one of their annoying meaningful glances.
“Well….” Mom began.
“We need to talk,” Dad said.
Gramma ushered us into her kitchen. I’ve always liked Gramma’s kitchen. My mom’s a chef, and I think Gramma’s kitchen must be where she got her love for food. Because with Gramma, food was another way of showing love.
She gave us all steaming mugs of hot cocoa, pulled out her cast-iron aebelskiver pan, and set about making breakfast, humming to herself as if the rest of us weren’t there. Gramma always made aebelskivers for our homecoming breakfasts. They’re little Danish pancakes that are shaped like balls, and they always remind me of the farm.
Mom watched her for a while and then turned to me.
“How have you been enjoying your time here?” Mom asked.
I sipped my cocoa before answering. I’d been enjoying it fine, even if I would rather have been with them and Logan. I was glad for the time I’d had with Gramma, but I’m not going to lie—after jetting around the world, life on a farm is, well…. slow. I glanced to where Gramma was humming at the stove. “It’s been great,” I said.
“Would you be terribly sad to leave for a bit?” Dad asked.
I sat up straighter and tried to hide the excitement in my voice when I asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Well,” Mom said, “it seems you’ve become quite popular.”
Dad nodded. “The producers informed us that we get more hits on the When in Rome website through searches for your name than through all other searches. Combined.”
Okay. I had to admit that was pretty cool. But…. so?
Mom cleared her throat. “They’ve been talking to us for the past few weeks….”
“Lecturing us is more like it,” Dad put in.
“And they would like us to consider bringing you back to the show. As an active participant.”
I took another sip of my hot cocoa to hide my smile. The active-participant part was great, but my smile was for Logan. He said he’d be staying with his dad for a while, which meant he’d be traveling with the show, too. I felt like jumping up and down. Singing. Dancing. But I simply said, “I’d like that.”
“Glad to hear it,” Dad said. “Because the network has a special assignment for you. A kids’ travel special.”
He and Mom exchanged a look again.
“How would you like to go to Greece?”
Turn the page for a peek at
episode two:
Paparazzi
A sign on the wall in the Athens
airport said, GREECE WELCOMES A NEW MYTH. YOURS.
I had to stop and take a picture of it because it fit my situation so well. Arriving in Greece, I felt like I was actually stepping into an adventure of mythical proportions.
My mom and dad host a popular television travel show called When in Rome, and I’ve been all over the world with them, but this was the first time I was traveling on my own. Or at least without them. I did have my tutor, Victoria, with me. It was the only way they would let me go. And by “only way,” I mean it was one of a long list of rules and conditions.
My mom and dad’s network had invited me to help host a travel special on Greece that would air on their sister kids’ network. The only problem was, my mom and dad’s show was already scheduled to shoot in Papua, New Guinea, at the same time. They wouldn’t have even considered letting me do the Greece special if it wasn’t for Victoria. And a good deal of pressure from the network.
They wanted to cash in on the surge of publicity When in Rome had gotten since our recent visit to Spain. Without intending to, I had landed myself in trouble there, and landed on the front pages of the tabloids in the process. The attention got a little too intense, so my mom and dad sent me to stay with my gramma in Ohio to get me out of the spotlight and let things settle down.
It didn’t work. Newspaper and television reporters swarmed Gramma’s farm. I probably did more interviews in the few weeks I was there than my mom and dad did in a year. Our executive director, Cavin, insisted that they should take advantage of my name recognition instead of hiding me away. Finally, my mom and dad gave in when I was invited to do the special.
Thinking about Cavin made me think about his son,
Logan, and that made my stomach flip. At one time, Logan had been my best friend. When we were kids, he used to travel on location with the show just like I did. We hung out together all the time. And then Logan’s mom made him go back to live with her in Ireland. I didn’t see him for over two years, until—without any warning—he came back to the show when we were in Spain.
And I realized I liked him.
I mean, really liked him.
And the way he came looking for me before he left Spain, I had a feeling that he liked me, too.
We’d been meeting online to chat as often as we could since then, and things had just started to get interesting when I was invited to come to Greece.
