Oh. My. Gods. (2 page)

My eyes are watering as I pull down the curtain rod and slide the curtains off one end. Although their gauzy quality didn’t do much to block out light, I now have an undiluted view of our neighbor’s house. More precisely, Jerky Justin’s bedroom window.

He’s probably in there with Mitzi Busch right now.

That’s the one, singular benefit of moving to the other side of the world. I won’t have to see his smug face in the halls of PacificPark anymore. There is no downside to being thousands of miles from the ex-boyfriend who delights in making my life miserable.

Like it’s my fault I won’t put out. Well, actually it is, but that doesn’t mean he needed to break up with me at junior prom and make a big show of sucking Mitzi’s tonsils whenever I’m around.

I turn from the window in a huff, inspired by the thought of never seeing him again. Nola and Cesca are standing right behind me, eyes wet and arms outstretched.

“Damn, we’re going to miss you,” Cesca says.

Nola nods. “Won’t be the same without your energy.”

I step into their arms for a group hug.

The thrill of leaving Justin behind evaporates and all I can think is how I’m never going to see my two best friends ever again. At least not until college—when we will all be together at USC.

No more holding back the tears. They stream down my cheeks, dripping off my chin onto my DISTANCE RUNNERS DO IT LONGER T-shirt, Cesca’s silk ruffled halter top, and Nola’s unbleached organic cotton peasant blouse.

Trying to salvage some degree of cool, I wipe at my tear-puffed eyes and say, “At least we get Internet on the island.”

That would have been a deal breaker.

No Internet, no Phoebe.

Cesca wipes at her own tears, usually only called upon when she had to convince her dad she needed something really expensive. “Then you have to e-mail every day.”

“Maybe,” Nola says, her face glowing as she embraces the raw emotion of her tears, “we can have a regular IM meet.”

“As if,” I say. “There’s a ten-hour time difference.”

“We’ll just have to work something out,” she persists.

Nola is nothing if not persistent.

“You’re right,” I manage, if only because I want to put on a brave face until they’re gone, when I can cry my eyes out on my strippedto-the-mattress bed.

“Okay, enough blubbering,” Cesca says. “Let’s get your junk packed so we can watch The Bold and the Beautiful before I have to head home.”

“Yeah,” I say, tossing the curtain panels into Box Four, “it’ll have to sustain me for the next year. You’d think we could at least get satellite on that stupid island.”

There’s not much to do on a ten-and-a-half-hour flight from L.A. to Paris while your mom is sleeping in the next row of a nearly empty plane. The movie selections were repulsive at best and the line at LAX security was so long I didn’t have time to buy the latest

Runner’s World.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a French-accented male voice announces, “we have begun our final descent into Charles de Gaulle airport and should be on the ground in approximately thirty minutes.”

That was another thing. Our flight to Athens routed through Paris, but did I get to hop out and see the city of lights? No. We have forty-five minutes to get to our connecting flight and I’ll be lucky if I have time to look out the window at the clouds over Paris.

“Madame.” A flight attendant gently shakes Mom awake. “We are landing, you must sit up.”

Mom stretches in a big yawn and manages a sleepy, “Merci.”

The flight attendant throws me a skeptical look—like I can help it if Mom sleeps like the dead—but moves on to wake the other sleeping passengers.

I go back to scanning the clouds below for a peek at the EiffelTower or the Louvre or something monumental. Even a beret would be acceptable at this point.

“Did you sleep, Phoebe?” Mom asks as she slips back into the seat next to mine.

No, I want to say, I didn’t sleep. How can I be expected to sleep when I’m crossing an ocean for the first time? Or starting at a new school for the first time since kindergarten? Or landing on foreign soil knowing it will be months, if not longer, before I get back to the land of shopping malls and French fries—and don’t even try to trick me with the whole there-are-McDonald’s-everywhere argument because I know it just won’t be the same. Not when I’m eating the fries alone and not splitting my large order with Nola and Cesca over a big pile of ketchup.

But, since fighting never got me a new pair of Air Pegasus Nikes, I’m more content to pout than fight. Pouting leads to guilt-induced presents—some of my best gear came from dedicated pouting sessions. I just shrug and keep my eyes on the clouds.

