Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me

by Meredith Zeitlin

Genres: Young Adult; YA Family

Synopsis

A laugh-out-loud high school adventure set in Greece, perfect for fans of Meg Cabot 
 
High school sophomore Zona Lowell has lived in New York City her whole life, and plans to follow in the footsteps of her renowned-journalist father. But when he announces they’re moving to Athens for six months so he can work on an important new story, she's devastated— he must have an ulterior motive. See, when Zona's mother married an American, her huge Greek family cut off contact. But Zona never knew her mom, and now she’s supposed to uproot her entire life and meet possibly hostile relatives on their turf? Thanks... but no thanks. 
 
In the vein of Anna and the French Kiss, Zona navigates a series of hilarious escapades, eye-opening revelations, and unexpected reunions in a foreign country—all while documenting the trip through one-of-a-kind commentary.

Release date: April 21, 2015

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 336

Sample

1

Just before the clock ticks over into a brand-new year, one that is going to be completely different from any I’ve experienced before, my dad and I get on a plane—my first overseas flight—heading to Greece. I look out the window, take a deep breath . . . and then we soar off into the sky.

Fourteen-Hour Trip Not Nearly As Awesome As Anticipated

During the course of the seemingly endless journey from New York to Athens today, Zona Lowell, 15, realized she was on the verge of jumping out the plane window.

“It was two different flights and both were delayed, my little TV was broken for one of them, and reading made me feel like I was going to throw up. The food was horrible, and my dad was snoring practically the entire time. Based on my TV commercial–focused research, I thought travel abroad would be fancy and exciting. As usual, field reporting reveals that real life is not as glamorous as anticipated.”

Zona’s father, well-known international journalist David Lowell, had this to say: “I love my daughter, but she seems to have trouble distinguishing between actual problems and slight inconveniences. Hopefully seeing a bit of the world will help. I will say, however, that the food was totally gross.”

Mr. Lowell then went back to sleep and was unavailable for further comment.

Filed, 9:23 p.m., somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.

By the time we land in Athens, I’m so keyed up and restless from endless cups of coffee and sitting in a deceptively uncomfortable chair for so many hours that I want to lie down in a nice soft bed and run laps around the airport at the same time.

My dad, on the other hand, is just plain cranky. He hates long flights, which makes his choice of career kind of ironic.

Well, he’ll get no sympathy from me—this was his idea, after all. I wanted to stay in New York where I belong.

We collect Tony, our exceptionally grumpy Scottish terrier, stumble through customs, get our passports stamped (my first stamp!), and retrieve our luggage. Frankly, I didn’t think it would all make it, but I suppose miracles happen every day.

Dad is riffling through a sheaf of papers, looking for the one that will tell us how to get to our sublet. It’s in a neighborhood called Kallithea that is supposedly not hard to get to, but suddenly I’m not even sure I can make it to a bench before collapsing. Does jet lag set in immediately?

As we head out of the airport arrivals area, the first thing I notice is the signs: they’re in English and Greek, those strange curly letters that look like hieroglyphics to me. I thumbed through an English-to-Greek dictionary back in New York, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, so seeing the English signs is a huge relief. Maybe I won’t be hopelessly lost after all . . . or at the very least, I can just hang out in the airport if I get desperate.

There’s a big glassed-in smoking area in the middle of the airport, which is weird to see—in New York City, smoking is banned everywhere. My dad, who smoked like a chimney before I was born (and sometimes has been known to sneak a cigarette when he thinks I’m not looking), gazes at it longingly. “Dad!” I scold him. “This is no time to revert to atrocious habits. Pull it together.”

We changed a bunch of money at JFK before we took off, so we plunk down eight euros apiece for train tickets. Eight euros is roughly eleven dollars, I believe, which I find to be completely insane: that much money for a subway ride? According to the not-very-friendly woman at the ticket window, a regular ride (not from the airport) is only €1.20, but still. I sort of thought things would be dirt cheap in Greece, what with the economic difficulties. Apparently not.

