WHEN I’M RUNNING I can almost feel my dad at my side.
He’s been gone for nearly six years, but every time I lace up and slap sole to pavement I feel like he’s right there. I can feel him talking about my inner strength and how I will be a world-class athlete when I grow up. That’s part of why I love running-why I’m running right now, pushing myself a little harder than usual to win this race.
This isn’t just any race-it’s the final race of the USC cross-country summer camp. Every winner of this race for the last seven years has wound up with a full scholarship offer. Since USC is the only college I’ve ever considered attending, I plan on winning this race.
With the nearest runner almost fifty yards back, I’m not worried.
The finish line comes into sight. Dozens of people are waiting-coaches and trainers from the camp, campers who competed in the shorter races, parents, and friends. As I get closer I see Nola and Cesca-my two best friends-cheering like crazy. They’ve never missed one of my races.
I’m closing in on thirty yards.
Twenty yards.
Victory is guaranteed. I pull up a little bit, not really slowing down but relaxing enough to let my body begin its recovery.
That’s when I see Mom.
She’s standing with Nola and Cesca, smiling like I’ve never seen her smile-at least not in the last six years.
Why is she here?
It’s not that Mom doesn’t come to my races, but she wasn’t supposed to be at this race. She’s supposed to be in Greece, getting to know Dad’s extended family at a gigantic family reunion while I’m at cross-country camp. Trust me, the choice between running eight hours a day and spending a week with creepy cousin Bemus was not a hard decision. Meeting him once was more than enough.
I wonder why she’s home two days early.
Then, suddenly, I’m across the finish line and everyone surrounds me, cheering and congratulating me. Nola and Cesca push through the crowd and pull me into a group hug.
“You are such a superstar,” Cesca shouts.
Everyone is so loud I barely hear her.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” Nola asks. “You just beat the best in the country.”
“You are the best in the country!” Cesca adds.
I just smile. Could a girl ask for better best friends?
The next runner crosses the finish line, and some of the crowd goes to congratulate her. Now that I’m not fully surrounded I see Coach Jack waiting to talk to me. Since he’s my ticket to USC I pull out of our group hug.
“Hey, Coach,” I say, my breathing starting to return to normal.
“Congratulations, Phoebe,” he says in his gruff tone. “I’ve never seen anyone win so decisively. Or so easily.”
He shakes his head, like he can’t quite figure out how I did it.
“Thanks.”
My cheeks blush. Sure, I’ve been told my whole life that I have a special talent for running-from my dad, my mom, my friends-but it feels a lot more real coming from the head coach of the USC cross-country team. There’s a rumor that he’s going to coach the next Olympic team.
“I’m putting you at the top of the list for next year,” he says.
“If you keep up with your classes and continue to perform well in races, the scholarship is yours.”
“Wow, I-” I shake my head, beyond excited to be within reach of everything I’ve ever wanted. “Thanks, Coach. I won’t let you down.”
Then he’s gone, off to talk to the other racers who are now piling across the finish line. Turning, I look for Mom. She’s right behind me, still smiling, and I dive into her arms.
“Mom,” I cry as she pulls me into a hug. “I thought you weren’t coming back until Tuesday.”
She squeezes me tight. “We decided to come back early.”
“We?” I ask, leaning back to look at her.
Mom blushes-actually blushes, with pink cheeks and everything-and releases me. She reaches out her hand to the side, like she’s grabbing for something.
I stare blankly as another, clearly male, hand meets hers.
“Phoebe,” she says, her voice full of girlish excitement, “there’s someone I want you to meet.”
My heart plummets. I suddenly have a very bad feeling about what she’s going to say. All the signs are there: blushes, smiles, and a male hand. But still, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I mean, Mom’s just not the type to date. She’s… Mom.
She spends her Friday nights either watching movies with me or poring over client files from her therapy practice. All she cares about are me and her work. In that order. She doesn’t have time for guys.
