The Dig (19 page)

―A date?‖

―Yeah, you know, he asked me to spend the day with him.‖

―Because you were lost.‖

―Because he liked me.‖

She sips her drink and eyes me carefully. ―Why were you wandering around the forest?‖

―Just something to do, I guess.‖

―Does your family know where you are?‖

―My parents are dead.‖ Did I just say that out loud too? What‘s happening to me?

―I‘m so sorry for your loss,‖ she says blithely.

―It happened when I was young. I‘ve had many years to adjust.‖ Another safe reveal. I‘m fine, really, and I take a sip.

Hera tilts her head to the side. She makes a sad expression and brings her hand to her heart.

―A loss like that, it must change you,‖ she says. ―To have no family.‖

―Well, I spend my summers with my aunt and uncle.‖ She rises to refill my goblet again.

How many goblets of ambrosia have I had so far? But before I can count them, Hera is talking again. ―They‘re not your parents, though, are they? They can‘t replace them.‖ She sighs.

―My parents are long gone as well. The gods, they‘re my family now.‖

―Aunt Sophia and Uncle Alex are pretty great actually. I mean, they‘re archeologists so—‖

With great effort, I force myself to rein it in.

Archeologists
? Are you crazy, Zoe? I don‘t understand why I‘m so anxious to talk about myself. I never get like this; I‘m usually very private. It‘s a little freaky, this sudden urgency to bring it all back to my story.

―Now, Zoe, if your aunt and uncle…what did you say their names were?‖

―Sophia and Alex,‖ I reply. It seems like a safe enough answer.

―Sophia and Alex must be missing you terribly right now. Because you don‘t seem like the kind of girl who wanders off on her own very often.‖

―Well…‖

She smiles. She‘s all teeth and big eyes. It‘s a fake smile. We learned about those in psychology class last year, how you can tell when a smile is genuine if the eyes crinkle and the gums show.

I take another sip of ambrosia. My face feels hot.

Wait, what were we just talking about? Oh right. Me!

―Hera, I actually do wander off a lot. But usually I don‘t go quite this far away.‖

―Oh, are you very far from home now?‖

―Yeah,‖ I laugh, feeling a giggle come on. ―Yeah, you could say that.‖

―How far?‖

Don‘t say it, Zoe. You can‘t say it.

―The farthest you can be from home.‖

―You‘ll have to be more specific than that, dear. I‘m
very
well traveled.‖ With a grin, I slide my feet onto the floor and prepare to blow Hera‘s high and mighty attitude right out of the water.

―Well, I think I might be a little more well traveled than you,
dear
.

Because I‘m from the future.‖

Here‘s what I hoped would happen. I hoped that Hera would roll her eyes and say it‘s ridiculous and just move on to another subject. But the problem is that she believes me and now I have an open forum to tell my story. And for some reason, I can‘t help myself. So I‘m telling her all about what happened, how my uncle uncovered the temple and I snuck off and found the coin and put it on the giant iPhone and then there was a storm and I wound up traveling thousands of years back to now. Hera just nods. So I go on and tell her all about the future, about airplanes and the Internet and Greeley and archeology and cars and TV and she‘s still just nodding. Does
nothing
impress this girl?

―Oh my goodness,‖ I say. ―In all my rambling I‘ve forgotten to tell you the most important part.‖

―What‘s that, dear?‖

―In the future, you don‘t exist.‖

She blinks, startled. For the first time, I seem to have gotten her attention.

―Impossible,‖ she says.

―You‘re just a story. They say the ancient Greeks invented you and the other gods while they were sitting around the fire telling stories.‖ She‘s turning red. ―That‘s ridiculous. As if humans could ever conjure up anything so interesting.‖

―It‘s true. The gods are just stories to us.
Humans
rule the future, Hera.‖ She shifts in obvious discomfort. I watch her flip her hair over her right shoulder and run her hand through it.

For a second, I feel bad for her. I feel like I‘ve just told her there‘s no Santa Claus. But come on, Zoe. If the positions were reversed, she would be gloating right now, not sympathizing.

Hera clears her throat. She sits up straight in her chair and eyes me coolly. ―Well, I don‘t see how that‘s possible.‖

―That‘s because up here you look down on humans. You don‘t see their power.‖

She stands up abruptly and crosses the room. ―You‘re not making sense, dear,‖ she says.

