I always think in English first because that golden language window was sort of wasted when my mom got sick.
Yia Yia made sure I was conversant in Greek, but I really should have started in Greek school when I was a toddler, like everyone else. Dad’s priorities were, you know, elsewhere. You might even say he was a born-again Greek after Mom died because he was trying to bring us back to some kind of normal. Like normal was even a possibility.
But Yia Yia helped. She was the one who made sure I could speak Greek and read it. She never said it had to be perfect, but there was no way I was going to make excuses about not being able to speak it.
“Leonidas, you were named for a Greek warrior. You will speak your native language.”
And I didn’t argue with Yia Yia.
But Evey has two parents who speak it at home. And even though it was spoken a lot in my house, there was some kind of disconnect in my brain that made my speech sound a little bit like a four-year-old’s.
I will never forget the time I asked to go to the bathroom at Greek school and everyone laughed because I’d said, “If I may please the toilet.”
Hilarious.
It would have been poetic. Our two families working together to accomplish something.
Absolutely poetic. If one of us weren’t being blackmailed to do it.
She handed me my portfolio, and my hand grazed hers when I reached out to take it. There was a moment when her eyes darted to the spot where our hands had touched and then she decided to pretend nothing had happened.
Her hands were cold, and I was not surprised.
“So you really hate this guy,” I said. I thought I was saying something obvious, but instead of agreeing with me, Evey looked at me like I’d just said something painfully stupid.
“I don’t hate anyone,” she said coldly. “Hate is passion. And Jordan Swansea doesn’t deserve that.” Then she grabbed her phone off the table and said, “We’ll talk soon.”
I didn’t even get the chance to ask, “Hey, if he was such a bad guy, why’d you date him for so long? Didn’t you figure out pretty early that he was trash?”
What I did manage to squeak out before she left was “Is this because of the curse?”
She flicked her hair over her shoulder as her Greekness blasted me in the face because it was the exact same expression my grandmother would have worn if she’d been calling me an idiot.
It was a look that conveyed anger, but in a way that celebrated the anger. Like it was a powerful weapon.
And for a second I thought she was going to tell me I was delusional, but her mouth twisted into a smile and she said, “Oxi.”
Which means “no” in Greek. Which told me she absolutely was invoking the mysterious power of the curse here.
“Are you in?” she asked.
I knew I didn’t have a choice. Not really, anyway.
“Yeah, I’m in,” I said.
“Good. Tell no one. What’s your number?” she asked, opening her contacts list. I told her and she entered it and sent me a text: Hi.
“Perfect. See you at rehearsal,” she said.
“Oh, right.”
I had completely blocked the March 25 Greek Independence Day pageant rehearsal from memory. It commemorates the Greek freedom from the Turks. In Greece it’s huge, and it’s a pretty big deal in the Unites States too.
It’s an opportunity for all Greeks to come together to celebrate their Greekness.
Small children practice the language by memorizing poems. Everyone eats. And everyone sings the national anthem. And of course there’s the dancing.
But in addition to being painfully boring, it’s also, now, a little bit depressing.
The March 25 pageant at our church reminds me, a young Greek man, that as a descendant of warriors, I can only assume that I would have been left on a mountaintop somewhere as an offering to whatever god collects the babies who cannot defend Sparta.
Hephaestus maybe? I don’t imagine it’s a super-desirable god job.
When I left Grindz, Dad had sent me a text message: There are vegetables in the fridge.
I’m not sure what he expected me to do with said vegetables, but I suppose the intent there was for me to eat something that was not prepackaged or covered in cheese.
There was definitely an effort being made, so I did feel a little guilty ignoring the vegetables completely and heating up a frozen pizza instead.
Namaste,
Leo
7
Today’s Pose: Cat and Cow
In this case, cat pose means you arch your back like a cat hissing. Cow pose means you drop your stomach and raise your ass high into the air again.
Most yoga poses seem to be about raising your ass to the heavens, then dropping it back to earth delicately in the name of exercise.
Dear Journal,
It was about an hour after we had coffee together that Evey started sending me text messages. This was strange because usually I only get texts from Dad and Tangled Yarn Barn because Dad feels obligated to inform me of his whereabouts and Tangled Yarn Barn has me by the balls with their 50-percent-off-all-merchandise sale that includes their pricier yarns.
Screw your judgment, Journal. Cashmere is expensive.
Anyway, Evey’s first few texts were the following:
Can you tell me what other stuff you can knit?
Do you have stuff already made that you could use if you needed to?
Are you afraid of dogs?
I sent a few pictures of some yarn projects to answer her first question and responded Yes to the second. Then I wanted to respond to the third random question with Yes, if they’re trying to bite my face off, I will most definitely crap myself, but instead I replied, Nope. Not afraid of dogs.
She responded with:
Great. Get it all ready. I’ll let you know when we’re doing the first photo.
My stomach clenched and I had a bad feeling about this, even as I walked into yoga and handed the gym attendant—not Evey today—my card.