I closed my eyes and remembered Logan’s smile. His green eyes, fringed with black lashes. His Irish accent and the way he let his words lilt up at the end of a sentence. I sighed.
“Are you feeling quite all right?” Victoria asked.
By then we were standing in the long immigration line, waiting to be processed.
“I’m good,” I told her, even though my stomach felt like it had been inhabited by a vicious breed of attack butterflies. Excitement, I told myself, even though I knew it was much more than that.
If I ever wanted to return to my parents’ show—and be with Logan again—I had to prove to them that I could keep out of trouble. That I could be an asset. A lot was riding on this trip. What if I wasn’t up to the challenge?
Suddenly, I felt claustrophobic in the long line of people. Like I couldn’t breathe.
“Actually,” I told Victoria, “I think I need to go to the restroom.” Anywhere to get away from the crowd for a moment. I had to pull myself together.
She glanced at her watch. “Can it wait until we get to baggage claim? The producers said they would be sending a driver to pick us up, and I’m afraid we’ll keep him waiting if we lose our place in line now.”
“You stay,” I said. “Save our spot. I’ll be right back.” I didn’t wait for her to say no, but sprinted to the nearest bathroom.
You are la chica moda, I told my image in the mirror. You can do this.
La chica moda, in case you didn’t know, is the nickname the tabloids in Spain gave me. It means “the fashionable girl.” And I swear, it’s not something I thought a whole lot about before Spain. Fashion, I mean. I just wore what I liked. But since I pick up clothes from all over the world and have developed what the papers called my own “sense of style,” they seemed to think it was newsworthy. Once I was already in the news, that is.
That kind of a nickname can become a burden. I mean, it’s a lot to live up to, right? I try not to think about it, but it’s there in the back of my mind, ready to pounce whenever my confidence slips.
Of course, my mom’s quick tutorial on how to behave like a television personality didn’t help much. “You never know when someone will be watching,” she told me before I left for Greece. “Or when your picture might be taken. Remember that whenever we are in the public eye, we are always on.”
Thanks so much, Mom. Way to make me perpetually self-conscious.
I splashed my face with water and stared at myself in the mirror. I hardly even recognized the girl who stared back. My eyes looked bluer that usual. Bright, eager. My cheeks flushed pink with anticipation. I usually straightened my blonde hair, but I’d left my straightener at home this trip on the advice of the makeup guy with my mom and dad’s show.
“You’ve got naturally wavy hair,” Daniel had said. “You don’t want to fight the humidity in Greece by trying to straighten it all the time. Remember, natural is your friend.”
Taking a deep breath, I repeated the affirmations that had been my mantra from the moment I left Cleveland. I could show my mom and dad. I could be on. I could be a star. I set my sunglasses on top of my head and tossed my natural waves and stared down the girl in the mirror. “Let’s do this thing.”
I saw the sign with my name on it the minute we rolled our luggage out of the customs area. It’s the first time I’ve seen a driver holding up my name. Usually, it’s my mom’s or dad’s name on the placard. A little thrill rippled through me and I nudged Victoria. “Look!” I whispered.
Holding the sign was a tall man in a black suit and a crisp white shirt. He had dark, wavy hair and even darker eyes that watched the passengers coming through the entry.
Our driver, I guessed. He must have recognized me—or at least saw the way I reacted to the sign he was holding—because he tucked the sign under his arm and waved us over.
“Miss Cassidy, Miss Victoria,” he said. “I am Magus Demetriou. Kalos irthate stin Ellada. Welcome to Greece.” His voice was big and deep, just like he was. Seriously. Besides being tall, the guy had thick, wide shoulders and a solid-looking build beneath his suit. He looked more like a bodyguard than a driver.
“Mr. Kouropoulos asked that I bring you to the yacht directly,” he said, giving a little nod first to me, and then to Victoria.
Oh, did I mention that part of the deal with the travel special was that we would be sailing around the Greek islands on a movie star’s yacht? Yeah. It’s a rough life, but I’m willing to make the sacrifice.
