by Audrey Hart
Boys ruin everything. Here I am, in the coolest place I‘ve ever been—
marveling at the awesomely high ceilings of the grand entrance and on my way to help uncover ancient inscriptions on these giant fragile walls—
feeling overwhelmed by the sheer scope of it all, and yet I‘m in a funk and I have no one to blame but myself.
Why did I tell Darren that I love a show I don‘t love? Why can‘t I just be myself with boys?
I could have told him that I subscribe to Nature magazine, that I‘m obsessed with the Mayans. I could have been myself. I don‘t know who‘s worse, me or him.
―You want to check out that alcove where the pros are going to be scraping later?‖
―Sure,‖ I say. ―But I‘ve just got to scram for a second.‖ He laughs. Everyone knows what it means when you say you have to scram. ―Scram‖ is code for pee. ―I can wait,‖ he says. ―I don‘t want you to get lost trying to catch up to me. This place is like a maze.‖
―That‘s okay. I‘m good at mazes.‖
―Are you sure? There‘s no rush.‖
―Seriously, go on ahead. I‘ll find you.‖ He starts crossing the cavernous marble room at a rapid pace and I wonder if something is wrong with me. Why did I just lie to him about having to go to the bathroom so that he would leave me alone? If I were a normal girl, I would call out after him and run into his arms. Instead I just watch him go. CeeCee says that I make boys insecure, that I put myself on a pedestal where nobody can reach me. Then again, do I want smug, shaggy-haired Darren to reach me? Doesn‘t matter. He‘s gone. I head toward a stone entryway cordoned off by red tape.
Crossing the ancient space, I feel tiny and small. But I also feel excited.
I strap a headlight around my head. I‘m about to crawl on all fours through a small, unexplored tunnel, breaking all the rules of the site. Wow, the lengths I‘ll go to in order to avoid intimacy.
I‘ve been crawling for ten minutes when the bulb in my headlight pops.
Suddenly I‘m alone in the dark. ―Darren?‖ I call out. ―Darren?!‖ No answer. Wherever Darren is in the temple, he‘s nowhere near me.
The only company I have is a huge and terrifying darkness. And with no space to turn around and head back to the great room, I have no choice but to go forward, blind, alone, like some kind of an animal, minus the self-preservation instincts that would have stopped me from being here in the first place.
I swallow. I murmur: ―Help.‖
Chapter 5
Calm down. You‘ve been training your whole life for a moment like this, I tell myself. I mean, sure, I‘m on all fours in a dark labyrinth with more twists and turns than my frizzy hair on a hot summer day. But this maze is no different from the mazes on restaurant placemats that I tried to master with crayons when I was a kid. A lot of kids just started with the crayon pressed to the paper before they‘d studied the map. But I wasn‘t like that. I would analyze the map to the best of my ability. I would use my finger to trace out one path, and then, finding that it led to a dead end, I would start again.
I close my eyes. Pretend you‘re a crayon. Be still. I take a deep breath.
But my nostrils clog with dust and I cough. An echo! Yes! There is definitely an open space nearby. I just have to keep making noise and follow my sense of sound. Must. Make. Noise. But what does one talk to oneself about in a dark tunnel? Well, this one decides to sing.
Off-key. And loud.
I don‘t even really like Rihanna‘s ―Umbrella,‖ but CeeCee has this nervous habit of chanting those infectious (in the bad way, like they infect you) lyrics whenever she‘s about to see a guy she likes or take an English test. Singing a pop song makes me feel like nothing has changed, like I‘m back in the dorm begging CeeCee to stop singing or to sing a different song, like I can survive anything. I sense a shift in light and I pause. I take another deep breath and belt out the next lyrics.
Yes! The warbled lyrics are bouncing back at me. I reach forward and feel for the wall and there it is, to the right, the opening. I crawl through it in a rush of relief, shuffling toward freedom, my white cotton pants catching on every tiny pebble in my way. I am alive. I will live.
When I emerge from the narrow tunnel, I find myself standing in a large empty room with ceilings at least twenty feet high. If there‘s one thing I‘ve learned from going on digs and constantly breaking the rules, it‘s that you can always tell when you‘re the first person on site.
When people come in, they move the air around; they leave footprints and floodlights. Not here.
Nobody has been in this room yet.
Wondering what used to go on in this room, I run my hands along the walls. It is usually the first thing I do in any new place. The clues are often hidden beneath layers of dust. Sometimes there are drawings or epithets or carvings. Sometimes my finger dips into a groove and then I start dusting and eventually break through the cakey buildup to uncover a drawer. And sometimes, when pried open, the drawer turns out to be a casket with a sarcophagus inside. I always cry a little when we find tombs.
Once, Uncle Alex found a tiny slingshot-type toy and placed it in my gloved hands. ―This belonged to the little boy in here,‖ he said.
But after twenty minutes of rubbing the wall surrounding the tunnel, I have found nothing, which is puzzling. Something had to have happened in this room. Nobody builds a temple and includes a giant room for nothing, do they? The guidance counselors at Greeley say that every single one of us is special, even if we haven‘t figured out why yet. Most kids roll their eyes at this statement, and I‘ve never told anyone that hearing this always makes me feel good. I like the idea that there is neither a useless nor a dull room, and I sit down to give the room a chance to show itself, the way the counselors do with kids.