We roll our suitcases (and poor, miserable Tony) down a long tunnel until we get to the platform. The subway is really simple here, unlike the rat’s nest of colors and numbers I’m used to at home. In Athens there are three lines: blue, red, and green. It would be incredibly straightforward if not for the fact that I can’t pronounce—and therefore remember—any of the names of the stations. But it’s only my first hour here, so I’ll try to give myself a break.

We sit down to wait for the train, which arrives at the airport every half hour according to the electronic sign. I reach into Tony’s carrier to pet him; he’s still groggy and looks even grouchier than usual. Poor guy. At least in Greece pets don’t have to be quarantined after entering the country—then we might not have been able to bring him at all.

The train platform’s waiting area is bright white and has plants all around. With the sun shining in from overhead, it actually looks like an atrium in here, minus the birds. Definitely not like any subway platform I’ve ever waited on, that’s for sure. Maybe I’m hallucinating?

The train finally arrives. We lug our stuff through the doors, and right on cue, Tony starts howling. A nice lady offers me her seat so I can put him down, which is a surprise. My sleep-deprived brain wonders when more traditional passengers will put in an appearance, like the NYC subway staples “lady eating sunflower seeds and spitting the shells on the ground” or “guy with no pants screaming about the apocalypse.” Shockingly, their Greek counterparts don’t appear; only tidy, quiet passengers fill the train. The seats are covered with fabric and totally spotless, and there isn’t a single piece of litter on the floor. Even the poles look especially shiny. But, like I said, it’s possible I’m just delirious from exhaustion.

After twenty minutes or so, we switch trains at a stop called Monastiraki (once again, I’m relieved to see the station names spelled out in English letters) for the green line. Four more stops and we’ve reached our final destination. We walk out onto a sun-dappled platform filled with potted trees and drag our belongings up the escalator and out of the station.

So this is it: my first official view of Athens, and my new home.

If you want to know the truth . . . it kind of looks like Brooklyn.

There’s a cobbled platform with steps (and a ramp, thank the lord) leading from the station down to the sidewalk, and straight ahead is a store that looks like a typical deli. Past that and on the other side of the street are more shops and a restaurant, and what I’m guessing is a church, because it has a big lit-up green cross on a sign. It’s a neighborhood. Just like my neighborhood in New York, really.

I guess I was expecting some massive ruins or something. Or for everything to be white from a fine layer of ancient dust. People feeding one another grapes. Something more, well, Greek.

To our left is a ramp leading to a highway overpass. The cars look different—boxier—and they have strange-looking license plates. And everywhere I look, people are walking, riding scooters, talking, or picking up newspapers. Not a single person appears to be wearing a toga. If it weren’t for the fact that everyone’s speaking a language I don’t understand, we could be pretty much anywhere.

So far.

My dad has his stack of papers out again, and Tony is barking his head off at two dogs who are hanging out by the door to the station. They have collars and tags, but no leashes or obvious owners. Tony is losing his mind, scrabbling against the sides of his carrier.

“Anthony Oliver Lowell!” I reprimand him. He knows better than that.

He looks chastened and switches from barking to a low growl. I’m tempted to let him out of his carrier to stretch his legs—I’m sure he’s been miserable cooped up for almost an entire day—but the other dogs make me nervous. Instead I apologize to him profusely.

“Can we get a cab? Do we even know where we’re going?” I whine. This has been fun and all, but I think I’m ready to wrap it up. Dad is sitting on top of his big suitcase, looking like he’s about to fall over. One of the strange dogs comes over and sniffs his leg.

“Dad? Dad!”

He starts, snorts, and looks back at the papers. He is holding them upside down. I sense I’m going to have to take charge.

I snap a piece of paper out of his hand and look it over. “Okay, Dad, this isn’t far at all.” I look up from the directions and point. “That way, I think. Let’s roll.”

I’m looking for street signs, which, after getting to the verge of bursting into exhausted tears, I eventually realize are cleverly hidden by being attached to (and camouflaged by) the buildings. No steel rods helpfully sticking out of the sidewalk here. We turn down the wrong street, which has almost the exact same name as the right street, and after correcting our mistake finally get to a building that looks like, well, a building. Where are the columns? Where are the decorative urns? Where are the goats?!

