He still has not put out the cigarette, and I’ve not progressed with buying my Metro ticket, so most of the people in line behind us have moved to another ticket line. The two people remaining behind us clear their throats loudly in aggravation. Just then, the man who was so upset earlier taps my new tour guide friend on the back, pointing irately to a “No Smoking” sign hanging high up from the ceiling. The man yells, this time in English. “Hey! I said put that cigarette out now or I will call the Metro’s security over here!”
My friend’s gray-green eyes widen, then narrow as he says in an irritated voice, “Okay, fine!” He swiftly drops the cigarette on the floor and stamps it out, folding his arms across his chest.
“So…” I raise my eyebrow as I can’t help but mock him, especially after all the trouble he just gave me about the asthma. “So, yeah, I’m from California, but I live here now.”
“Oh?” I’ve been upgraded in his mind from Silly Tourist to someone worthy of his time. “Here, in Metaxourgeio?”
“Yes,” I say smugly, pointing outside. “Eight blocks from here. At Salaminos.”
A man pushes us from behind, yelling at us in broken English. “Hey! Can you two lovebirds tone it down? How about letting the rest of us buy a ticket?!” I look down, embarrassed. Before I have a chance to apologize, he shoves us, forcing us out of the line.
My attractive new friend with the stinky smoke breath glares at the irate man who just pushed us out of line. In a clear act of defiance, my friend pulls out another cigarette and lights up again. Leaning against the wall, he forms rings of smoke with his mouth as he puffs them up into the air.
The man in line yells, “Malaka!” and takes off in huff. Thank God.
I catch my new friend smirking at me. Even though he smokes, he is cute. I find myself wishing that I was wearing something besides neon purple and old stained tennis shoes. Let’s also not forget my static hair and fresh zit.
“Seems like a lot of people here know English fairly well,” I say to him, trying to distract his attention away from that drama with the old man. The line in front of the ticket machine has grown much longer since we were there.
“Some do, but some don’t,” he states evenly as he drops his cigarette to the ground, smothering it out with his shoe. “I’m Nikos, by the way. We must be neighbors. My family lives in one of the apartment buildings on Salaminos right next to a weird new-age shop. You’ve probably seen it.”
“Yeah, I have,” I say. “I live there.”
Nikos must live in the old rundown apartment building with peeling paint next door to Janus’s shop. He seems surprised. “You must be related to that crazy old medicine man, then?”
I nod. “Yep, he’s my godfather.”
I’m so relieved to meet someone in my neighborhood who’s not only close to my age but also so nice and hot. Well, except for the cigarettes. Not that I care to think about him or any boy like that, but I can’t help it. “Nikos? Oops, I’m not supposed to say the ‘s’ on the end, right?”
“You can call me Nick,” he says sweetly.
“Okay, Nick. I’m Helene.” I put my hand out as if to shake his. “Nice to meet you.”
He moves a step backward with a frown, staring down at my hand, but then he takes it. His hand is warm and large. It’s a nice handshake, but he seems uncomfortable. Maybe he’s shy.
It’s easy for me to see why Nick is a tour guide as he proceeds to expertly describe the Metro system and the ticket-buying process to me in intricate detail. We step back into the ticket line where he patiently helps me count out my money and insists on feeding it into the machine, so I can buy my first Metro ticket.
“Why would you want to move to Greece? People are hurting here. Most would give their right arm to live in the US,” he says vehemently. “In case you didn’t notice, we’re in the middle of a crisis here.” The tension in the tiny lines encircling his gray-green eyes make me think that this hits way too close to home for him.
“Well, it’s not like I had a choice,” I reply. He frowns and shakes his head, which makes me worry that I’ve said the wrong thing. “I mean, if I did have a choice, of course Greece seems like a great place to live.”
His eyes light up. “Yeah, right. Ha-ha. You don’t have to say that to make me feel better. I love living here.”
I sigh a breath of relief.
“So really, why are you here?”