Maybe I shouldn’t be proud of manipulating Mom this way, but it’s not like she asked me if I wanted to move to the opposite side of the planet. I deserve a little questionable behavior.

“Look, Phoebola.”

Mom nudges my ribs and points to the other side of the plane.

I want to ignore her, but there is some serious excitement in her voice and I can’t help following the direction of her finger. Through the tiny oval Plexiglas I can see an expansive city divided by a meandering river.

Ignoring the illuminated FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign, I climb over Mom’s knees and slide into the window seat across the aisle.

The flight attendant walks up just as I land and gives me a serious frown. I make a big show of buckling my seat belt, pressing the tab into the slot just like she showed us before takeoff.

Appeased, she moves on to the next row.

I press my nose to the window, eyes following the meandering Seine. Even though we weren’t staying in Paris even an hour, I had studied a map in the Air France magazine just in case the miraculous happens and we miss our connection, forcing an overnight layover. Knowing Mom, she’d probably find us a train to Athens. Anyway, a short distance up the river I see it. Though it should be practically invisible from however many thousand feet and however many miles away, the lacy iron structure of the EiffelTower stands out against the sea of grassy, tree-filled parks and old stone buildings. In my dreams I imagine running the 1665 steps from ground level to the observation deck at the top, hitting the wall halfway up and pushing through, finding my second wind and bounding onto the third level like Rocky running up the steps in front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I imagine I’m like Dad tucking the football into his elbow and leaping over a bunch of defensive backs to run forty yards to the end zone in the AFC playoffs.

“We’ll come back one day,” Mom whispers. “I promise.”

I hadn’t even noticed her take the seat next to me. Running fantasies almost always leave me oblivious. Especially ones that lead to thinking about Dad. The only time I’m less aware of the world around me is when I’m actually running.

I blink up at her, envying her beautiful green eyes that look so much more striking against our chestnut hair than my brown ones. Her eyes are glowing more than ever and I know it’s because of Damian.

Turning back to the window, I find the EiffelTower gone and all I see is the rapidly rising asphalt of the runway.

Great, one step closer to stupid Serfopoula.

The only thing remotely exciting on the flight to Athens—if you don’t count the woman trying to smuggle a hedgehog onto the plane—is actually catching it. We run through the airport like we have Cerberus biting at our heels, managing to get directions to the wrong gate twice—sometimes I think the French try to be unhelpful—and have to go through security again before sliding into the gate seconds before they close the door.

I consider slowing us down—maybe playing the bathroom card or the cramps card—but I have a feeling I would lose all my pouting points for a stunt like that. Besides, better to get it over with rather than draw out the inevitable.

By the time we land in Athens—after three and a half hours of listening to the two women in my row chattering nonstop in enthusiastic, rapid-fire Greek—I am almost happy to be on Grecian soil. Until we find him waiting for us at baggage claim.

Damian Petrolas, my new stepdad.

If not for the fact that he married my mom and dragged us halfway around the world and is making me go to his stupid school, I’m sure I wouldn’t think he was such a bad guy. He’s charming, the kind of guy that makes you feel like a princess, even when you want to hate him—which I do. He’s tall, like over six feet, and with his black hair dotted around the temples with gray, he looks wise and powerful. Not bad characteristics for the headmaster of a private school, I guess.

Mom, forgetting all sense of decorum and public decency, drops her not-insubstantial carry-on and runs for him, practically throwing herself in his arms. I am left to lug her ninety pound—or I should say kilos since I’m in a metric country now—briefcase the rest of the way to the carousel.

My backpack weighs nothing in comparison.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Mom says between the stream of kisses she’s laying on his face.

“And I, too,” he says, “have missed you.”

Then, with no consideration for my sensitive stomach, he takes her face in his hands and plants a big, open-mouthed kiss on her lips. And Mom opens her mouth right back.

I am looking around for a trash can to lose my airplane pretzels in when he speaks to me.

“Phoebe,” he says in the disgustingly charming accent, “I am so happy to welcome you to my country. To my home.”

And then, with no warning whatsoever—and it’s not like I’m sending out approach-me vibes—he steps forward and puts his arms around me. In a hug.

Ewww!