Wait—you know what? Hang on. It occurs to me that I may need to back up. After all, a good reporter should start a story at the beginning so that her readers have all the facts.

Let me try this again:

My name is Zona Lowell. I’m fifteen, from New York City, and a month ago my father decided to turn my entire world upside down in one fell swoop.

I’ve been kind of freaking out about it.

2

Dad Blindsides Innocent Daughter At Breakfast Table

In an unprecedented display of cruelty and sneakiness, internationally renowned newspaper journalist David Lowell announced today over a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats that he would be completely ruining his daughter’s entire life by forcing her to go live in Greece for six months, effective January 1. The aforementioned daughter, Zona, 15, could not believe it when her father (known for being somewhat eccentric but marginally cool nonetheless) told her she was being uprooted from her life and forced to live halfway across the world where she didn’t know a soul except for Lowell himself (a man to whom she would never be speaking again, thank you very much).

Zona’s plans to emancipate herself were thwarted by the realization that she had recently spent all her hard-earned babysitting/birthday money on an iPad mini and wouldn’t be able to pay rent or buy food. Her insistence on moving in with her best friend Hilary’s family was scoffed at by Evil Dictator Lowell.

Lowell’s paltry excuses that this story “could be his legacy” and that “any normal teenager would jump at the chance for such an exciting adventure” fell on deaf ears.

Filed, 10:37 a.m., Lower East Side, NYC.

“You’re kidding,” Hilary said, looking at me in disbelief over the round, sticky table in the Starbucks on 26th and Sixth. The Bauers live on the Upper West Side, which is kind of a pain to get to from my neighborhood (the Lower East Side), so in these kinds of dire circumstances—when a phone call will simply not suffice—a convenient meeting place is essential.

Anyway, I’d just told Hilary the horrible, unbelievable, unavoidable news. We were supposed to be making winter break plans, but instead were talking about my impending and total disappearance. Hil shifted in her seat. “Zo, you can’t move. It’s the middle of the school year. And, I mean, what about—”

“What about the fact that I’m going to be stuck for half a year—at least, by the way, he said ‘at least’—in a country where I have no friends, don’t like any of the food, and can’t even read the street signs? What about that? Has the man even considered the ramifications of his unilateral decision? This is an affront to—”

“Okay, Captain Vocab. Calm down,” Hilary chided sweetly. I tend to go into what she lovingly calls my SAT Prep Mode when I get upset; I just can’t help it. I’ve been reading the Sunday Times out loud with my dad (aka the enemy) since I was five. Everything distressing is better expressed in multisyllabic words, or at least my brain thinks so.

But I digress.

I took a hearty swig of my peppermint mocha latte and got whipped cream up my nose. Perfect, I thought as I attempted to regain my composure. “They probably don’t even have Starbucks there.” I was about to burst into tears . . . over Starbucks. In a Starbucks. How tragicomic was this going to get?

“Well, everywhere has Starbucks,” Hilary said helpfully. She looked down at her hot cider like, if she focused on it hard enough, she wouldn’t cry, either. Great. Hilary’s the more sensitive of the two of us (I try to be objective at all times, like a good journalist), so if she broke, I would, too. And I wasn’t even leaving for three more weeks.

“I just don’t understand why he’s doing this,” I fumed, trying to get away from sad and back to furious. “I mean, I get it: Greece, economy, political upheaval, crisis, whatever, huge story . . . but why do I have to go? Doesn’t he realize I have stuff to do? Like, doesn’t he get that being the only sophomore ever chosen to be features editor is kind of a huge deal? I’m trying to carry on the Lowell legacy, and this is his response? I’ve only gotten to work on two issues! And maybe, I dunno, I’ll actually manage to have some kind of social life this year.”

“Hey! No offense to me, I’m sure,” Hilary interjected.

