Chapter Ten
We eventually make it to Mykonos by way of Naxos, leaving early enough in the morning that we dock in time for an early lunch. Delos is a mere hop away from Mykonos, and I’m buzzing with excitement to get there after lunch.
“I’ve actually never been to Delos before,” Melanie says as we roam around the Mykonos port in search of food.
Fishing boats and larger vessels alike bob in the clear blue waves by the docks.
We’re making our way down the paved semicircle curved around the water.
The stone-paved walkway is home to taverna awnings stretched out against one another, plush wicker seats set up in their shade, photo-laden menu boards enticing passersby at each entrance.
I snort. “Some guide you’re going to be.”
She rolls her eyes at me, then links my arm in hers. “We’re going to have the best day.”
“Thanks for coming with me,” I say.
“Of course.” Melanie smiles at me. “I’m glad we’re friends.”
“Me too,” I say. Liam’s words echo loud in my ears. Am I glad we’re friends? Or do I wish we were something else?
The sun reflects off the sea and flashes in my eyes. I blink to clear my vision of light spots. I need to just stay in the moment. That’s all. Stop asking questions, I beg of my brain. Just let me be free. Just turn it off, just for this one day.
We find a little taverna tucked away in one of the many marble-paved side streets and are led to an outdoor table across from a bright bougainvillea plant making its way up the wall opposite.
Its vibrant colors pop against the whitewashed walls of the buildings that line the street.
A stray cat mews as it streaks up the pathway.
Melanie refused to indulge eating anywhere that had a view of the ocean.
“That’s just code for tourist trap where the food is terrible,” she assures me as we take our seats.
The place she picked is small and largely empty, given that it’s relatively early for lunch. What it lacks in human customers, it makes up for in cats. I coo at a gray tabby that slinks its way along the white walls.
“So, what are you thinking for your project?” Melanie asks me after we order.
I squirm in my seat. “What a loaded question.”
She laughs. “I get that face. I’m going into junior year, which means I’m officially starting the IB program at my school. I’m already stressing about what my extended essay is going to be.”
“IB?” I ask, glad to get the heat off me for a moment.
“International Baccalaureate,” Melanie explains. “It’s sort of like AP, with advanced classes and a test, but it’s a two-year program, and there are a few other requirements in addition to the classes if you’re going for the full program, which I am.”
“Like the extended essay?” I ask.
She nods. “You can pick any of your classes to base your project in. I’m doing physics for my science requirement, but I have no idea what I want to do for my essay.”
“You have time, though,” I assure her. We pause as the waitress returns with our food.
We ordered a string of appetizers to share, and I dig into the dolmades as soon as they’re dropped onto the table.
The soft vine leaves give way to a warm rice filling that provides immediate comfort even in the face of Melanie’s question.
“More than you do, that’s for sure,” Melanie says with a teasing grin. “Which brings me back to my question.”
“I have no fresh clue what I’m going to do,” I confess. “I’ve been taking photos, so maybe something with photography? I really have no idea.”
Melanie wrinkles her nose. “That’s the worst. And the stuff you’re all doing is so open-ended.”
“I usually love it that way.” After a lifetime of rigid academic rules and strict rubrics, the creative freedom and spirit of exploration with which Ms. Barlowe designs our work feels like a breath of air. “But the competition added all this pressure. I feel totally frozen up. And…”
I trail off, suddenly self-conscious of how much I’ve been talking. If I keep going, she’s going to know how ceaselessly whiny I am.
“And?” Melanie prompts.
“Well.” I clear my throat. “Everyone else in the program is doing such cool stuff. I feel like nothing I do can measure up.”
Melanie rolls her eyes at this. “I see you’re a fellow self-doubter.”
“I don’t think so,” I say with a breathy laugh. “Like, objectively, everyone is doing amazing work, and I still have no idea how to get started.”
“But I’m sure that when you find your inspiration, you’ll be just as great,” Melanie says with a shrug.
I give her a small smile. She says it as though it’s a certainty, in a way that makes it hard to doubt her.
It’s enough to bring a little relief to the endless spiral of my brain, a soft peace I’m not used to feeling.
The way she recognizes my emotions while trying to coax me out of them loosens the knot in my chest.
It’s almost like she’s making me feel like myself while pushing me to grow, some might say.
Not me, of course. Just some.