And…there it is. The room is special. The wall directly across from the tunnel entrance does not reach all the way up to the crusty ceiling. It stops about a foot short. There must be another, hidden room behind it.
I hunt around for an entrance, but it quickly becomes clear that the only way to access the hidden room is to get over the wall. I have some rope in my backpack, but without anything to attach it to, it won‘t do me any good. I‘m going to have climb up this twenty-foot wall without ropes, or hooks or anything.
I step forward, exhaling deeply. This isn‘t like the fake mountain climbing I do in gym class where I‘m tied to a rope and, if anything goes wrong, I fall onto a vinyl-encased mattress.
This is the real deal, and my backpack full of granola bars and water bottles won‘t do much to cushion a fall.Scanning for a good handhold among the craggy rock, I hook my boot into the wall and start the ascent. For a moment it seems as if it‘s going to be easy. Climbing this wall is not at all like climbing a wall in the gymnasium at school. I don‘t hear the cool girls gossiping at the nearby volleyball net and I don‘t flinch thinking that I‘m about to get walloped on the head by a boy‘s basketball. There are no teachers and no kids and no humans here to see me scaling it. But then, when I‘m almost to the top, the wall abruptly smooths out and I can‘t find another handhold.
I‘m trapped.
I run my free hand along the face of the rock in desperation. It‘s dark and I have to rely on touch to find where to grip. My left leg starts to shake, so I rotate my foot to flatten my hips and distribute more of my weight to my right leg. Even so, how long can I stay up here?
For a second I think about giving up. If I backtrack down the wall, I might make it to the ground with just a twisted ankle or sprained knee….
But the thought of the hidden room directly behind me, unseen by anyone in three thousand years, spurs me on. Come on, Zoe, I urge.
Gathering all my strength and courage, I bend my knees and then push off with my left leg, springing toward the top of the wall. It‘s a crazy, risky, one-armed leap, and panic hits me when I feel the dust beneath the fingers of my right hand—I‘m not going to make it!—but then my hand is gripping the top of the stone wall and
I‘m suspended by one arm, my shoulders and back muscles aching. Quickly, I swing my other arm up and pull myself onto the top of the wall. I‘m gasping and tears are streaming down my eyes with fear and relief. What was I thinking, trying a move like that?
At least descending the other side is easier. Within a minute, I climb down without incident and drop safely into the mystery room.
I‘m still so rattled from the climb up that I don‘t even react when an enormous spider scurries over my boots and onto the dusty floor. The Greek word for spider is arachnid. I read about the origin of the spider on the plane. Basically, the goddess Athena could be very jealous.
So when this girl Arachne was telling everyone that she was great at crafting tapestries, Athena ran down from her little palace in the sky and challenged the girl to a weaving contest. When Athena won, she was still mad at the earthling, so she turned her into a spider so that she‘d be running scared and weaving for the rest of her life. I guess the moral of that story is, basically, you can‘t win with the gods.
As the spider scurries away, I glance around to see if it has any friends.
Hopefully I didn‘t just go through all of that to land in a spider nest.
That‘s when I see it. In the corner, a giant, seven-foot-tall iPhone leans against a wall.
I blink. Huh?
Chapter 6
I know the Greeks contributed a lot to society, with all their inventions and philosophies and sports. But I‘m pretty sure that Apple wasn‘t around in 1000 BC, so what could explain a giant black iPhone, angled against the wall like a full-length mirror in a dorm room?
My imagination takes off. Maybe this wasn‘t a temple. Maybe it was a giant‘s storage unit.
Or maybe this is some kind of hoax my uncle pulled as a way to teach me to leave my phone behind. It‘s also possible that the crew put this immovable block of glass and graphite here as a practical joke on my uncle.
Or maybe it‘s not an iPhone at all. The closer I get to it, the more it looks to be made of some kind of smooth stone, like pure and unveined black marble. But as I squat to examine it closer, I spot the signature circular indentation at the bottom of every iPhone. I run my hand over the circle and it‘s a bizarre sensation, feeling something so familiar in such an unfamiliar place. I leap back, suddenly scared.
The iPhone thingy is not coated in dust. How can that be? It‘s as brand-new as any phone fresh out of the shiny white cardboard box.
Seeing myself reflected in the dark screen, I feel like a ghost. And I will be a ghost soon because my aunt and uncle will be furious with me when they find out that I just touched something foreign without gloves.
My fingerprints are now on that artifact. An archeology site is kind of like a crime scene.
You aren‘t supposed to go rubbing your DNA all over everything you see. This time, when the spider flutters near my boot, I scream. Top of my lungs. A full-blown girly-girl-who‘s-scared-of-spiders kind of scream. Nobody hears me.
