by Audrey Hart
It‘s the kind of story that‘s great if it‘s not about your own parents. Most people‘s parents meet at work or something and they go on a few dates and that‘s that. My parents got married one week after they met. One week! So in some way, I blame them for my awkwardness with boys. I‘m burdened with this yearning for romance and magic.
―Okay,‖ I say. ―I‘m dressed. You can turn around now.‖
When he does, he‘s even better than I remembered. I wish I had the power to hit pause and stare at him, his billowy cloak, his blond tendrils climbing about his head. He‘s what CeeCee would call a 10.
―Satyrs are the worst,‖ he says.
―Right. Satyrs.‖
―Are you okay?‖
―Oh I am now,‖ Lame, Zoe. That was lame. ―I can‘t thank you enough.
I was starting to think I‘d freeze to death.‖ Stop being so dramatic, Zoe!
―Nah,‖ he says and smiles. ―You seem like someone with a few tricks up her sleeve.‖
―Well, this is true. But it‘s also easier if you have a sleeve in which to store your tricks.‖
He laughs. I made him laugh. He thinks I‘m funny!
Oh no, I‘m turning into CeeCee.
―So, you‘re traveling alone?‖ he asks.
I shrug. Maybe I jumped the gun. Not two minutes in and he‘s asking me where my clique is. Maybe boys this cute on the outside really can‘t be that good on the inside.
―Who are you with?‖ I ask.
―I‘m like you,‖ he says, laughing. ―Going solo.‖ I want to ask him if he‘s ever read the Roald Dahl book called Going Solo and then I remember that it‘s thousands of years before that book will be published. Time travel is exhausting. Instead I say something lame and touristy: ―Are you going anywhere in particular?‖ I may as well have leered at him and asked what his sign was.
But there‘s not an ounce of judgment in him. He‘s just listening to me, taking me in.
―I‘m just out for the day. Hunting, traveling.‖ I nod.
―You‘re welcome to join me,‖ he offers.
―Oh thanks, I‘m fine.‖
―Are you sure? Because, you know, satyrs aren‘t the worst of it out here.
They‘re downright nice compared with some of the other little devils in this part of the woods.‖
―Oh yeah, I know,‖ I say, cringing at my reply. I sound like a Greeley girl pretending she‘s one of those girls from The Hills. ―I so know.‖
―I guess you can take care of yourself all right,‖ he says.
I glance at him, scanning his expression. Did he somehow see me using my powers before?
Creusa warned me not to let anyone know about them.
She also warned me not to trust anyone I met on the way to the Oracle, and here I am falling all over a stranger. But then, she didn‘t mention guys like this running around. I wonder where he goes to school. Maybe he‘s an intern who traveled through time as well. But I don‘t really believe that. He has an old soul. There‘s a wisdom in his eyes, a calmness and patience I thought was reserved for people over the age of forty, people with experience, people who grew up without the Internet, people who know what it‘s like to pick up a phone without seeing the caller‘s name identified on a screen.
And honestly, archeology interns don‘t look this good.
He leans in and says, ―Uh-oh. I think you might have gotten a sunburn.
Your cheeks are really red.‖
―No,‖ I say. I can‘t believe I‘m blushing. Oh, come on, face. Be cool!
―I‘m just flushed from the swim. And, uh, thirsty.‖
―Well, in that case, join me for a drink at the cantina?‖
―The cantina? Sure! Why not.‖
And as I follow this mystery man into the woods, I spin rationalizations.
Creusa warned me not to trust anyone, but just because I‘m going with him doesn‘t mean I trust him. I‘m just going along so as not to raise suspicions.
I mean, wouldn‘t it be more dangerous for me to admit that I don‘t know what the cantina is, thus outing myself as a time-zone foreigner?
I can hear CeeCee‘s voice in the back of my head, reminding me of the rules of dating: If you really like a boy, Zoe, you say no when he asks you to hang out. And if he asks you a second time, it means that he likes you as much as you like him and you say yes.
Let‘s just hope that still applies in ancient Greece.
Chapters 16
There‘s that moment in a conversation with a stranger when you‘ve exchanged too many words to ask their name. Asking it would cause a hiccup in the flow of conversation. So when the host at the cantina hops off his stool as we approach and says, ―Blondie and Curly, you need a table?‖ I go with it.
―After you, Blondie,‖ I say.
He smiles. ―A table would be great.‖
The cantina is essentially a shack held up by a few tree trunks, like some bar that couldn‘t decide if it wanted to be Caribbean- or tiki- themed. The host is an equally wondrous sight. Unlike the skinny nymphs at the vale or the wiry satyr in the forest, this creature is shaped like a snowman.
He looks like he lives on onion rings and bowls of kettle corn and might float away at any moment.
He escorts us to a tree stump, with two smaller tree stumps serving as chairs. It‘s like sitting at a kids‘ table at a preschool. But Blondie‘s acting like this is perfectly normal, so I play right along.
―What a funny little nymph,‖ I say.