“I’m sure your extended essay will be the same,” I tell her, filled with the urge to return the gesture. “I’m sure no one’s decided what they’re doing yet at this point.”
“True,” Melanie acknowledges. “I’m just so excited to start.”
“Nerd,” I tease.
She laughs as she digs into the fried calamari. “You’re one to talk. Even at the beach, all you people were buried in your books.”
I laugh as I dip a warm slice of pita into the tzatziki. The crisp tang of the cool dip is perfect against the warm doughiness of the pita bread, and I can’t help the groan that escapes my lips.
Melanie laughs. “I told you the food would be better here.”
“You were right,” I say, reaching for another pita. “And the views here aren’t bad either.”
I mean to draw her attention to the bougainvillea blossoming behind her, another stray cat picturesquely cleaning its paw underneath it, but instead, I find my eyes lingering on hers. She blushes as she takes another bite of her calamari.
Heat draws into my own face, and I find myself grasping at anything to run from the romance I’ve accidentally infused into the moment.
“Can you believe how dramatic the beach games got yesterday?” I say. Nothing will kill this spark between us faster than acknowledging the mess my cohort is devolving into.
It works. Melanie winces, the blush receding from her cheeks as she takes a sip of water. “I felt so bad. Amalia and George seem to have a lot going on.”
I catch her up on the plagiarism scandal, her eyes widening as I fill her in on the details.
“Okay, fair enough,” she says when I finish. “That drama sounds tough.”
“But then last year was okay,” I say. “For them, anyway.”
This last part slips out without my entirely meaning to say it. I hope Melanie won’t notice, but her eyes catch mine.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that I had a hard time, I guess,” I admit. “Everyone already being so established in the group and being so much better than me at the work. I felt like a toddler following the big kids around, trying to fit in.”
Melanie grins at the image. “I doubt that’s true. You seem like you’re right in the mix with them. From the outside, at least. I’d never have guessed you were a newcomer.”
“Liam helps with that,” I say.
“Not just him.” Melanie meets my eyes. “Seems like you’re close with Lucy too. And you blend right into the group as a whole. I saw the fire in your eye when we potato-sack-raced.”
I laugh. “I run track. I’m not about to lose any races, potato sack or no.”
“Fair enough,” Melanie says. “I just think you fit in more than you give yourself credit for.”
I turn the thought over in my mind. I’ve felt like an outsider all year. Is that just a story I’ve been telling myself, a play the brain gremlin is putting on for its own nefarious purposes?
Once we pay for lunch, we head back to the docks to take the ferry to Delos. It feels nice, walking side by side with her. So nice that I start feeling oddly self-conscious of my hand dangling in the space between us. It would be so easy—so natural—to reach out and hold hers.
Instead, I ask, “You said you had a lot of drama last year too, right?”
Melanie shudders. “My whole friend group imploded.”
“Oh god.” I wince sympathetically. “What happened? I mean, only if you want to talk about—”
“Yeah, for sure,” Melanie says. “Thanks for asking, honestly. My friends are sick of hearing about it, but I’m still feeling so stuck on it, you know?”
Do I ever. “I was actually crowned Queen of Being Stuck on Things recently, so I know exactly what you mean.”
Melanie drops into a curtsy. “An honor to be in your presence, Your Majesty.”
I laugh. “The only proper way to honor the title is to talk mad shit.”
“Perfect,” Melanie says with a laugh. “Basically, I’m in the theater club at my school, and there was cast list drama that blew up in everyone’s face.
I got a part this other girl wanted, and because she was a senior last year and I was a sophomore, people said I should’ve quit the play so she could step into the role. ”
“Huh?” I ask. “Granted, I’ve never been in theater, but that doesn’t…sound right.”
“I mean, I agree,” Melanie says, throwing her hands up. “But it got so bad that I actually started doubting whether I should do it or not. She was really upset. And people were saying that since it was just my second year and her last, she should get priority.”
“Isn’t that ultimately the teacher’s call, though?” I point out.
“You’d think,” Melanie mutters. “But people decided that I got the part because my mom works at the school and is good friends with the drama teacher. So they decreed that I was a nepo baby and that the right thing to do was to step down so that Kyra could have the part that was rightfully hers.”
“Kyra sounds evil,” I say.
“She definitely made last year hard,” Melanie says. “I ended up dropping out of the play because rehearsals got so hostile.”
I wince, remembering what she told me about her anxiety and how much she hides of herself to please those around her.