I am on my feet, running as hard as I can toward the wall. I am a bad girl, disobedient and arrogant. God, what is wrong with me? And how will I climb back up the wall in this condition, a sweaty nervous wreck? As I swipe my cowlick off my forehead, I see something shimmering and small on the ground. It looks like a coin. I bend down to pick it up, only to shake my head with disappointment.
This isn‘t a coin. It‘s made out of stone, not metal, and it has a slightly luminous glow to it.
The bottom is rounded while the top is flat. It‘s also dense. So dense that it feels condensed, as if the sum of the parts is infinitely greater than the whole and about to explode at any moment. When I hold it between my two pointer fingers, I marvel at its fat round bottom…just the right size and dimension to fit into the concave circle on the bottom of that big iPhone over there.
Why not? I think. I already got my fingerprints on the thing; what‘s one more trespass?
I lean down and press the obolus into the circle, smiling as it clicks into place. Presto! It‘s always fun when things fit together. I‘m about to take off my backpack and grab my phone when the wind hits my neck.
Wind? That‘s impossible. I‘m indoors.
I turn around. No. It can‘t be…
A wall of water and lighting and wind and god knows what else is charging at me at full speed. It‘s as if a hurricane appeared out of nowhere to engulf me I scream.
Black out.
And then, just like that, I am coughing.
Curled on my side, I clench my fists and fight for air. My eyes sting so much I can‘t open them. But when I touch my face, I realize that I‘m not wet at all, which makes no sense, given the tidal wave that hit me.
I feel the ground beneath me, and it‘s bone-dry too. I must have been knocked out for an hour, maybe more, for everything to have dried. I sniff the air, my other senses coming alive while my eyes continue to sting.
Something smells different. I could swear that my nostrils are picking up on turpentine or paint, but that‘s ridiculous. Maybe I got a concussion, I reason. I feel my head for a bump but can‘t find one. Still, you don‘t need a physical injury to have a concussion; I know that much. And everything is going to be fine anyway because I can hear a couple of men talking and their voices are clear enough that I know they can‘t be that far away. I will soon be safe, the medical examiner checking me out, my uncle chastising me for getting caught in a…
Tempest?
Windstorm?
Rogue wave beneath sea level?
I sit up.
The last thing I can remember is the wall of water and light, the way it came after me, almost as if it was aiming for me. I laugh because it‘s so silly to think of nature, which we all know to be indifferent, as having a grudge against a nosy girl. Clearly, whatever happened—a pipe bursting, a dam breaking—was not directed at me. I feel my eyes start to cool and, with relief, blink them open.
The giant iPhone is gone, undoubtedly swept away in the storm. In its place, the coin sits there, unscathed, as dry as my hair. I grab it and stuff it into the back pocket of my filthy white pants and then grope in my backpack for my phone. Miraculously, my water-resistant backpack has proven to be waterproof. All my things are safe, dry and functioning.
I immediately feel a little better, good enough to stand up and get my bearings. How did people manage their emotions before smartphones? I mean, I was never one of those kids who lugged around a teddy bear, even after losing my parents. In general, I don‘t have a lot of attachment to objects. It‘s always seemed silly to me the way girls at school horde Slinky bracelets or jerseys, as if those objects actually do anything. But a phone is functional. It‘s a connection to civilization, and at a time like this, I‘m grateful to find mine unscathed and powered up. No service, of course, but that‘s probably for the best. Calling my aunt from an off-limits room accessible only via a labyrinth would only get me into more trouble.
Just as I‘m about to head back to the wall, my eyes start watering again.
I see my shadow cast on the freshly cleaned floor. The water has really done a number on this room. It looks almost…new.
I stand there like a tourist, marveling at the clean, polished floor. Maybe I‘m not alone.
Maybe the crew installed temporary lights above that were altering the appearance of the space. I feel a sneeze coming on and turn my head away. But the sneeze dies the moment I see the door.
It is across the room, in the middle of the wall that didn‘t reach the ceiling. I shake my head in automatic denial. That‘s not right. Had there been a doorway, I wouldn‘t have scaled the wall. I would have walked in upright, like a normal person. And the doorway itself is confounding. It isn‘t a jagged-edged hole in the wall—collateral damage from the indoor water park. Its edges are carved and painted. I run my hand along the beam. Someone built this doorway with love.
How had I missed that door? Maybe I had been hungrier than I realized.
I do get kind of light-headed when I don‘t sna
ck.
―!‖
I smile when I hear the Greek word for ―help.‖ Darren must have followed me after all and ended up getting trapped. His attempt at Greek is bad, like CeeCee when she tries to speak French with her au pair on Skype.
And whoever Darren is with, the one who‘s babbling now, well, he isn‘t all that masterful at Greek either.
―Coming, Darren!‖ I shout.
I run through the door toward the voices. Nope. That‘s not Darren and those two men aren‘t archeologists. From the look of the flimsy wooden scaffolding they‘re standing on and the old-school stone hammers in their hands, they must be local stonemasons. They‘re dressed strangely, with a large woolen rectangle draped fashionably around their bodies. But I don‘t bother thinking too much about their weird taste in clothing; all I know is they are definitely not part of my aunt and uncle‘s crew, and I am seething.