The guy connected to the male hand steps to Mom’s side.
“This is Damian.”
He’s not a bad looking guy, if you like the older type with dark hair that’s salt-and-peppering at the temples. His skin is tan, making his smile much brighter in contrast. In fact, he looks like a nice guy. So really, I would probably like him if not for the fact that he’s glued to my mom’s side.
“He and I are…” Mom giggles-actually giggles! “We’re going to be married.”
“What?” I demand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Phoebe,” Damian says with a subtle accent, releasing Mom’s hand and reaching out to shake mine.
I stare at his hand.
This can’t be happening. I mean, I want to see Mom happy and all, but how can she go off to Greece and come back six days later with a fiance? How mature is that? “You’re what?” I repeat.
When he sees I’m not about to shake hands, Damian puts his arm around Mom’s shoulder. She practically melts into his side.
“We’re getting married,” she says again, bubbling over with excitement. “The wedding will be in Greece in December, but we’re having a civil ceremony at City Hall next weekend so Aunt Megan and Yia Yia Minta can be there.”
“Next weekend?” I am so shocked I almost don’t realize the bigger implication. “Wait. How can you get married out of the country in December? I’ll be in school.”
Mom slips her arm around Damian’s waist, like she needs to get even closer to him. Next she’ll be sliding her hand into the back pocket of his pants. No girl should have to watch her mother revert to teenage behavior.
“That’s the most exciting part,” Mom says, her voice edging on near-hysteria with excitement. I know instantly that I’m not going to like what she says. “We’re moving to Greece.”
“Be reasonable, Phoebola,” Mom says-like using my nickname will make me suddenly okay with all of this. “This isn’t the end of the world.”
“Isn’t it?” I ask, shoving the contents of my dresser drawer into my duffel bag.
Mom sits on the twin bed in the dorm room that has been my home for the last seven days. Twenty minutes ago my life was perfect… right on track.
Now I’m just supposed to pack up my life and move halfway around the world so Mom can shack up with some guy she’s only known for a week?
Sounds like the end of the world to me.
“I know you were looking forward to spending your senior year at Pacific Park,” she says, entering therapist mode. “But I think that the move will be good for you. Broaden your horizons.”
“I don’t need broader horizons,” I say, grabbing the pillow off my bed and tugging at my striped pillowcase.
“Honey, you’ve never lived anywhere but Southern California.
You’ve gone to school with the same kids your entire life.” She places her hand on my shoulder when I lean past her to grab my blanket. “I worry that when you go off to USC next year you’ll be in for a shock.”
“I won’t,” I insist. “Nola and Cesca will be there.”
“So will thousands of other students from across the country.
From around the world.”
“That doesn’t mean I need to be from around the world, too.”
Turning away from Mom, I quickly fold my blanket and drop it on top of my duffel. All my things are packed, but I’m not ready to go yet. Not when I know he’s out there somewhere. Not when my whole world is being pulled out from under me.
“Come,” she says quietly. “Sit down.”
I look over my shoulder to see her patting the bed.
I tell myself to remain calm. This is still Mom, after all. She’s usually very reasonable… maybe she’ll listen to my argument. Prepared to discuss this like adults, I plop down next to her.
“Mom,” I say, trying to sound as mature as possible, “there has to be some other way. Can’t he move here?”
“No,” she says with a sad laugh, “he definitely cannot.”
“Why not?” I ask. “Is he wanted by the law or something?”
Mom gives me an of-course-not look. “His work demands he remain in Greece.”
Work! There’s something I can use.
“What about your work? Your practice?” I inch closer. “Won’t you miss your daily dose of crazies?” Not a PC term, I know, but I’m operating in desperation mode.
“Yes. I will.”
“Then why are you-”
She looks me straight in the eyes and says, “Because I love him.”
For what feels like forever, we just stare at each other.