“Is it far to the harbor?” I asked.
“Perhaps far for some, not so far for others.” He smiled in a way that made me wonder if he was joking or giving me some kind of riddle or what.
Which meant I had no idea how to respond. All I could come up with was, “Oh,” and that didn’t quite have the star quality I was going for.
But then, he probably didn’t even hear the answer anyway. He was already in motion, taking the luggage cart from Victoria and motioning with his head for us to follow him.
“I trust your flight was pleasant?” he said over his shoulder.
“It was really nice,” I said. “Thank you.”
He led us outside through a pair of sliding-glass doors. I squinted in the bright Mediterranean sunshine and pulled the sunglasses off the top of my head, but stopped short of putting them on. Right in front of us, a sleek white limousine with tinted-glass windows idled near the loading-zone curb. I barely had time to wonder if some big celebrity was flying into Athens that afternoon before Magus stepped up to pay the uniformed attendant and I realized the limo was for us. Niiice.
We sometimes got limousine service when I traveled with my mom and dad, but I wasn’t expecting it for just me. Well, me and Victoria. I settled the sunglasses onto my nose and slipped my cell phone from my pocket to take a quick picture to post on my blog. And to show Logan how the network was rolling out the red carpet for this show. Not bad for my first gig.
The attendant scurried to load our luggage into the trunk of the limousine while Magus opened the backseat door for Victoria and me. I slid gracefully onto the cool, buttery-soft leather seats inside, feeling like a star. Now all I had to do for the next week and a half was act like one.
“Miss Cassidy,” Magus said as we wove slowly through the traffic surrounding the city, “You asked how long it would take to reach the port. As you can see, it could be a while, by the clock.”
I leaned forward in my seat to hear him better. “You said it could be long for some, and not so long for others. What did you mean?”
“Ah. You were listening. Are you a student of philosophy, Miss Cassidy?”
Victoria leaned forward then, too. If there was anything she loved, it was a “teaching moment.” It sounded like she and Magus were made from the same mold. “Philosophy,” Victoria told me, “means ‘love of wisdom.’ A good many of the world’s great philosophers were Greek.”
“That is right,” Magus said, pleased. “Philosophy teaches us how to look at the world and find truth. In this instance, we see that we are stuck in traffic. Does this make our journey longer?”
His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror as he waited for my answer. “Not if you’re talking about distance,” I said. “I’m guessing it takes more time, though.”
“But what is time?” he asked.
A
gain, he waited for an answer. “Um. I don’t know?”
“Protagoras tells us that man is the measure of all things. Do you know what this means?”
When I didn’t answer, Victoria chimed in. “Things are as we say they are.”
“So …” I said, trying to follow the logic. “If I say the trip is long, it’s long, and if I say it’s short, it’s short—even if it takes the same hour either way?” You tell me. Does that make any sense? I didn’t think so.
But Magus said, “Yes.”
And Victoria said, “Exactly.”
And I wondered if philosophy was like one of those jokes that wasn’t supposed to make sense, but people laughed anyway.
However you looked at it, before too long, we reached the port. I watched through the window for a glimpse of the yacht as the limousine rolled to a stop.
“Oh, my gosh,” I breathed. “Look at that.”
Victoria leaned over to look out my side. She didn’t say anything, but I could feel her next to me as she suddenly went rigid—not on account of the yacht, but because of what stood between us and the yacht.
On the dock, maybe two dozen people shouted and pushed and waved at us from behind sawhorse barricades. A couple of burly-looking security guards were holding them back or I’m pretty sure they would have rushed the limousine.
Victoria tapped Magus on the shoulder. “What is all this?” she asked. Her voice had gone as stiff as her posture.
Magus shrugged one huge shoulder. “Not to worry; they simply wish to see you.” He killed the engine and unbuckled his seat belt.
I realized how well the limousine’s soundproofing worked when he pushed his door open, and voices swirled in with the clean saltwater smell of the sea.
“It’s her!”
“Miss Barnett!”
“Over here!”
Magus climbed out of the car and closed his door firmly behind him, muffling the words once more.