I don’t know what happens, but a strange sadness comes over me. My eyes cloud over as the image of my mom floods into my mind. The station starts to spin. It feels as if the walls are closing in on me…like I’m slowly suffocating, choking. I try to swallow, but a thick lump forms in my throat, making it hurt to talk. “I…it’s…” The words won’t come. A lone tear rolls down my cheek. “My mom…she’s….” I stop midsentence, eyes wide and blinking. “I can’t…I….”
His eyes fill with concern. “Hey.” He places his hand on my shoulder in a gesture of kindness, his eyes meeting mine. “No need to tell me anything. It’s okay.”
Just then, the fog clears, leaving almost as fast as it came. Why was I sad? Mom isn’t really dead. She’s alive. I just need to find her. “No, it’s fine,” I say, but my eyes dart around the room as I consider what to say next. “It’s my mom. The police said that she died, but—”
He cuts me off as he takes my hand. “No, really, you don’t have to.”
Normally, I’d be freaked out that this complete stranger is holding my hand, but he makes me feel safe. But I don’t really know him. “No, I said its fine!” I snap, pulling my hand away.
He looks shocked, like I’ve slapped him. “Fine.” His retort is short and icy. A moment of terse silence passes between us as stark tension fills the air.
In the next moment, though, the lines on his face visibly relax as his impassive façade melts into compassion. He says, “Look, I know a thing or two about loss…but not my mom dying. Wow. I can’t even imagine that.”
He lifts his hand to push a lock of blond hair away from his face. As he lowers it, I can’t help but stare at his hand. There, on the inside of his wrist, is the double helix symbol with snakes wrapped around a flame tattoo. Just like Dimitris the driver. “Nick...that tattoo…what is it?” I whisper.
He turns his wrist over. “Oh, this? I have no idea. The company I work for inked me with it when I started my job leading groups of tourists. It hurt like hell, though, like they were implanting something under my skin. I can’t seem to forget that pain.”
By the look on his face, I can’t doubt his sincerity. He’s a tour guide working for a legitimate company, not some paid hit man for the mob.
“Who do you work for?” I ask.
“I’m sure that you’ve never heard of him, so…” He looks down at his watch.
I nod. “Probably not, so why not tell me, then?”
Nick sighs, looking around. He pulls out another cigarette and, sure enough, lights up again. Finally, he mutters quietly under his breath, blowing out a huge puff of smoke. “Fine. Sarantos…I work for Sarantos Enterprises.”
Sounds like a legitimate company. A tour guide company would not be part of some shady crime network. But then again, you never know.
“You’re right, never heard of it.”
His shoulders relax. I turn as a group of students rush in behind us. Something odd catches my eye. There, about five feet away from us, is a statue made of some sort of metal. Copper, maybe? I don’t remember it being there before. It’s a statue made in the image of a guy who looks like a street thug. “Uh, Nick?” I ask. “That statue…what is it?”
He turns to study it before saying in a bored tone, “I have no idea. Must be new.”
My watch chimes. It’s almost eight a.m. School starts soon, and I need to get going. Nick asks me what school I’m going to. When I tell him Athens International Academy, he knows exactly where it is. The route that I had plotted was all wrong. He pulls out a notepad and writes out the directions, which include several transfers, then a long walk, which is a little overwhelming
Nick tries to calm me. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says. “Besides, in the future, you can take the school bus from Syntagma Square, which isn’t far from here.” He seems to know a lot about the Academy and even mentions some teachers he knows there.
“Did you go there?” I ask, sure that he’s now in college.
“You could say that.” He smiles, but then he glances at his watch. “Time for us both to go. I’m supposed to take a bus full of tourists from a cruise ship to the National Archaeological Museum in twenty minutes.”
A security guard approaches him from across the room, scowling at the smoking cigarette in his hand. “Got to go!” he exclaims.
Just as he’s rushing out, he turns around one last time, now shouting over the deafening sound of the Metro station, “Hey, Helene, do you like mythology?”