“Well I don’t see why I have to go,” I say. “I could stay with Yia Yia Minta and finish off my year-”
“Absolutely not,” Mom interrupts. “I love your grandmother like my own mother, but she is in no position to care for you for an entire year. She’s nearly eighty. Besides,”-she nudges me in the ribs-“you hate goat cheese.”
“I know, but-”
“You’re my baby girl.” Her voice is determined. “I refuse to lose you a year early.”
Great, Mom has separation anxiety, so I have to leave the hemisphere.
“Are you trying to ruin my life?” I demand, jumping up and pacing back and forth on the bare linoleum floor. “What, was everything going too smoothly? Worried that I didn’t have enough teen angst to work with? That I wouldn’t need therapy when I hit thirty?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Me? I’m not the one who flew off to a family reunion and came back with a fiance-wait, he’s not family is he? That would be beyond ew, Mom.”
“Phoebe.” Her voice is laced with warning, but I’m building up steam.
“I’ve heard about these spur-of-the-moment European marriages.
Are you sure he’s not just using you to get his green card?”
“Enough!” she shouts.
I stop cold and stare at her. Therapist Mom does not shout. I’m in serious trouble.
“Damian and I love each other.” She stands up, tucks my blanket under her arm, and hangs the strap on my duffel over my shoulder.
“We will be married next weekend. He will return to Greece. At the end of the month you and I will move to Serfopoula.”
“Who’s ever even heard of Serfopoula anyway?” I ask as I pace back and forth at the foot of my bed where my bright yellow rug used to be.
“Just think, Phoebe,” Cesca says. “You’ll be basking on the pristine white shores of the turquoise Aegean.”
Okay, she has me there. Beach runs are kind of my weakness, but that is so not enough to make moving worthwhile. There are plenty of beaches in California.
Cesca gazes dreamily up at my cloud-painted ceiling, like she’s picturing frilly umbrella drinks and hot cabana boys. Her sigh is positively envious. Fine. She can take my seat on the flight to Athens tomorrow.
“I don’t know,” Nola says. “A practically uninhabited Greek island with nothing on it but a private school and a tiny village? Suspicious, Phoebe.”
Nola-short for Granola, if you can believe it-is our resident conspiracy theorist. Her parents are hippies. Not were hippies… are hippies. As in they believe in free love, protest our school’s non vegetarian lunches, and think the Cubans, the Mafia, and the CIA all conspired to kill Kennedy.
“Sounds like that tiny island in the Caribbean where the navy was bombing goats.” She flops onto my bed-sending three furry pillows bouncing to the floor-and folds herself into a yoga position. “Or maybe that was the island off the coast of California.”
“Either way,”-I snatch the pillows off the floor and stuff them into the nearest box-“tomorrow I’m going to be on a plane flying halfway around the world to live with a guy I barely met and now I’m supposed to call him Dad and pretend like we’re a big happy family.”
I realize I’m shoving the pillows so hard into Box Four of Six that I’m crushing the cardboard. Not smart, considering I don’t have any more boxes. Better that I take my frustrations out somewhere else than end up with one less box of necessities.
I stalk over to the desk and carve 3 Furry Pillows-Pink onto the contents list. It’s no fun having to account for everything I’m packing. Not when I can picture grimy customs officers pawing through my belongings to compare the list to the stuff in the box.
Cesca spins in my hot pink desk chair, her mind still on the turquoise Aegean fantasy. “I wonder if it’s near where they filmed Troy.
Do you know which part of the Aegean Snarfopoly is in?”
“Serfopoula,” I correct, because Mom has drilled it into me. “And I don’t care how close it is to anything. It’s miles and miles away from here. A world away from you guys.”
My two best friends in the whole world-since the first day of kindergarten when Nola gave Cesca and me hemp friendship bracelets and Cesca taught me how to tie my shoes the cool way. We’ve been inseparable for the last twelve years and now there’s going to be an entire ocean and most of two continents between us.
How can I make it through my senior year without them?