“Come on, you know what I mean.” I poked her arm apologetically. She gave me a wry smile in return.

“Yeah, yeah, of course I know what you mean: guys.” She sighed. “Me too.”

“I have plans, Hil, is the point,” I continued. “Intentions. A life. A small life, but a life all the same. Doesn’t that count for anything?” I dropped my face into my hands in despair.

Okay . . . so maybe I should make something clear before I go on: I’m not actually this horrible. I mean, I knew that my dad writing his new magazine piece—which he thought could be the basis for an entire book—was a much bigger deal than my working on the school newspaper (and maybe, as a bonus, finally figuring out a way to make gorgeous editor-in-chief Ben Walker realize I was alive). But one measly hour after finding out I had to pick up and leave everything that mattered to me behind didn’t seem like the time to act like a mature adult.

Usually I do act like a mature adult, though. Some people would probably say I’ve never really acted any other way, even when I was a little kid. I guess it’s because of my dad and how it’s always been just the two of us. For one thing, Dad is old—not, like, Methuselah old, but he’s older than most of my friends’ dads by a lot. Before I was born, he was a freelance journalist and traveled all over the world for stories, including during the Vietnam War. He’s won two Pulitzer Prizes—one’s hanging in the bathroom of our apartment. The other Pulitzer was supposedly lost in a poker game with a famous dictator, but I think it was just lost, period. My dad’s a bit on the disorganized side, except when it comes to his writing. Then the mess is referred to as “organized chaos.” Our whole apartment is basically stacks of papers and discs and flash drives and other objects that are not to be touched by anyone except the person who put them there (and occasionally Tony, who doesn’t care much about personal space).

It’s precarious, but it’s home.

Anyway, Dad was forty-six when I was born—which was after he met my mom, obviously—and he agreed to stay put in NYC for a while. I personally don’t think he ever really intended to stay, and probably he wouldn’t have . . . if my mom hadn’t died right after giving birth to me.

So it’s been just me and my dad for the last fifteen years. And for the most part it’s been pretty cool, actually. Growing up with a dad who writes for newspapers and magazines is great. He’d take me on all kinds of trips when I was a baby and use my extreme cuteness to disarm tricky sources and interview subjects. I used to hang out at his office and play on the old typewriters. And of course I had a million crazy “aunts” and “uncles” all over the city—local informer types and other writer friends of my dad’s.

Oh, and his nickname for me is Ace—as in “ace reporter.” Sensing a theme yet?

World Totally Unsurprised To Learn Of Girl’s Predisposition To Writing, Journalism

In a truly unshocking turn of events, Zona Lowell, daughter of acclaimed writer David Lowell, wishes to pursue a career in journalism like her dad.

“You know that saying, ‘Like father, like daughter’? Turns out it’s a real thing,” said the owner of the deli near the Lowells’ apartment.

As the masses recover from this extraordinary revelation, we will continue our exclusive coverage of how the sky is blue and gravity is real.

Filed, 4:13 p.m., NYC.

Now that I’m older, we’re more like roommates in some ways than father and daughter: we take turns doing the grocery shopping and staking out a machine at the Laundromat down the street, share cooking and cleaning responsibilities, and fight over what makes it onto the DVR. We maintain our piles of important personal property with only a once-in-a-while argument over who stole whose copy of Newsweek. We treat each other like equals, really. My friends are totally jealous of me for having a dad who gets so involved with a project that he doesn’t mind if I do whatever I feel like doing as long as I check in. (Not that I’m running around town doing anything particularly nefarious, but still.) He trusts me. And I used to trust him.

But now?

Forget it.

Because I knew that this wasn’t just about researching his work. He could stash me somewhere for six months instead of interrupting my sophomore year of high school. I was supposed to be gathering up grades for AP classes and preparing for the SATs. How was I supposed to do that in Greece?!

No, this was a straight-up trick. Because I knew who else was in Greece: my mother’s family, whom I’d never met and, to be honest, never wanted to meet.