“Uh, yeah!” I respond. “Why?”
“Just curious,” he says, his gray-green eyes sparkling. As the bright white of his shirt disappears, I catch myself wishing he was still a student at my new school. Since he lives next door to me, though, I’m sure I will see him again.
A strange scraping sound makes me turn around. There’s nothing there. Bizarre.
As I make my way down the stairs and onto the train platform, I hear a shuffling sound. This time, it sounds close…too close, as if it’s immediately behind me. My heart starts to race as I whirl around. Again, nothing. But then a black shadow flits across the wall next to me and then disappears. But how can that be? There is no sunlight that would generate a shadow in here.
The pulse in my wrist pounds so hard that I can see it pumping through my veins. Someone bumps me, pushing me hard into the wall. I feel a pinch on my right finger. Ouch! When I look up, I see who it is. Some washed-out, sickly looking man. His skin is translucent, like glass. I can see the greenish hue of veins dispersed over his face.
He rushes up the stairs. Just as suddenly as he appeared, he’s gone. I look down at my pinched finger. What I see there stops my pulse and heart. A solid silver ring with a dazzling twelve-point star on its face.
I’ve seen this star before. In my dreams. This is the same twelve-point star that I saw on the ring worn by the man with no face.
The man called Zeus.
8 – The Academy
I’ll admit it…I’m freaked. I try twisting the silver ring off my finger, but it won’t budge. Who was that peculiar man? I try to keep my eyes glued to the piece of paper that Nick gave me and follow the maze of trains to the proper Metro stations, but I can’t help but watch my back in fear that the man may come back. I just barely make it to the bus before the doors slam shut.
After getting off the bus, I run hard for at least four blocks until I reach the wrought iron gates of a guard station. It’s the school. Thank God! I’m drenched in sweat, but I can’t help but smile. Finally, here, I feel safe.
The sprawling green lawns, chirping birds, and manicured gardens grant me the illusion that I could be standing in fields somewhere out in the English countryside, not here in the middle of a modern major city. Clearly, the Academy is no ordinary school.
“We aren’t in Athens anymore.” The words escape my lips.
I walk up the long, regal drive that seems to go on forever. The architecture is fantastic. Red Spanish-tiled yellow stucco buildings with grand pillars open onto a large circular drive. Interspersed on both sides of the driveway are lush green grass and patches of small trees where students sit with their books and laptops. I can see why Mom would want me to go here. I place my fingers on my lips in a sign of silent thanks to her.
By the time I reach the office, I’ve missed my first class. An uptight woman with bright pink blush and peacock-blue eye shadow takes my paperwork. She seems more than a little put off that I’m so late on my first day.
“Do you know what would happen if you were this late at a school like ours in the US?” According to her nametag, she is Bertha Manning from New South Wales. She furrows her eyebrows in consternation as she continues her diatribe in a clipped British accent. “You would be kicked out on your ear, that’s what!”
“Well, I—”
The door opens. A perky, dark-skinned girl with a long, shiny black ponytail and jangling earrings enters the office. She’s wearing a well-pressed cheerleading uniform and a festive temporary tattoo on her cheek that says AIA Chariots.
The wicked woman from Wales’s frown morphs into a full-on scowl at the sight of this girl. “Miss Mathur. What on Earth can you want this time?”
“This time? I’ve only been here once this morning!” The girl’s jangly gold earrings sway back and forth. “Look, I just need to see today’s athletic roster real quick.”
Bertha rolls her eyes as if this is the most stressful thing she can imagine, then turns back to me, promptly ignoring the girl. “Alrighty then.” She struggles to recall my name. “Helene, there’s no way you can start classes here until you get a student tour, and since all students are currently in class—”
Just then, the perky girl pushes up to the counter. “Hello! I’m still here.”
“Vanessa Mathur,” – Bertha is getting mad – “you can wait your turn.”
I’m fine waiting, though, and Vanessa’s boldness is rubbing off on me, so I say, “Actually, she can go ahead of me.”