Okay, now I’m close to tears. We’ve been locked in my room all afternoon, packing the last of my possessions into the six boxes I’m allowed to take. Six! Can you believe it? How am I supposed to condense a lifetime of living in the same house into just six boxes?
I understand leaving my furniture-my canopy bed, my dresser covered in bumper stickers, my antique desk with “I luv JM” carved into the bottom drawer and then scratched out-but six boxes will only hold about one-quarter of everything else. That means that for every one thing I put in a box, three get given to charity.
That makes a girl reevaluate her possessions.
The pink fur sticking out of Box Four catches my eye. I scowl at the offending pillows. Do I really want to waste space on pillows?
Stalking back to the box, I jerk them out and fling them into the charity pile.
“Are you taking your curtains?” Cesca asks.
“Crap!” I swear, I’m going to forget something important-like those white gauzy panels covered with big, shiny sequins that reflect little dots of color all over my room when the sun hits them just right-and it’s not like I can buzz back home to pick up a few things.
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 Pacific Park 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 LONGERT-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 stripped to-the-mattress bed.
“Okay, enough blubbering,” Cesca says. “Let’s get your junk packed so we can watch The Bold and the Beautifulbefore 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 Eiffel Tower 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 Eiffel Tower 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 Eiffel Tower 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 tryto 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 -a-therapist 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 inblissville 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.
As the doors glide shut, I flop back against the bench and cross my arms over my chest. I hope this country has evolved from the stone age. I’m not a feminist or anything, but I like my rights and I’d like to keep them. The ancient world was not very equal opportunity.
We slide into the next station and I’m almost dreading what this display will be about. Gladiators getting mauled to death? The horrific slave trade? Thousands being slaughtered at some huge, Troy -like siege? I glance out the window panel, prepared for the worst, and my eyes zero in on one word: “Marathon.” Before I eventhink about it, I’m off the train and running to the exhibit. It’s all about the marathon, as in the ancient one run by Pheidippides in 490 BC. The original cross-country race. There are pictures of Marathon, the site of the battle victory that Pheidippides ran to Athens to announce, and of the spot in Athens where he supposedly dropped dead after making the announcement. There are actual spearheads from that time like the ones that might have been used in the battle. There are ancient sandals like the ones he may have worn for his famous run.
Thank goodness for Nike. I could never run in sandals.
“Here she is,” I hear Damian say.
I turn just as Mom rushes up and throws her arms around me.
“Never run off like that again,” she shouts.
Practically the whole station turns to stare at us.
“Sorry,” I say. But looking back over my shoulder at the marathon display, I’m not at all sorry. I’ve just come within inches of the ancient origins of distance running. What do I have to be sorry about? “The city of Athens installed archaeological displays such as this in many of our metro stations for the 2004 Olympics,” Damian says.
He’s lugging all four suitcases and the ninety-kilo briefcase behind him, but doesn’t even look unhappy.
“Oh wow,” Mom says softly and with a touch of awe in her voice, stepping up to the display for a closer look, analyzing every detail like she always does. “This says the modern Athens marathon follows the same path that Pheidippides ran in 490 BC. Phoebe, this is amazing.”
Like I want to share my visit to the shrine of distance runningwith them? Hardly. “Whatever,” I say as I turn away and head back to wait for the approaching train. “It’s not that great.”
When the next train pulls up we climb back on-Mom has taken her two suitcases from Damian and he is stuck pulling mine, which makes me smile. I’m torn between not wanting them to know how much seeing that exhibit means to me and wanting to see as much of the exhibit as I can before the train chugs away.
In the end, I twist in my seat and watch out the window as the shoes of Pheidippides race out of sight.
Someday I’ll come to this station again and take my time memorizing every little detail of the exhibit. Maybe when I’m breezing through Athens on my way to college back in civilization.
After the fourteen hours in a cramped plane seat and an hour on a packed metro train, I’m actually looking forward to the three-hour ferry ride to Serifos, an island near Serfopoula. Of course there are no direct ferry routes to Serfopoula.