―You‘re tired and confused from the ambrosia. Sitting in the house of a goddess and telling her she doesn‘t exist…‖

―Of course you exist now. But in the future, when you and the others are gone, all that‘s left are distorted stories.‖ I stand up. I have the floor and I have the power and I may not have a clique or the love of Zeus but I have the truth. ―They dress up as you for fun. Or they make jokes about you.

Like, there‘s this movie about a pregnant teenager and she says that you‘re really pretty and really mean.‖

―A ‗movie‘?‖

I shake my head. I don‘t have the patience to explain modern cinema.

―It‘s too complicated. All I mean is that this thing you have going here, it doesn‘t last forever. So I wouldn‘t get too cozy if I were you.‖ She laughs and says, ―I think I‘ll take my chances.‖ Her ego is like a brick and I want to break it. So I try again.

―Nobody worships you anymore, Hera.
Nobody
.‖

―Then who do they worship?‖

―Humans.‖

She gasps.

―It‘s true. Just ask Kim Kardashian. I mean, I don‘t personally worship her, but a lot of girls do.‖

―Is she a goddess?‖

―No.‖

―She must have some special power.‖

―Well, she has nice hair. And she‘s beautiful, I guess. But they‘re not special
powers
. And anyway, that‘s not the point. The point is that she‘s who people worship, not you.‖

―No human girl is more beautiful than a goddess,‖ Hera says, looking me up and down. She leans in for emphasis. ―
Ever
.‖

―Things are different in the future,‖ I say with a defiant smile. ―All that worship for the gods gets directed toward humans who are good-looking and have a lot of money.‖

―That‘s disgusting.‖

―It
is
pretty shallow. But it‘s the truth.‖

―It can‘t be. You have no proof,‖ she says. And I feel a little guilty again because her shoulders are slumped and she looks genuinely sad and I‘m not a mean girl and why did I even start all this in the first place? I sip the ambrosia. I sit back down.

―I didn‘t mean to upset you.‖

―You didn‘t,‖ she says. ―You‘re confused from your travels. At some point I‘m sure you hit your head.‖

I could carry on, telling her more and more about how irrelevant she and her friends become, but she looks so sad and I don‘t want to crush her.

They always say that people in cliques aren‘t as mean as they seem, that their cocky attitudes are a cover-up for all their insecurities and that they stick together because, at heart, they‘re all just afraid to be on their own.

I‘ve never really believed that. It‘s always sounded like a rationalization.

But sitting here now, and seeing this goddess so visibly shaken, I know I‘ll never look at cliques the same way ever again. Cliques
are
sad. It‘s sad that she‘s deluded enough to think that Zeus is her boyfriend. It‘s sad that she thinks any sort of power is permanent. It‘s sad that she had to be cruel to me before she could be nice to me.

Now that she knows I‘m from the future, she‘s probably intimidated by me, the way Greeley girls get when the daughter of a famous person or a guy from some castle in Europe arrives at school. I mean, I actually feel sorry for Hera. She probably wants to hitch a ride to the future, or to make me her automatic best friend now that we have a secret. She‘s just sitting there, not saying a word.

―You can ask me anything. Hera. It‘s okay. I‘m an open book.‖

―Do you want to go home?‖ she says.

―What?‖

―I can help you go home,‖ she says. ―You clearly don‘t belong here and you miss your…things. So I‘ll help you.‖ I swallow, feeling stupid and kicked aside. I mean, I just told her the secrets of the universe and she wants to send me away? She doesn‘t want to be my friend? Even if just for a little while?

―I don‘t know that there really
is
a way back home,‖ I tell her honestly.

―The Oracle told me to come to Olympus and that my destiny was here.

She didn‘t say anything about how to get home.‖

―The Oracle‘s an idiot.‖

―Excuse me?‖

―Anyone who has real power is up here.‖ She flips her hair to the side.

―You said you went through a door in the new temple.‖

―Well, sort of. I put the coin into that giant iPhone—‖

―You found a door, Zoe. Maybe they call doors ‗iPhones‘ in the future, but in the interest of getting you home, I think it‘s best we both speak the same language, mmm?‖

What is there to say? There is nothing to say. ―Mmm.‖

―The door you spoke of in the temple, was it made of a black, luminous material?‖

I nod.

Hera smiles. ―That door has a twin in the labyrinth here, on Olympus.‖

―It does?‖ For some reason this news upsets me.

―Do you still have that coin in your possession?‖ I nod again.

