Chapter Four #2
In fact, it’s hard to believe this amount of wares has managed to fit on a single street.
But then, as if to prove me wrong, Hadrian’s Library comes into view on our left.
Protected by a wrought iron fence, the remains of its ancient Roman architecture stand opposite a closed, graffitied storefront and a series of flea-market dress vendors, their blue and white linens hanging off lines strung across the outer walls of their stalls.
Liam nudges my shoulder, but I ignore him when I realize that his eyes are trained on Melaine. The last thing I need is to spend more time leading her on after our disastrous breakfast this morning.
Instead, I take more photos of the juxtaposition as we keep walking past, the lines of market stalls transforming into tavernas as we round the corner to the next street.
A handful of early lunchers sit in the shade of wide-open umbrella stands, fanning themselves with touristy paneled maps of the area.
Before I know it, we’re in front of the Roman Forum.
Liam and Bodhi crowd next to me as we bunch up around the fence to get a better look at the ruins.
Even in ruins, the columns are impressive.
Most of the forum is gone, a few quarter columns from the original peristyle remaining in lines along the sides of the space, but the entryway is still largely intact.
It’s a huge gate supported by four Doric columns, standing watch over the little patches of greenery that lay beyond.
I take more photos, even though at this point, I’ve more than fulfilled the scavenger hunt’s demands for photos of the ancient and modern worlds clashing.
But I feel the need to do something to occupy my hands, as everyone around me is busy with their projects.
Amalia has her notebook out and is scribbling so fast, the tip of her mechanical pencil breaks multiple times against the page. George glances over at her notes, and she shoots him a look before shifting the cover to shield her writing. He rolls his eyes.
“What are you even doing for your project?” he asks.
“Not telling,” Amalia says.
“Calm down. I’m not going to steal your idea,” George says.
Amalia fixes him with a glare so fierce, I’m scared to look straight at it. “Like how you weren’t going to use my artwork in your project last year?”
“That was inspiration,” George whines. “I didn’t literally use your artwork.”
“Whatever.” Amalia turns back to her notes, writing at double speed to catch up on the precious seconds she wasted indulging George.
Liam and I exchange looks. I was still in middle school last year, so I’m not as familiar with this particular drama, but Liam gave me daily updates as it unfolded.
As low-key as a plagiarism scandal can be, it still lit up the whole cohort for a solid month as everyone debated whether George’s cover artwork infringed too much on the sketches he’d borrowed from Amalia.
I thought they’d moved past it by now. Amalia’s quick temper burns like a sudden flame—hot, bright, and of short duration. For the year I’ve known them, they’ve been famous friends. But now the tension between them prickles in the air around us all.
“I hope something new didn’t happen,” Liam whispers to me as we walk around the fencing, Ms. Galanis explaining more about the forum as we go.
“Same,” I mutter. I create enough drama all by myself in my own head without the cohort exploding again.
We tour the agora, and I find myself wishing that some of the columns were still standing at their full height so that I could get some shade. The sun is doing some serious beaming, and I’m slick with sweat in what I’m sure is an extremely unattractive fashion.
Not that I care about being attractive, necessarily. But Melanie somehow looks amazing. Not even a hair out of place. It’s borderline rude.
An hour later, Ms. Barlowe releases us for lunch and shopping around Monastiraki before we head off for our afternoon of museuming.
I expect us all to stay together, the way we did in Syntagma on our first day. But Amalia drifts away from George, pairing off with Henry. George and Bodhi are already halfway down the street. Lucy finds Liam and me, her eyes bright.
“Want to join me on my quest for pastitsio?” she asks. It’s a lasagna-like Greek dish she had for dinner last night and immediately declared her new one true love.
“It would be our honor,” Liam says. He takes cravings seriously, one of the many things I love about him.
I think, for a moment, about inviting Melanie to join us, but she’s deep in conversation with her mom.
Besides, I’m still freaked from our conversation this morning.
If I don’t watch my thoughts closely enough, they drift back to the feeling of her hand in mine, a memory that lights up my gut with anxious fluttering.
I can’t keep putting myself through it.
In any case, Lucy and Liam are already making their way down the street, heading back through the flea market on their way to lunch.
I fall into step beside them, and this time I force myself to pay attention.
The vendors are selling everything from floaty Grecian dresses to blue evil-eye jewelry.
My meager savings from my after-school job folding clothes and being yelled at by customers at a clothing store fall in deep danger whenever we pass a fancy-looking bottle of olive oil.
“So, what’s up with Amalia and George?” Lucy asks as we stop to examine a spinning rack of postcards. “Because I can’t handle another group drama.”
“They have their shit,” Liam says with a shrug. “We don’t have to all get involved again. That was the mistake last time.”
Lucy nods but looks unconvinced. “I’m definitely not picking sides again.”
From what I remember of Liam’s story, she was on Team Amalia last year but was also the first to forgive George when he apologized.
“I’m just nervous, I guess,” Lucy says. “I wanted us to come together on this trip. Really have a bonding thing.”
Lucy’s one of the recently graduated seniors, so it’s easy to see where she’s coming from. This trip is her last time being part of this cohort.
Liam nods. “I’m sure it’ll be okay.”
But as we make our way toward pastitsio, I think about how quickly the group splintered off, and I realize I don’t share his certainty.
—
We’ve only been full-time tourists for a couple of days, but all the uphill walking through Monastiraki and standing in the cool, dark rooms of the Museum of Cycladic Art burn in my calves.
As soon as we get back to the hotel, I flop back onto the bed, propping my sore feet on top of the headboard.
