Page 18 of The Summer Show
“I do owe you one.”
She ended the call on a deliberately crazy cackle.
The conversation ended where the gravel and dirt roads switched forms and continued in cobblestones with white grout. I had no real idea where I was going, only that I was going there and I was thrilled. I was in Greece. What’s not exciting about that? I was vibrating with enthusiasm over this new-to-me place. Everything was exotic, even the sun-crisped tourists.
The island’s only village was alive with chatter, the buzz of mopeds and motorcycles crisscrossing the omnipresent hum of the sea lapping at the shore. I wanted to swim, but I’d never learned how. Mom never sent us for lessons, and by the time Dad realized there was a gap in our education I was already in college and Brit was going through her Do not touch me, light! For I am made of darkness and too much eyeliner! emo phase.
Now here I was, in my early thirties and one push away from a drowning statistic.
That didn’t stop me from staring longingly at the water for a few minutes before I decided to duck into one of dozens of souvenir shops for a short stack of postcards. I felt decadent and old-fashioned as I sat at a taverna by myself with my postcards, scrawling Wish you were here messages across each one in the cursive I’d perfected in elementary school. As soon as I knew it existed, I’d seized upon calligraphy, too, and broke it out for special occasions when I wanted to dazzle someone.
Most of the people I dazzled were five to eleven year olds.
I sipped a frappe and watched as a crowd formed around a group who had just arrived at the promenade and were sitting not far from me and my postcards. The group was glamorous and scantily clad, even the men. Designer clothes. Layers of makeup. So much jewelry that it was obvious they did more than breakfast at Tiffany’s. Except one woman that I recognized from yesterday during the ferry incident, and she had shown up dressed for a serious workout at the gym. These were the game show people. Which explained why people kept tromping up to their gaggle then retreating quickly when they realized you can’t get an autograph without pen or paper.
The buff woman, Effie, was glaring at everyone who dared to approach. After watching her for a while I decided she’d been cursed—or blessed—with RBF. Resting Bitch Face. Probably she didn’t mean to scare people off, but she did. That didn’t stop them from returning when they remembered this was the 2020s and that a selfie was even better than an autograph.
Curiosity drove me to open social media and search for Greece’s Top Hoplite. Apparently last night there had been a big reveal as this season’s location was announced as Nera.
Ana was right.
There were glitzy photos, and an interview with the judges that I watched with the sound off and subtitles on, declaring that they would be casting on Nera this week and auditions were open. Their new casting director was busy and they’d already scooped up two contestants.
Would they let anyone watch the show while they were filming? That could be fun. If so, I could try to get tickets for Ana and her family, as a thank you for having me.
A woman approached the table. Well, more of a girl. She couldn’t have been older than my high school diploma. There wasn’t much of her and most of what little there was was covered in one of those stretchy fabrics. Spandex? Lycra? What did all the cool people wear now? The ones who didn’t hide in libraries, waiting on Scholastic deliveries.
She spoke to me in Greek that moved at the speed of a cat unexpectedly touching water. As I blinked at her, while I tried to figure out what to do with all those words, she switched to English.
“Give your pen.”
No please.
My training kicked in. I held up my Sharpie pen. “Sure. You may borrow my pen. What’s the magic word?”
Her turn to blink. After several seconds of her lashes thrashing up and down while she contemplated basic manners, she pivoted and stalked back to the table where the judges languished in a dense shadow cast by all adoring fans who wanted to touch the stars.
That was the end of that. Or so I thought.
Really, she could have had the pen if she’d mustered up a please in Greek. I wasn’t picky about the language. Manners are manners.
The crowd parted. A figure emerged, pushing her way through the narrow corridor of bodies. Say what you will about Effie Makri, the woman had presence. Was she conventionally attractive? No, but she made up for it with muscles and skimpy gym clothes. If someone told me she could snap a spine one-handed, I’d believe them.
What had Ana called her? The judge all of Greece and half of Europe loved to hate. Bigger than David Hasselhoff in Germany. And now for some reason, she was standing in front of me, glaring a hole through my head. Or, as previously mentioned, maybe that was just her face. I had the opposite problem. I had Tell-Me-Your-Life-Story Face. People told me secrets and stories they really ought to keep to themselves. Against my will, I knew things about complete strangers—dark things.
She stared down at me, and I shrank back in my seat a little. This was a woman I wanted to ask to sit on one of Bush Lake Elementary’s kinder and first grade chairs with the tennis balls on the feet. Marti called them The Great Equalizers.
“You speak English?”
Good thing she asked in English or I’d be lost.
“Yes.”
“I want your pen.”
She plucked the Sharpie out of my hand and returned to her table, swallowed by the crowd almost instantly.
Well then. These postcards wouldn’t finish themselves, would they?