―Show me.‖

I pull the obolus out of my back pocket. Hera takes it from me and holds it up for examination.

―Where did
you
come from,‖ she says quietly to the obolus, weighing it in her palm. ―It‘s very dense. And heavy. For the Petros,‖ she tells me. For a moment, I think she‘s going to keep it, but then she just smiles and hands it back. ―If you place this in the black door at the center of the labyrinth, it will take you home.‖

I swallow, unable to mask my hesitation about the prospect of leaving.

Since the moment I arrived, all I‘ve wanted to do was go home, but now I‘m starting to realize that I don‘t feel quite done here.

―Home,‖ I mumble unenthusiastically.

Hera stands and takes the empty goblet from my hand. She carries it over to the marble counter and rests it beside the elegant silver kettle.

―Zoe,‖ she says with a sigh. ―I know it‘s difficult to hear this, but the world is made up of couples. Every entity has its match, its counterpart, its other half. This is how we maintain balance.

Here, you see, there are twelve gods—six couples. An even number. Perfectly proportioned. There is no number thirteen because there is no need for a number thirteen. A number thirteen could only invite chaos and disorder and—‖

―I get it.‖

―Good. Then you should be on your way now, shouldn‘t you, dear?‖

―I guess so.‖

―The entrance to the labyrinth is by the olive tree grove.‖

―Um, okay.‖

―Oh! Zoe. I meant to ask…‖

―Yes?‖

―The Kardashian woman. Is her hair as thick and shiny as mine?‖

―Yep.‖

Hera swipes her hair over her left shoulder and retreats through one of the doorways. As she disappears from sight, I count them all. There are six doorways in this vast, palatial room—not seven and not five, but six.

All evidence confirms Hera‘s theory of even numbers and balance, and I sit back on the chair to try to calm down, wishing I was anywhere but here, being toyed with by the gods.

It‘s still dark when I wake up in my room. My head feels puffy, and when I sit up in bed, I moan. Ambrosia is not for the faint and weary. How much of it did I drink? I shuffle out of bed. I need to find Zeus. I don‘t know if I should stay or go, and I have so much on my mind, and I just want someone I can talk to, to rest my head on his shoulder. I can‘t help but laugh at myself. God, when did I become so sappy? But one thing‘s for sure. My chances of a great romantic life are probably better if I don‘t look like some kind of greasy-haired, unhygienic mountaineer.

Thank god—not Hera—for bathrooms. The one in my room reminds me of the bathroom at a bed-and-breakfast in Spain I went to with Aunt Sophia and Uncle Alex. It‘s very simple, sparse.

There‘s a jug of water, a giant tub and a few confusing metal instruments. I can‘t help but laugh. Of all the challenges I‘ve faced in this journey, somehow shaving my legs seems like the most difficult one yet. The gods‘ idea of a razor is a giant and heavy metal thing I can only call a knife.

I slip out of my once-upon-a-time white pants and sit on the edge of the tub. There‘s another jug here with some kind of goop in it. I can only hope and assume that it‘s soap as I watch it plop and sink into the tub.

Once my legs are oiled and covered in the yellowish suds, I pick up the knife. But my hand is shaking. Breathe, Zoe. You have faced monsters of all kinds. Surely, you can steady your hand.

But as soon as I manage to steady the blade, my legs start to shake.

Distracted, I relax my fingers too much and the blade slips out of my grasp and into the milky water. Now what? If I reach in there, I could accidentally grab the long, sharp end and slice my hand open. But if I don‘t, then I‘ll leave this room in such a self-conscious state that I‘ll probably act all weird and distant around Zeus.

For a few seconds I just sit here, very still, staring into the opaque water, taking stock of it all. And then I start to laugh because I‘ve become so boy crazy that I‘ve actually forgotten about my powers. And not the ones that involve moving mountains and throwing rocks; I mean the powers of my brain.

I get out of the tub, pick up another jug of water and empty it into the tub. Now I can see the blade and safely reach for it. The whole debacle has lightened my soul and I shave without so much as a single knick. It‘s clearly a sign. Usually I screw up and have to dab at my legs with toilet paper because I‘m in such a rush to get to class. But I‘ve found a new inner peace.

I‘ve heard that this sometimes happens to people when they‘ve found their soul mate. And I believe it now. There‘s not a doubt in my mind when I exit my room, clean and rested, that my entire life has changed.