Oh. My. Gods.
Page 25
“Do you think—” she starts to say, but then stops.
I fling my backpack over my shoulder and head for my room. I can sense Mom trailing behind me, but I’m happy to ignore her. Unzipping my bag, I start setting the massive textbooks out on my bed. I think I have more homework tonight than I had in my entire three years at PacificPark.
“Damian told me the cross-country tryouts were today,” Mom says from the doorway. “How’d they go?”
I shrug. “I made the team.”
“That’s wonderful. I never doubted you would.” She falls silent.
“Look, Mom.” I carry my Algebra II textbook to my desk and drop it on the smooth wood surface. “I have a ton of homework to do, so . . .”
“Oh.” She looks around and sees all my books on the bed. “Of course, I’ll just leave you alone to get to work. I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”
“Fine,” I say. And then, because I feel a little guilty for being so mean, I add, “Thanks.”
One hour and thirty quadratic equations later, my eyes are blurry from staring at so many numbers. I think I can solve for x in my sleep now. The house is oddly silent—the Stella monster must be out somewhere and I haven’t heard Damian come home. I haven’t even heard Mom moving around.
Emerging from my room for a glass of water, I see Mom still hunched over the magazines on the dining table.
“Hi, Phoebola.” She smiles as I approach.
“Hi.” I smile back.
Somehow, this feels more like the old us. Maybe because no one else is home, but I feel like we’re back in L.A. and giggling over fashion magazines again.
Spurred by sentimentality, I slide into the chair next to her. “Whatcha looking at?”
She groans. “Bridesmaid dresses. There are so many styles and colors to choose from I don’t even know where to start.”
“Well,” I say, studying the pictures laid out in front of her of skinny models in brightly colored shiny gowns, “maybe you should pick your wedding colors first. Then you can just pick a style you like.”
“What an inspired idea.” She pulls out some papers with scraps of color stapled to them. “Here are some of my color choices. What do you think?”
She looks at me all serious. I know that in the great big scheme of things choosing wedding colors is not an awe-inspiring responsibility, but the fact that Mom is seriously asking my opinion makes me feel really important.
I think she has almost every color in the world on these sheets, but they are grouped into a few coordinating palettes. One has a horrid pea green that wouldn’t look good on anyone—not even Adara. I shove that one aside. Some have different shades of orange and yellow that seem more Halloween-y than wedding-y. I put those aside with the pea green. That leaves two choices: one with three shades of pink that my mom would never be caught within spitting distance of and one with three shades of blue and a teal green.
“This one,” I say, pointing to the blue and green palette. “Everyone looks good in light blue. And it goes with the whole Mediterranean setting.”
Mom studies the colors, like she’s picturing the whole wedding and adding touches of blue and teal everywhere.
“I like it,” Mom says, smiling and warming up to the choice. “And blue and white are the colors of Greece. It seems only fitting since I will soon become a Greek citizen.”
“What!” My jaw drops and I stare at her. “You’re becoming a Greek?”
“Of course,” she says with that happy-mushy smile on her face. “Damian cannot leave the Academy. His job and his life are here. And here he is protected. In America, he would always be vulnerable to discovery.”
“But you can’t just un-become American,” I insist.
Okay, so my problem isn’t really that she wants to renounce her American citizenship. If she becomes a citizen of Greece then that makes this whole thing so much more real. Like she can’t ever turn back. Like I can’t turn back.
“What about me?” I ask.
“Damian and I love each other. We are going to make a life together and that can only happen here.” She takes the discarded color schemes and drops them in the wastebasket in the kitchen. “That doesn’t mean that you’re not a major part of that life, even when you choose to return to the States. You are my daughter. My love. My everything. That will never change. But don’t you think I deserve a little happiness after all these years?”
We were happy. In California.
Mom had her practice and Aunt Megan and Yia Yia Minta.
I had Nola and Cesca and a track team full of friends.
Everything was great. So why did we have to move all the way around the world just for a guy?
“Besides,” she says, her voice all wistful. “I like Greece. It makes me feel closer to your father to be in his homeland.”
“Homeland?” I ask, shocked. “Dad was from Detroit. Motown is his homeland.”
“His family is Greek. In his heart he was always Greek.”
“That’s creepy.” I stand up and start pacing. “You marry this new guy and move to Greece to be closer to your dead husband?”
She gasps as I say it. I know that was pretty harsh, but it’s the truth.
“Phoebe,” she begins, and I know she’s serious because she uses my real name, “what your father and I had was very special. Nothing—not his death, not my remarriage—will ever change that. Damian understands.”