I stand there like I’m waiting at the starting line, frozen and not sure what to do as he’s squeezing me and patting me on the back. Mom catches my eye over his shoulder and gives me a pleading look, which I ignore. Then she scowls her I’m-your-mother-and-atherapist scowl.

The one I have long since learned never to ignore.

So, with all the courage I can find deep down in my toes, I lift one hand and pat Damian on the shoulder in a show of returning the hug. Mom looks not quite happy, but he doesn’t seem to notice my hug is half-assed.

He releases me, then—to my continued horror—grabs my head and presses two kisses alternately to my cheeks. Cesca told me all Europeans do this, though different cultures do different numbers of kisses. I guess Greeks do two. I can’t stop the impulse to wipe his kisses off my flesh. Thankfully he has already turned away, taking Mom by the hand and leading her over to baggage claim. Leaving me with the ninety-kilo briefcase.

Our bags—two really big ones for each of us because most of our clothes had to come in the suitcases since the movers aren’t scheduled to deliver our boxes for nearly a week—are already circling the carousel by the time we get there with a rented cart. At least I don’t have to lug the briefcase all the way to the car.

Damian, leading the way with the cart, asks, “Would you prefer the bus or the metro?”

Whoa! Bus? Metro? As in public transport?

“I don’t know,” Mom says. “Which do you think, Phoebola?”

I stop moving, but nobody else seems to notice. They keep on walking, even though I’m getting farther and farther behind with every step. Then I have to run to catch up because as much as I don’t want to be in Greece, I want to be lost in Greece even less.

As I run up, he explains, “The bus system is quite a confusing adventure, so perhaps we should take the metro and save that for another trip.”

Nice. Another decision made without me. Not like it’s my life or anything.

“Hmmph,” I say as I shrug my backpack higher up on my shoulder.

Damian pulls the suitcases off the cart, handing one each to me and Mom and taking two himself, and heads off in the direction of signs that look like the Adidas stripes next to a golf ball. Mom follows blissfully behind, oblivious to my irritation.

This is a picture of my life for the next year—no, make that nine months because no matter what Mom says I’m moving in with Yia Yia Minta for the summer before college. Nine months of Mom in blissville and not even caring what her only child wants is going to be a nightmare.

“Where’s Stella?” Mom asks.

Crap. I forgot about the evil stepsister.

Okay, I have not actually met her yet because she didn’t bother to come to the wedding in America, but aren’t all stepsisters evil? (Myself not included, of course.)

Damian looks at Mom, embarrassed. “She had other commitments.”

Yeah right. What he really means is she doesn’t approve of this any more than I do. Only he couldn’t make her come to the airport like Mom had made me move to Greece. Score one for Stella. Maybe I should take lessons.

“Oh,” Mom says quietly. “I guess we’ll just meet her when we get . . . home.”

It’s very hard not to puke on my shoes. Home? Like his house will ever be home. Like any house except the burgundy and cream bungalow we’d lived in since I was born will ever be home. Mom must be seriously twisted by love hormones.

“Here we go.” Damian leads us down an escalator and onto a train waiting at the platform.

We file onto the train, Mom and I sitting while he stands in front of us. I watch out the opposite window as the train starts out of the station.

This is not my first time on a train—we rode the subway in New York once on vacation—but it takes me a few stops to get used to the stop-and-go motion. Then, as we pull into the third—or fourth or fifth, I kinda lost track—station I actually notice something besides the rolling in my stomach.

The station has a display, like a museum exhibit, on the wall behind the platform. There is some old stuff, like pots and plates and scraps of fabric, and a bunch of plaques with bits of history and timelines and stuff. A sign above it all reads, “Domestic Life in Ancient Greece” in really big English letters, with the Greek ones right below.

Hmm. Pretty cool, I guess.

If you’re into Greek history and all.

The train pulls out and I manage to both keep my balance and control the motion sickness. When we pull into the next station I’m looking for the display.

This time, the sign says, “The Cradle of Democracy.” A huge mosaic fills up most of the wall, showing a huge crowd of men staring at one guy standing on a platform. The one guy looks like he might be making a speech or something. There are no women in the crowd. Or, for that matter, anything but old white guys. Typical.