Bertha’s face turns red. “Now, Helene, I know that kind of attitude is tolerated in California, but not here!!”
Vanessa and Bertha seethe in silence until finally Vanessa shifts gears. Her voice is sweet as pie. “Ms. Manning, I would be happy to take Helene on a tour of the school if you would kindly let me see that roster now.”
“Ah, what a great idea!” Bertha’s eyes don’t reach her fake smile as she turns to introduce me. “Helene, Vanessa’s a senior here who came to us from Mumbai, what, two years ago?”
Vanessa agrees with a nod. “Yep.”
Bertha hands the roster over to Vanessa as she continues, “Miss Mathur will be your student buddy, which means it’s her responsibility to help you out for your first week here.”
“You can call me Vani,” she says as she looks over the roster in front of her. Satisfied, Vani shoves it sternly back across the counter to Bertha. “C’mon, let’s go,” she says as she leads me outside.
Once outside, Vani relaxes. “This is a great school. Don’t let Bertha ruin your first day.” We begin to walk the campus. Her spiel sounds as if she’s done this before. “The school has over four hundred students, all from more than thirty-eight countries, including Greece. Amazing, right?”
She tells me that many of the teachers at the school are highly accomplished, published, or educated from top institutions in the United States, United Kingdom, or Greece, but most are of Greek descent. Cool.
Something about Vani puts my mind at ease. She’s nice in a way that isn’t too annoying. I like her. This is saying a lot because she’s a cheerleader, and usually I don’t like cheerleaders. This holds true for any team spirit activity. My mother would say that I’m being petty and jealous. Back in junior high, I was pretty full of myself with my success in ballet, so I thought cheerleading would be easy for me; but when I tried out for the Squad, I was laughed out of the room because my arms hyperextend, and I couldn’t form a proper V.
It wasn’t the outright rejection that got under my skin so much; it was the laughi
ng that did it, the high-pitched squeals of delight and obnoxious giggling directed at me as I turned beet red in front of everyone. After that tortuous experience, I immediately classified all cheerleaders, as well as any smiling, pretty or upbeat female, as “the Enemy.”
The thing about Vani, though, is that she’s not at all like any other cheerleader that I have ever met before.
“I was doing a stunt with my partner, Alexis, and I had to sit on his hand. Suddenly, I had to gas!” She giggles. “But we were performing at a live basketball game. There’s no way out of that,” she snorts, “so the only thing I can do is clench, and you know that’s hard to do when you’re suspended up in the air, sitting on a boy’s hand.”
I nod like of course I know what she’s talking about, so she continues, “I couldn’t hold it any longer, so…” She flashes me a devilish grin. “I let it roll right there on his hand! And do you know what that vlaka did?” She pauses to take a breath. “He threw me into the stands!”
I sit with my mouth gaping open, before I break into a laugh.
Vani’s eyes open wide. “Can you believe what he did to me? Just look at my bruise.” And there, on her upper thigh, is a large, harshly visible black and blue bruise. I am laughing so hard that I start to cry. She’s awesome. If ever there was a black sheep of the cheerleading squad, Vani is it. She even has a nose ring like mine.
We walk past an opening between two buildings, one of which has a large dome on top, and we pause to look out over a vast green field. I stop and gasp at the sight in front of us. There, standing in a cluster, is a group of guys on a sand volleyball court. Did I say guys? Because they look to me more like men, all so very tall. Serious attitude oozes from them, like they know they’re cool and can have whatever they want.
They shift around with cool indifference on the white sand court under bright rays of sunshine and the deep blue sky as they listen intently to their coach. Vani doesn’t even give them a second glance as she prattles on about the undefeated status of the AIA boys’ varsity volleyball team. Their uniforms are decorated in the school’s colors of red and gold, but they all seem larger than life to me with their olive skin, ripped muscles, and two-day stubble.
Protogenesis: Before the Beginning Page 7