The journaling part of this really bites. We’re supposed to write in the journal before class and after class and every opportunity we get. It’s supposed to be a way for us to talk about how we’re growing, but I think I’m mostly going to talk about how this shit is weird. Because Annabelle says it’s for my eyes only. But she also says we should start each entry writing about new poses first—to chart our “progress.” And I guess I can do that.
After yesterday’s class, my dad opened the window on our drive home and sat as far away from me as humanly possible in the driver seat, muttering in Greek about the sweat and the smell. But every so often he glanced over at me and nodded. Proudly.
I have no memory of my dad ever looking at me proudly. And it’s a little sad that it was in response to my pungent man smell.
But maybe if he knew I was working out on a pink yoga mat in a room mostly full of women or that someone had given me a purple headband because the sweat from my hair was dripping into my eyes…Yeah. That would be the end of that special proud moment.
The room looks like it was a dance studio. There’s a ballet bar at the front so there’s no way it wasn’t. Then someone filled it with gongs, rows of LED candles, and Buddha statues chilling in the semidarkness.
It’s supposed to be a calming place, and it is, but for some reason that is irritating to me, because I feel like I’m being forced to relax. Then I consider the alternative to being in this room, and I let it go.
Everyone seems to know each other here. They’ve probably all been doing yoga together for a while, and they have the slightly obnoxious look that healthy people get when they breathe in. Like their air is healthier too.
I take a deep breath in, but all I smell is armpit.
I laid out my mat at the back of the room, as close to the wall as possible.
I would have put it in the far-left corner near the air vent, but we’re a small group, and I would have been a really conspicuous outlier all by myself. Also, I tried that already and Annabelle asked me to “join the circle.”
She was nice about it, but it still felt like she was asking me to swear a blood oath and join a cult. A cult of healthy people in yoga pants with fruit floating in their water.
“Welcome and thank you all for being here today to share your glorious energy. Remember that we are doing this at our own pace and that it’s important to encourage each other so we can become effective teachers.”
Her eyes sort of flicker in my direction, and it’s clear by the language Annabelle uses that everyone is meant to ignore the fact that I am terrible and therefore not a great teacher candidate, which is difficult given the amount of falling I do. Even with the easy stuff.
Stand here.
Raise your arms like this.
Lean into the pose.
Deep breaths.
Maybe this is my punishment for lying to Dad.
He dropped me off today, and I know I won’t see him until tonight.
It’s Wednesday, and I have no idea where he goes. He leaves money on the fridge or takeout on the counter and comes back around nine.
Dad is a translator who works primarily with the Greek consulate in Los Angeles. They refer people to him who need help processing their paperwork. Once in a while he’s called in for a court appearance. So maybe Wednesday night is a work thing.
It’s probably weird that I don’t know where he disappears to. Or that we never had a conversation about it, but my dad and I don’t do talking. We never really had anything to do with each other beyond the occasional checking in about school.
The two-second conversations that give him the information he needs about my life and the ability to exit without getting too involved.
It was something that always bothered Yia Yia. She was the one who organized Christmas gifts, birthday gifts, all our trips to Greece. Without her we would have done even less together, and now that she’s gone, we realize how much of our lives existed because of her. The chain-smoking center of our solar system. Fuck cigarettes. Otherwise she’d be here and none of this would be happening.
Also, today was my first meeting with Drake. It should be noted that he looks bigger in small spaces.
And the guidance counselor, Mr. Thomas, told us that we need to work through our issues together as brothers.
Brothers.
He actually said that and I wanted to puke. To be fair, Drake looked like he wanted to puke too. I turned away from him because I don’t want to accidentally bond over how stupid we both thought that was.
After twelve minutes of complete silence, Mr. Thomas proclaimed that sometimes you just need to occupy the same space with a person to understand them. Which made me think about the summer I spent with my cousin Demetri, who caught farts in his hands and threw them in my face. We shared a lot of space that summer, and I am no closer to understanding him.
That’s when Mr. Thomas turned on some weird choir music, and Drake and I spent the rest of the time staring at nothing, trying to avoid eye contact completely. Mr. Thomas wears a lot of bright colors, probably because he’s the cheer coach and he needs to demonstrate that from space with a neon-yellow polo. He’s also one of the younger staff members at school and is a Michael B. Jordan doppelgänger.
This obviously hasn’t escaped his notice, because he has an Erik Killmonger bobblehead under his computer monitor.
During the meeting, he would look over at us expectantly, and I would look away, hoping to avoid eye contact with both him AND Drake. Which I did by thinking about Evey.
She probably doesn’t remember that time in Greek school when we were the only two students who showed up on a day that class was canceled and had to wait an hour for our parents to drive back and get us. But I do. And as Drake fidgeted in his chair, making annoying squeaking sounds, I thought back to that day to distract myself. I remembered that I’d somehow gotten chocolate from my peanut M&M’s on my pants and that I felt the need to cover it up with my backpack when Evey sat down next to me in a white tank top and jean shorts.
My eleven-year-old self had zero chill.
Evey had pulled out one of those paper things that girls fold and you ask it questions. I have no idea what they’re called. I don’t think anyone knows, but every girl somehow knows how to make them. And we sat there for an hour letting it predict our future.
When our parents finally showed up and I got back in the car, I was about to tell my Yia Yia that according to the fortune-teller paper thing, I was going to get married and have four kids.
That’s when Yia Yia shook her head at me gravely and said, “Leave the Paros family alone.”
She wouldn’t say why, and it seemed like a stupid rule, so I ignored her.