3

I never knew my mom, obviously. She lived her whole life in Crete (which, according to various accredited sources, is the largest and most populous island in Greece. Also, Zeus was born in a cave there. So, my mom . . . and also Zeus) until the day she ran off with my dad. She died just twenty hours after I was born, and I just don’t feel any connection to her. I mean, I love her, in that sort of vague way you’d love anyone who was related to you and gave you half your DNA. But that’s kind of it.

Don’t go thinking this is all sad or anything like that. It isn’t. You can’t miss what you’ve never had, and in my family there’s a dad and a daughter and a dog.

And I like it that way.

Here’s the thing, though: in the last couple of years, my dad had started tossing around random comments involving me meeting this slew of relatives. I would just laugh and change the subject, saying I was sure they’re fine people, but I didn’t know them. I have nothing in common with them. I don’t speak Greek. I pointed out that they’ve never come over to meet us, or even sent a card. I was fine with things the way they were.

And honestly, I was.

There’s another part to this story, as I guess there usually is when it comes to family stuff . . . but I don’t like to think about it. Not if I don’t have to.

Anyway, I put my journalism skills to good use and came up with a theory about why Dad had been pushing the Greece angle: he’s afraid of something happening to him and me being left alone.

I know, super morbid—but I’m not an idiot. I mean, why else would he be doing this? And of course I’ve thought about the possibility of him . . . dying. I can’t even imagine life without my dad, much less being an orphan. It’s just . . . too much. And maybe that’s an immature attitude, too, but I’m only fifteen, for God’s sake. This is the time to have an immature attitude, isn’t it? And besides, I don’t think fear of something that hasn’t happened is a reason to just pick up and move to another freaking country to hang out with people I happen to be related to.

So when he said we were moving to Greece—moving! Not even just taking a vacation!—I saw through the whole scheme right away.

Hilary knew all this stuff, of course. (Well, almost all of it—the part I don’t like to think about is the only secret I’ve ever kept from her. More on that later.) But I just knew that, somehow, I’d think of a way out of this mess. And then it’d all just . . . go away. And I wouldn’t have to talk about it at all. Right? Don’t things sometimes happen that way?

So. Back to Starbucks and me not taking the news very well at all.

“Maybe he’s just testing your level of loyalty to the Reflector. See how hard you’ll fight to stay here, you know? Like, a co-journalistic ethics and devotion test or something . . .?” Hil trailed off. I raised my eyebrows skeptically, and she wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, I guess that sounded better in my head. Ugh, this is so unfair! What am I going to do without you?!”

Hilary Bauer and I started hanging out at the beginning of fourth grade, when we got partnered up for a book report project involving hand puppets. (Seriously, where do teachers come up with this stuff?) Hil was new in school, and we bonded immediately over her notebook, which had pictures from the Narnia movie on it. Before we met I’d been really shy and mostly kept to myself; I was used to things being quiet at home, with just one parent and no siblings. Plus, I go to a pretty swanky private school with mostly well-off Manhattan- and Brooklynites. My dad and I are considered . . . eccentric, to put it nicely. Poor, to put it bluntly. The parents of my kindergarten classmates weren’t rushing to set me up with playdates once they found out we lived in a less-than-pristine two-bedroom rental apartment in a (gasp!) non-elevator building—at least, not until they figured out my dad is that David Lowell, the one who wrote the famous piece on 9/11. And by then I’d kind of learned to do my own thing, anyway. I never minded sitting by myself with a book, but meeting Hilary was just . . . serendipity.

(In case you’re wondering how I could afford to go to a Manhattan private school, the answer is: after my mom died from blood toxemia, the hospital settled out of court with my dad. He was pretty messed up, obviously, and didn’t want to touch the money. He had a lawyer put it in a trust for my schooling, and that’s the only thing it’s ever been used for. Again, pretty morbid . . . but like I said, it’s the only life I’ve ever known. No pity parties, please, okay?)