I fling my backpack over my shoulder and head for my room. I can sense Mom trailing behind me, but I’m happy to ignore her. Unzipping my bag, I start setting the massive textbooks out on my bed. I think I have more homework tonight than I had in my entire three years at PacificPark.
“Damian told me the cross-country tryouts were today,” Mom says from the doorway. “How’d they go?”
I shrug. “I made the team.”
“That’s wonderful. I never doubted you would.” She falls silent.
“Look, Mom.” I carry my Algebra II textbook to my desk and drop it on the smooth wood surface. “I have a ton of homework to do, so . . .”
“Oh.” She looks around and sees all my books on the bed. “Of course, I’ll just leave you alone to get to work. I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”
“Fine,” I say. And then, because I feel a little guilty for being so mean, I add, “Thanks.”
One hour and thirty quadratic equations later, my eyes are blurry from staring at so many numbers. I think I can solve for x in my sleep now. The house is oddly silent—the Stella monster must be out somewhere and I haven’t heard Damian come home. I haven’t even heard Mom moving around.
Emerging from my room for a glass of water, I see Mom still hunched over the magazines on the dining table.
“Hi, Phoebola.” She smiles as I approach.
“Hi.” I smile back.
Somehow, this feels more like the old us. Maybe because no one else is home, but I feel like we’re back in L.A. and giggling over fashion magazines again.
Spurred by sentimentality, I slide into the chair next to her. “Whatcha looking at?”
She groans. “Bridesmaid dresses. There are so many styles and colors to choose from I don’t even know where to start.”
“Well,” I say, studying the pictures laid out in front of her of skinny models in brightly colored shiny gowns, “maybe you should pick your wedding colors first. Then you can just pick a style you like.”
“What an inspired idea.” She pulls out some papers with scraps of color stapled to them. “Here are some of my color choices. What do you think?”
She looks at me all serious. I know that in the great big scheme of things choosing wedding colors is not an awe-inspiring responsibility, but the fact that Mom is seriously asking my opinion makes me feel really important.
I think she has almost every color in the world on these sheets, but they are grouped into a few coordinating palettes. One has a horrid pea green that wouldn’t look good on anyone—not even Adara. I shove that one aside. Some have different shades of orange and yellow that seem more Halloween-y than wedding-y. I put those aside with the pea green. That leaves two choices: one with three shades of pink that my mom would never be caught within spitting distance of and one with three shades of blue and a teal green.
“This one,” I say, pointing to the blue and green palette. “Everyone looks good in light blue. And it goes with the whole Mediterranean setting.”
Mom studies the colors, like she’s picturing the whole wedding and adding touches of blue and teal everywhere.
“I like it,” Mom says, smiling and warming up to the choice. “And blue and white are the colors of Greece. It seems only fitting since I will soon become a Greek citizen.”
“What!” My jaw drops and I stare at her. “You’re becoming a Greek?”
“Of course,” she says with that happy-mushy smile on her face. “Damian cannot leave the Academy. His job and his life are here. And here he is protected. In America, he would always be vulnerable to discovery.”
“But you can’t just un-become American,” I insist.
Okay, so my problem isn’t really that she wants to renounce her American citizenship. If she becomes a citizen of Greece then that makes this whole thing so much more real. Like she can’t ever turn back. Like I can’t turn back.
“What about me?” I ask.
“Damian and I love each other. We are going to make a life together and that can only happen here.” She takes the discarded color schemes and drops them in the wastebasket in the kitchen. “That doesn’t mean that you’re not a major part of that life, even when you choose to return to the States. You are my daughter. My love. My everything. That will never change. But don’t you think I deserve a little happiness after all these years?”
We were happy. In California.
Mom had her practice and Aunt Megan and Yia Yia Minta.
I had Nola and Cesca and a track team full of friends.
Everything was great. So why did we have to move all the way around the world just for a guy?
“Besides,” she says, her voice all wistful. “I like Greece. It makes me feel closer to your father to be in his homeland.”
“Homeland?” I ask, shocked. “Dad was from Detroit. Motown is his homeland.”
“His family is Greek. In his heart he was always Greek.”
“That’s creepy.” I stand up and start pacing. “You marry this new guy and move to Greece to be closer to your dead husband?”
She gasps as I say it. I know that was pretty harsh, but it’s the truth.
“Phoebe,” she begins, and I know she’s serious because she uses my real name, “what your father and I had was very special. Nothing—not his death, not my remarriage—will ever change that. Damian understands.”