Liam invited me to join him on an outing to explore the neighborhood surrounding our hotel, but our abstracts, signifying our formal entries into the decathlon, are due tonight, and I still have no idea what I want to do for my project. My evening is bookmarked for academia.
Now that I’m alone in the hotel room with nothing but a blank notebook page to keep me company, I lightly regret my decision. I have to come up with something impressive enough to explain my presence in this program, and I only have a handful of hours to do it.
I click my pen again, hoping this will spark some kind of inspiration. My backup idea about the followers of Artemis feels so dull compared to what everyone else in the cohort is doing. I’ll fall completely flat on my face if that’s what I submit.
My brainstorming, if you can call it that, is interrupted by a knock at the door. I roll my eyes as I swing my legs around and hop off the bed, ready to tease Liam about already having lost his hotel room key.
But the joke dies against my teeth when the door opens to reveal Melanie, standing in the hallway in an all-pink pajama getup, holding a plate of baklava.
“Liam told me you were staying behind to work,” she says, lifting the plate. “I figured you could use some sustenance to help you out.”
I smile in spite of myself as I take in the embroidered floral detailing on her pajama tank top and baggy shorts. The last thing I should do is let myself stew in this feeling, but I find myself holding the door open wider to invite her in.
I mean, she brought me dessert. Surely it would be rude not to.
Grinning in a way that makes me feel like I must have made the right choice, Melanie slips past me into the room. We settle, cross-legged, on opposite sides of the bed, the plate of baklava and two forks between us.
“I hope I didn’t ruin your plans for the night,” I say softly. I knot my fingers in my lap, unsure of what to do with myself. If I were to give in to what I want to do, my hands would be around Melanie’s by now, indulging again in the softness of her skin against mine.
But then I’d just be falling into my same pattern. Opening a door I have no intention of walking through.
It’s just safer to keep it closed tight.
“Of course not,” Melanie says with an easy laugh.
I let myself relax into its sound. There’s no reason to be nervous, I tell myself.
I’m just hanging out with a friend, having dessert and complaining about school.
It’s nothing I haven’t done a million times over.
No reason why this should be different from any other night.
“If anything, you’re saving me,” she adds.
“Oh? What from?”
“My mom nagging me to join the competition,” Melanie says with an eye roll. “She refuses to grasp that her love of the humanities is just not a gene she passed down to me.”
She juts her chin toward one of the forks, and I pick it up to dig into the baklava. The crispy upper layer sprays a dash of crumbs on the bedspread as I slice the baklava in half. The honeyed pistachio layers melt against my tongue, and I have to suppress a groan.
Melanie does no such thing when she takes her first bite. “Okay, their coffee is a flop, but this hotel knows what they’re doing with the desserts.”
“It’s no breakfast baklava,” I say with a teasing grin, “but it’ll do.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. She mirrors my smile, and on her face, I see how flirty it seems on top of my completely unnecessary reference to our cozy morning in a little corner of the breakfast nook.
I try to bury the light, tugging feeling in my chest with another bite of baklava, crispy crumbs sticking to my lips. The feeling is still there, tight against my heart, pulling me toward her.
“I think you have me ready to convert to breakfast-dessert personhood,” Melanie admits.
“It’s the best,” I assure her. “Why start the day by depriving yourself of the best things life has to offer?”
“It’s a point I simply can’t argue with.”
I laugh, the tension in my shoulders dissolving. It’s easy, being here with Melanie. She makes me feel light enough to forget that I was supposed to be worrying about something.
It’s not a relief I experience often, and I let myself exhale into it.
“So, how’s the work going?” Melanie asks. It should be enough to bring the panic right back, but that calm smile lingers on her face, spreading its peace into my chest.
“It’s quite tragic, I fear,” I tell her, nodding to my all-too-blank notebook. “As you can see, I am not drowning in a wealth of ideas.”
“Neither would I be, in your shoes,” Melanie assures me.
“I think the key difference here is that I am a classics person,” I remind her.
She leans to rest on her side, propping herself up with her elbow. The duvet folds around her, hugging her back, and I’m filled with the sudden wild thought that I wish I could hold her that close. Let her be that close to me.
But of course, the thought is enough to send all my spiked defenses on full alert. I fold my legs against my chest instead, resting my chin on my knees.
“That was your first mistake,” Melanie says with another teasing smile. She reaches over to pat my leg, and my skin flames at her touch. “It’s not too late to change course.”
The heat of her hand is enough to coax me out of my protective shell. I stretch out my legs in front of me, my hands curling around my knees. She slides her hand to meet mine, and before I can so much as draw a breath, I’m holding on to her, our fingers entwined.
“Changing course sounds nice right about now,” I admit. Her thumb runs slow, lazy circles against the back of my hand, at once calming my muscles and egging on the thought spiral that seems to follow her movements.
How can something that feels this right end up being wrong?
But doesn’t it always feel right in the beginning? How can you ever really know if it is?
Best to run away. It’s always best to run away. But I find myself sitting up, reaching for my laptop.
“Maybe I just need to take a break,” I hear myself say. “Wanna watch Mamma Mia!?”
I watched the sequel on the plane, and the soundtrack has been blasting in my headphones ever since. An hour and forty-eight minutes of silliness set to ABBA sounds like exactly what I need right now.
And if Melanie has to sit close enough to me for us to share the view of my laptop screen, so be it.
She shifts on the bedspread to settle next to me, our shoulders touching, our hands still linked between our thighs.
As I start the movie, I’m hyperaware of every cell in my body, every inhale I take, every beat of my heart.
Mamma Mia! is one of my favorite movies, but I barely notice it go by in front of me.
I’m too focused on the heat of Melanie’s hand, the swirl of Melanie’s thumb pushing against my skin, asking with every swish: What are you doing?