Anyway, my friendship with Hilary has not only been awesome and silly and necessary, but it survived the middle-school-to-high-school transition, mutual crushes on at least four guys, her parents almost getting divorced last year, a terrible text message misunderstanding in eighth grade involving one of the above-mentioned mutual crushes (too long and boring to explain), and one of us growing boobs and the other not (I’m the “not,” unfortunately). And now we’re going to be parted by a giant body of water?!

Hilary was drawing a sad face on the table with Splenda. “And what about Matty?” she continued. “He needs you as much as I do!”

Matt Klausner is the third member of our trio, who joined the ranks in seventh grade during a mind-blowingly boring school dance. He’s super smart, gay, spectacularly irritable about almost everything, and I love him to pieces. What would I do in Greece without him to make me laugh when I got sad about not having kissed anyone since someone’s visiting camp friend shoved his tongue down my throat at a party last spring? Who would let me copy their chemistry homework?!

My latte was gone and I felt worse than ever. Hilary blew away her Splenda portrait. She looked as glum as I felt.

“I don’t know, Hil. I mean, at least you guys will still have each other. What will I do without you?”

“Maybe your dad will change his mind and decide to write about something else,” she suggested quietly.

I didn’t bother replying. We both knew that’d never happen. When David Lowell decided to write something, he wrote it.

4

When I got home, Dad was in his study working with the door closed—probably looking up ways to further sabotage my high school career/life. I headed to my room and found a Post-it note stuck to my computer monitor. It said: Ornery Daughter Comes to Senses, Celebrates Impending Adventure.

Interesting.

This is a thing my dad and I have done since I could write: leaving headlines around the apartment instead of regular notes. Usually I think it’s pretty clever, but not this time.

I got out my own pad of paper and scribbled down: Despondent Daughter Ignores Father’s Annoying Note; Father Withers Away Unvisited in Bargain-Basement Nursing Home. Not the world’s most concise headline, but it’d do. I dashed down the hall and stuck it on the door to his study.

The next morning, there was a new Post-it plastered to my forehead when I woke up. It said: Come on, Ace. Look on the bright side. For me? . . . For you?

I crumpled it up, tossed it in the trash, and headed to school.

“You guys. Guess what?” Matty said, sliding in next to me at the lunch table later that day.

I eyed him warily. Despite the fact that I’d spent an hour on the phone with him the night before lamenting the unwelcome turn of events at Chez Lowell, he seemed to think that other topics were up for discussion. And when Matt Klausner leads with an open-ended question, you never know what path you might be lured down.

“If this has anything to do with that piercing place in the Village, the answer is still no,” Hilary said.

Matt grinned. “My cousin Paulette got her tongue pierced there, and when my uncle saw it, he helpfully removed it for her . . . with pliers. Then she watched the hole close in the mirror. She said it took two hours.”

“This is what you wanted to tell us?” Hilary asked, horrified.

“No, it is not, so if you’d just—”

I glanced up from my grilled cheese, which I’d been bitterly picking at instead of eating. “Your cousin stared at her tongue in the mirror for two hours? What’s wrong with her?”

“Well, she’s not that interesting.” Matt shrugged, stealing some tater tots from my plate. When I scowled at him, he opened his mouth to reveal the disgusting mess inside.

“You’re seriously the worst,” Hil said.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Were you two sitting here moaning about the fact that Zona gets to leave this cesspool and live in one of the most gorgeous places on the planet? Are we having a cry-athon in the caf?”

“Hey!” I snapped. “If you want to switch itineraries with me, feel free to—”

“Because if you’re done with sad-sack time, I have something of great import to share with you. But maybe . . . maybe you don’t even care.” Matt glared at us, folding his hands on the tabletop.

“Sorry, sorry,” Hilary said. “What’s up?”

“Well, now I’m not sure you deserve to know . . .” He sniffed petulantly.

I knew when a battle had been lost. “Pleaaaaaase, Matty, most handsome of men. Please, pretty please, tell us the exciting news. It’s all we want in the world.” Hilary and I batted our eyelashes at him dramatically.

We’re dorks, but it’s so fun.

“Okay, you’ve forced it out of me!” Matt exclaimed at last. “