Chapter 6 Flora
Flora
Sixteen was a weird age to be, thought Flora.
On the one hand, she was old enough to drive—if she had learned to drive, which she had not—but on the other hand, she still needed a mom.
She needed her mom, but now it had been three days since her mom had left Athens for her artist retreat on Santorini, and Flora was honestly starting to freak out.
Her mom’s note had said she would be home by Sunday and OK, it was only Friday, but Flora had never gone this long without speaking to her mom. Ever.
She’d explained the situation to the White Hat Hacking Club. Her friends agreed that disabling Find My was bad.
“Nobody disables Find My,” said Nico. “Especially not parents who don’t know what it is.”
“And don’t forget all the stuff we found out about her boyfriend,” added Maya.
“Alleged boyfriend,” said Flora.
“Right,” said Maya.
“Something is definitely up,” said Nico.
Flora nodded. She knew it. But what was Flora supposed to do?
After White Hat Hacking Club, she took the metro back to Plaka, trying to convince herself her mom was fine.
Maybe Regan had put her phone in airplane mode for her retreat?
Maybe she’d lost it? And would walk in any minute saying, “Can you get over the light in this city?”
Flora’s mom was obsessed with the light in Athens. She had basically packed them up and brought them across the world so she could drink tea and gaze out the window of their weensy apartment at sunset and say, “It’s like the whole city is the color of a tangerine!”
Although, to be honest, her mom hadn’t mentioned the light in a while.
Flora could call her dad, Matt, but he was useless; and also, Flora was glad he couldn’t hurt them anymore.
There was her famous Auntie Lee…but Flora had learned early that Aunt Lee was fragile and shouldn’t be burdened. The adults in Savannah had always whispered about Lee’s latest crisis—another breakup, another hospitalization, another time Lee was “going through something.”
“Don’t bother Auntie Lee,” Mom would say. “She needs her space.”
Flora saw her sister on their balcony, a wide slab where Regan had positioned three chairs she’d refinished in bright colors.
The balcony overlooked the street below, and was maybe Flora’s favorite place in Athens, although, hold on, it was a tie between the balcony and the Starbucks in Syntagma Square.
Isabelle was at the edge, ashing her cigarette over the wrought-iron railing. When their mom wasn’t home, Isabelle smoked Davidoff Slims, imported from Switzerland. The cigarettes’ gold package had a label with big black letters: Smoking Kills.
Flora slid open the door. “You’re not supposed to smoke,” she said, knowing she sounded like a stupid narc but not honestly even caring. “It’s really bad for you, Isabelle.”
“Oh, zip it,” said Isabelle. “Stupid narc.”
“I’m not a stupid narc!”
“Sorry,” said Isabelle. “I’m sorry. And honestly, Flor? Don’t start smoking. When I’m not smoking, it’s, like…all I can think about is when I can smoke. I hate it. I’m already addicted to something and I’m only eighteen.”
“That’s bad,” said Flora.
“I know,” said Isabelle, and then she drew in on her Davidoff dramatically and exhaled smoke even more dramatically.
“Have you heard anything from Mom?”
“She’s fine,” said Isabelle dismissively.
“But why would she disable Find My?”
“Fuck if I know,” said Isabelle. Flora winced at the swear. Who was Isabelle trying to impress?
“Find My doesn’t just disable itself,” insisted Flora.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Isabelle. “Maybe it does, and you’re not as smart as you think.”
Flora looked at her boots, kicked one with the other one. “I’m hungry,” she said. “Do you think we can order some pizza?”
“You’ve got Mom’s Apple Pay. Go ahead.”
Flora had been hoping that Isabelle would order the pizza, now that she was home for once.
Isabelle was always out with her friends and her stunning-but-scary girlfriend, Anastasia, who had instructed Isabelle to switch from American Spirits (the coolest at Savannah Country Day School) to Davidoffs.
(Everything cool in America was gauche here in Greece.) Flora was lonely.
“Do you want me to order?” said Isabelle, her tone mocking. “And put out plates and napkins for you?” Despite the fact that Isabelle was making fun of her, Flora was grateful.
“Yes,” she admitted.
Isabelle put out her cigarette in a pot of blooming azaleas that Flora and her mom had planted when they moved in.
“OK,” said Isabelle. But instead of moving, Isabelle was still for a moment.
She put both her hands on the balcony railing.
Flora watched in horror as Isabelle’s bone-thin shoulders began to shudder.
Isabelle made a strangled sound: She was crying.
“Isabelle?” said Flora. Seeing her brash sister in tears was a nightmare. “Isabelle!” she said, jumping up and rushing to her sister.
Isabelle shoved her away. “I hate being all alone here,” said Isabelle, not looking at Flora. In a tender, wavering voice, Isabelle said, “I hate her. I hate her for leaving us alone here!”
Flora’s heart was beating way too fast, her chest tightening. “Don’t hate her,” whispered Flora. “Please don’t hate her.”
Isabelle whirled around. “Why isn’t she texting us back?” she said. “And what even is this ridiculous note?” She threw her mother’s goodbye note at Flora. Isabelle had crumpled the note in her fist; Flora smoothed the paper and read it for the hundredth time:
Girls, I am headed off to my Santorini collage workshop!!! Love you both so, so much and I will be home on Sunday by lunchtime. You can order pizza and get what you need with my credit card but be cheap!
Love, love, love, love, Mom.
“I’m calling Grammy Charlotte,” said Flora.