―Nymph?‖
―The host.‖
―No, that‘s a cartawall.‖
―A cartwheel?‖
―Cartawall. You know, they live in the underground hovels.‖ My eyes bulge. Oh no. Could I have upended a family of cartawalls when I used my powers to pull the silver to the surface?
―What‘s wrong? Now you look pale. You need something to drink.‖ Blondie motions to the bar, where a polar bear pours drinks. Oh wait.
This is Greece; that can‘t be a polar bear. But the beast is jovial and white, with powdery limbs that could be foraged from snowbanks at Greeley. It‘s yammering with some sort of giant elf at the bar, and when it laughs, its teeth are revealed to be soft and rounded, very un-bearlike. I should really stop staring, I remind myself. But how can I stop staring? Where I come from, polar bears don‘t tend bar and laugh out loud.
―They‘re my favorite too, the duttspots.‖
―They look like polar bears.‖
Just as he‘s about to ask what I mean by ―polar bears,‖ a loud, charged-up collection of cartawalls enters, and for the moment it‘s impossible to hear anything except their squawking and cheering. Wow, they‘re an unruly bunch. Then, alongside our table appears the forest‘s answer to a worn-down waitress at a diner on a desolate strip of Route 66.
She‘s spindly, like a spider, with multiple long arms decked with bangles. Yet you can‘t call her a spider because, well, for one thing, she‘s about five foot eight. And for another thing, she has a face. Although, to be honest, it‘s a face that would be more at home on a cat. She‘s whisking tray after tray our way but none of them has our order. I would think life as a waitress would be easier with extra arms but apparently not.
―That‘s us,‖ he says and I‘m smitten with his manner. A lot of guys would have gotten rude and impatient waiting for their drinks. We take our goblets from the correct tray and the spider waitress makes a little clicking sound in the back of her throat. Blondie reaches into his cape to pay. I remember the obolus coin thingy from the temple.
―Let me help,‖ I say, I reaching for it.
But before I can retrieve it, Blondie says, ―No, I got it,‖ and lays two square coins in the palm of the waitress‘s hand. They look nothing like my obolus, and I sigh. My obolus isn‘t commerce, at least not in this joint.
I drink my hot pink foam and he drinks his hot pink foam and we both sit here, the only two full-blown humans in the whole place, with our matching pink mustaches, grinning at each other.
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I‘m almost relieved that it‘s too loud to talk much, because frankly, I‘m running out of words.
A fight breaks out behind me, and Blondie wipes away his pink mustache and leaps into action. He pulls the two cartawalls apart.
―Gentlemen,‖ he says. The room quiets. Maybe he‘s a cop or something.
Or maybe it‘s just the fact that he‘s so handsome. Or, you know, maybe it‘s the fact that he‘s a human. ―Whatever the problem is, you don‘t really want to solve it by spilling drinks all over the cantina.‖
―Oh,‖ the smaller, older-looking cartawall barks. ―You humans think you know everything, huh?‖
The even smaller, friskier one chimes in, having now sided with his enemy of only seconds ago. ―Yeah. Just like a typical human. No fur on you and you think you‘re so superior.‖
A crowd is gathering and Blondie and I are definitely in the minority.
He raises his hands and says, ―I didn‘t say that.‖ Smaller elbows Even Smaller in a jostling, football-player sort of way.
―Did you hear that? He didn‘t say that.‖
―They‘re all the same. Think they can just do what they want when they want.‖
―What they want when they want.‖
I look at Blondie. I‘m scared. I can feel a duttspot standing over me, breathing down on my head unabashedly. I say, ―Maybe we should go.‖ But Blondie puts two fingers into his mouth and whistles. I shouldn‘t be surprised that he knows how to do that. It takes a minute, but pretty soon the joint has gone quiet.
―Can I say one thing, just one thing?‖
Someone throws something resembling a napkin at him. There is laughter but they‘re going to give him the floor. He‘s got that kind of sway.
―Look, I know you‘re all upset.‖ This is met with cheers, which is fine with me, because the more time he spends addressing the crowd, the more time I‘m socially permitted to just soak him in. ―And I don‘t blame you.
We‘re a tough bunch, humans. We are.‖ Now Smaller and Even Smaller are nodding and it all sounds like some sci-fi version of a daytime talk show involving paternity tests and security guards. But all I can think is, Wow, Blondie has a great nose. ―We don‘t think before we act.‖ The screaming escalates and, my god, he‘s got charisma. ―We can be blind.‖ He pauses until the applause dies out. I picture us saving the world together and I look around hoping that nobody is watching me and reading my cheesy thoughts. ―We follow orders too easily and nobody ever accused us of thinking for ourselves on a regular basis.‖ I sip the pink foam to stop myself from jumping out of my seat and throwing my arms around him.
―But we‘re just trying to get by, just like you. And we all make mistakes.‖ This time there‘s no unanimous reaction. The creatures are arguing and Blondie‘s playing captain of the debate team and I‘m resting my elbows on the table and my chin in the palm of my hands like some girl in a 1950s soda shop hoping for the boy to get bored with politics and come back to the table.