Still, I can imagine myself gazing out over the turquoise Aegeanthe salty sea breeze drowning out Mom and Damian’s repulsive lovey-dovey talk and blowing my stick-straight hair into beachhewn waves. At least we aren’t moving somewhere with no major body of water. Heck, there probably isn’t anywhere on Serfopoula that isn’t within running distance of the beach. Beach runs are my favorite. Salty sea air rushing in and out of my lungs. Sand shifting under my feet, making my calves burn with extra effort. Collapsingin exhaustion and watching the waves crash the shore while restoring my energy. Pure bliss.
The actual ferry ride is nowhere near the peaceful boat trip I’m hoping for. Thank goodness my Dramamine kicks in because we aren’t on a slow boat to Serifos, we are on a hydrofoil-a super high-speed ferry that bounces me off the deck when it hits even the tiniest wave. It’s named Dolphin something-or-other, but it feels more like riding a really angry bull. One that can’t wait to shake every last human off its back.
Riding the bucking bull is bad enough, but one more second of watching goo-goo eyes and I’m going to lose the contents of my stomach over the side of the boat. Mom and Damian don’t seem to notice. They are busy standing close and batting their eyes at each other. Every so often he whispers something in her ear and she laughs like a little girl.
“I have to pee,” I announce, more crudely than normal. I fully intend on actually using the facility until I get in there and am about to unzip my jeans when the bull hits a ripple and sends me sidelong into the door. I can only imagine what will happen if I actually squat in hover position and we hit a real wave. Instead of tempting fate I decide I can hold it until we find land.
We get to Serifos and spend a few glorious steps on an unmoving surface while Damian leads us to the chauffeured- is a private boat driver a chauffeur? – private yacht- yes, yacht -that will take us the rest of the way to the stupid, ferry-less island.
Does that mean there’s no way off the island unless I have my own boat? Great, I’m going to be stuck on this stupid island until I get paroled. Or until I make friends with someone who has a boat.
Now there’s a plan.
When I step onto the boat I’m smiling at the thought of befriending someone with transport.
Damian leads Mom to a bench seat on one side of the rear deck and I head for the opposite bench. Hopefully this boat ride will be less earthquake-like than the last, and I don’t want my potential calm disturbed by disgusting baby talk or anything.
I think I’m out of hearing distance.
Not that Damian respects my isolation.
I rest my head against the back of the bench and start to close my eyes when he moves into the seat next to me. Prying one eye open to glare at him, I ask, “Yeah?”
Mom is sitting on the other side of him.
“Phoebe, there is something you need to know before we arrive at Serfopoula.” He folds his hands carefully in his lap. “Are you familiar with Plato’s Academy?”
The big philosophy school where a bunch of old Greek guys got together to talk about intense stuff like the origin of life and what kind of poison worked best? “Yeah.”
“Well,” Damian continues, “there is more to the Academy’s history than most textbooks contain. In the sixth century, the Roman emperor Justinian issued an edict demanding the Academy be closed and forbade formal philosophical education. The… ah-hem… benefactors of the school were not prepared to see it closed so they moved it here. To Serfopoula.”
I don’t know Damian real well, but I think it’s not typical for him to ah-hem in the middle of a sentence. He seems like a very formalguy who keeps his speech squeaky clean. Still, I think I should just ignore this observation and instead say, “Justinian must have been pissed when he found out they disobeyed his orders.”
“He never found out.” Damian swallows hard. “The… ah-hem… benefactors kept the knowledge from him.”
There is something strange in the way he says this. Something ominous.
It must have been hard to keep a Roman emperor and every tattletale who would rush to tell him from finding out. Maybe these benefactors murdered anyone who found out and buried them in the school basement. I get shivers at the thought and I have to ask, “How?”
“Well, Phoebe.” Damian looks over his shoulder at Mom, who nods in encouragement. “There is little the Greek gods can not do when they choose to act.”