Then I feel something in my ear.
―He‘s pretty cute.‖
I startle and turn. It‘s the waitress. I swallow. ―Um, yeah. I guess.‖ She moves her oblong head even closer, narrowing her pupil-less eyes.
―Tell me, does your boyfriend know what you are?‖
―He‘s not my…boyfriend.‖
―Oh, I see. Just a human you picked up on your way back from town?‖ she whispers.
I don‘t say anything. I take my hands off the table and grip the straps of my backpack, trying to lift it without her noticing.
She leans in closer. I can smell something foul and musky on her breath. ―I heard about what you did. How long do you think you can keep pretending to be human too? How long before he figures out what you really are.‖ She grins. ―How long before they come after you?‖ And I shouldn‘t be surprised that our first date ends with me knocking a chair over and running as fast as I can out the door and into the woods and toward god only knows what.
A few hours later, I can still taste the pink foam. I‘m lonelier than I was when I started out, because now I know what it‘s like to be here with Blondie. Every branch that rustles causes me to flinch and panic. I‘m so lost now. Does Blondie know about me? Do I know about me? How do rumors spread so fast in a land without iPhones and mass media? And who could ever want Creusa dead? And why didn‘t Blondie run after me? Maybe that waitress told him all about me and he‘s horrified and scared.
I kick at the leaves. Not fair. This is just plain, across the board, totally not fair.
Again and again I tell myself to relax. Don‘t let some random waitress get to you, Zoe.
You‘re a human. Blondie hasn‘t chased you down because he‘s a boy and boys are impossible to predict. Anyway, a guy like that probably meets girls all the time. Maybe he just forgot about you.
I‘m probably taking this all too seriously, I think to myself. I mean, we did only just meet.
I hear another noise and look back but there‘s no one there. Blondie isn‘t running through the forest to find me. I smile sadly and wrap my arms around my chest. I don‘t even know his name.
I growl in frustration. Unanswered questions do not a satisfying travel companion make.
And the farther from the cantina I get, the more sour and insecure I feel. He hasn‘t run after me. (Or maybe he tried and couldn‘t find me.) He‘s not going to find me. (Well, not tonight, but maybe someday.) If I‘d just said yes to his first offer to travel together, then we would have gone hunting and avoided the cantina and we might even be together right now.
There‘s no rationalizing my way out of that one and I plop onto the ground. I‘ll never be able to sleep like this, exposed to the world. I would give anything in my possession for a sleeping bag, a pillow. But they don‘t have those in 1000 BC, so instead I close my eyes and picture myself in a safe place, a warm place. I hear the earth vibrating but I don‘t open my eyes. Trust yourself, Zoe. Picture yourself hidden away.
The dirt is moving faster. I can hear it and specks of it fly at my arms, at my face. Keep picturing yourself safe. Forget about Blondie for now and just focus on making it through the night alive, and by the time you open your eyes, you might be okay.
The dirt has settled and it‘s very quiet, and when I open my eyes, I find that I‘ve magically constructed a little hut, made entirely of dirt. I lie down, alone, in the mini-home I‘m not sure how I made.
I‘d like to be the kind of girl who can focus on the good—hey, I built a freaking hut out of dirt without lifting a finger!—but of course when I‘m curled up, all I can do is obsess over Blondie.
Maybe he didn‘t even like me. I mean, he didn‘t ask me my name. And honestly, what am I thinking liking him? The stunningly handsome golden guy is just so not my type.
I usually like geeky guys. And why do I assume he rescued my clothes because he had a crush on me? Any decent guy would do that for a girl no matter what she looked like.
But then I remember the yearning in his eyes when he asked me to go to the cantina with him. Ah, Zoe, believe in yourself. This boy is different.
I smile. I‘m not going to talk myself out of my gut feeling.
So what if he is, say, a member of some ancient Greek community service organization that sends hot guys into the woods to protect girls from their own dorky, irresponsible impulses? He found me and I found him and we clicked. Nobody can take that away from me. And I won‘t take it away from myself. I imagine hunting with him, swimming with him, sitting in the dining hall at Greeley with him picking at nasty mashed potatoes together, holding hands on an airplane with him before takeoff.
Everything looks more fun with him in the picture.
Going to sleep, I try to will myself to dream about him because I‘ll probably never see him again. And I can‘t help but smile. I want to see him again. That‘s a feeling I‘ve never had about a boy. Maybe we aren‘t getting married in a week, like my parents did, and maybe he‘s not as perfect as I‘ve built him up to b
e in my head—that cape he wears really is kind of silly—but I want to know him better, and it‘s the first time I‘ve ever fallen asleep feeling that way about someone.
And it‘s funny that all these creatures and people seem to think I‘m some sort of goddess, because, if anything, since meeting Blondie I‘ve never felt more utterly and pathetically human in my life. After all, here I am, staring up at the sky that I can‘t see, begging, ―Please god, let me see him again.‖