Ornate


I stare up at the laminated poster hanging on the wall above the fry cooker at Athens Gyro. “Be proud of your heritage,” it reads. On it is a crudely drawn Hercules holding a large boulder in one hand and a dainty Greek woman in the other. I shift around in my seat. The cheap wood from the bench splinters the part of my leg uncovered by my flowing, cherry red skirt.


“Kora, sweetheart,” my father begins, in his thick accent. “I was talking to Mythos Loukas the other day, you know, the nice boy at the Greek Exchange center?”

I look down and nod. My face feels fiery red. Yes, I know Mythos. Beautiful Mythos. Mythos with wavy hazel hair and a perfect smile. The same Mythos who steals my bag like a third grader and makes crude remarks about the way I dress.

“Well,” he continues, “I have been talking to Mrs. Loukas. Such a sweet woman! Anyway, I was talking to her and she says we might be able to get you a summer job with Mythos!” He smiles so big and grabs my hands. “It will be a wonderful opportunity for you. You can even put it on your application for Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. They love the extracurricular activities.” I blink and blink again. My stomach turns as a fat horsefly lands on one of my fries.

“Ok,” I croak. I run my tongue over my teeth and puff out my cheeks, a habit that makes me look like a satisfied toad. “Can I be done?” I ask, and push away the greasy gyro.

“You have hardly touched you food,” Baba answers. A dribble of sauce runs down his chin. He takes another bite and a large chunk of meat falls to the table.

“I know,” I answer. “Well,” he sighs, “We should go back. You need to do your homework and I have work in an hour.” He wipes his hands on his shirt and we walk into the parking lot and into our dusty grey Wombat.

***


My father and my mother, Demetria, met at a carnival in Crete while Demetria was vacationing with her family. My father had lived in Crete for seventeen years and was eager to travel the world. They eloped and fled to Albania, where they found a Good Samaritan who took in my parents for very cheap room and board. I was born in Tirana and named Cora, after the midwife who helped birth me. We lived as a family in Albania for five years before my mother ran off with an Italian bodybuilder named Marco. My father, heartbroken and devastated, used all his money to buy two plane tickets and a one-month rent of a tiny apartment in St. Paul. The only things he brought with him were a change of clothes and an antique vase that had been in his family for ages. It is small but very fragile, with tiny blue stripes curling around the rim.

He legally changed my name to Kora, the Greek spelling, and sent me to elementary school at a Greek-Orthodox church. My father got a job as a hairdresser on Broadstreet, styling old ladies’ hair for six bucks a pop.


I occasionally receive letters from Demetria. She tells me how Marco bought her a Ferrari, that they’re living in Florence with a house in Naples, that I have a half-sister named Gigi who’s, “Sweet and innocent, most of the time.”
I read these letters in the comfort of my room and tuck them into a small, torn-up cardboard box under my bed. My father doesn’t know about these letters…and I’d like it to stay that way. He is still tender when it comes to Demetria. She is not mentioned.
***


I wave to Lily as she bounces down the hallway. “Hey, girlfriend!” she titters. She sashays up to my side and hands me a bottle of Strawberry-Mango smoothie—my favorite.

“So I was talking to my brother and he says that Greeks are usually, like, all hairy. Do you have hair on your back? That would be super gross.” I frown and look at her. She’s innocently twisting a bright blonde curl around her finger while simultaneously flicking through the text messages on her phone.

“Um, no!” I respond, laughing awkwardly. “But you should see my aunt, Ariane. She has a mustache. We-ird!” Actually, Aunt Ariane is my favorite aunt…out of seven.

“Haha!” Lily laughs her semi-obnoxious laugh. Lily is the stereotypical teenager I see on TV: long, wavy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, pale skin and the most ‘in’ clothing. She’s also not that bright. I feel out of place when I’m with her and her group of ditzy friends. I’ve got short black hair, dark olive skin, brown eyes and A+ average.


We sit down in Mrs. Hickson’s first period History. I take my seat—a cramped desk-and-chair set by the window. “Good morning, everybody,” Mrs. Hickson rumbles in her low, baritone voice.

I focus my attention outside. Even though I’m a straight-A student, I have a hard time focusing during class. I watch a bird peck at a shriveled worm on the sidewalk. My mind wanders off to my special place…a warm tropical island where I’m drinking a pina colada and being massaged by a tall, dark, handsome islander.

My fantasies are interrupted by a loud screeching noise as Mrs. Hickson pulls down a very outdated map of Europe. I mean, this map has still got Constantinople on it. She points to a country way down south. “Today, we’ll be studying modern Greece.”

I avert my eyes and trace the etchings on my desk—Doug loves Jamie; Hockey 4ever.

“Oh, and Miss…” Mrs. Hickson looks down at the attendance sheet and clacks her tongue. I look up from my desk and find her staring right at me.

I sigh and finish, “Mavrokoukoulopoulos.” Five weeks of school left and my teacher still doesn’t know my last name.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hickson says, clearing her throat with an extremely unpleasant hacking sound. “I suggest you pay a smidge of attention. This is your heritage, after all.” I blush and pull out my notebook and a pen.



Mrs. Hickson blabbers on about Greek finance and Drachmas while I scribble down notes. My fingers cramp up and the pen bursts, navy ink splattering onto my hands and chin. I wipe it off with a Kleenex and the girl next to me; a preppy cheerleader named—ugh—Cindy looks over at my inky face and laughs. I scowl at her and wish her a sprained hamstring during her next Cheer practice.

I pull out a whittled-down pencil instead. A know-it-all smart Alec in the front row raises his hand. Boris Brown says in his nasal voice, “Is this financial crisis brought on by the torpescence of the Greek unemployed?”

Several dumb jocks scratch their lice-infested heads in wonder over the word. Myself, I know what this means—laziness, do-nothingness.

Mrs. Hickson nods in approval of his interesting word choice and replies. “Yes, Boris. Greeks are known to be loafers. Perhaps if the citizens…get with it, as you young’uns say? They wouldn’t be so in-the-red. Good question, Boris.”


“Those Greeks. Just smoking and gossiping, huh, Mrs. Hickson?” Cindy asks, while doing three or four hair flips in a row. She looks at me out of the corner of her heavily made-up left eye. My face goes hot.

Mrs. Hickson chuckles and goes back to the map. “Could be, Cindy. Could be. I must tell you all, I went to Greece seven years ago and, blimey, I would walk into the butcher’s and there wouldn’t be anybody there. I’d ring the bell about a dozen times and finally and a fat forty-something would waddle out and just slap a lamb chop into a bag, without even weighing it! Disgusting, I tell you. Disgusting.” Mrs. Hickson stares off into the distance and shakes her head at this unpleasant memory.

Several students look back at me with a disapproving glare. The kid behind me grabs my pencil and mimes smoking it, blowing a halo into the air.

I am fuming. My hand shoots up in the air and, before I can think, I blurt out, “Mrs. Hickson, I am most certain the Greeks are not lazy slackers, as you say. And you have no right to go around trashing my padrida.” I throw in a Greek word I learned from my church textbooks. “As for the smoking and gossiping, Cindy, they can’t be any worse than you.”

Cindy turns beet-red and feels her jeans to make sure the ill-gotten pack of cigarettes in her back pocket haven’t drooped out, exposing her filthy habit. Mrs. Hickson stands stock-stiff, the chalk in her hand hovering just above the chalkboard.
I sit back in my chair, satisfied. Ha, I think. Haha.


Unfortunately, I spend the rest of the day biting my nails and twiddling my thumbs in the quiet comfort of the principal’s office.


***



My father holds up a flash card with the word, “????????”. I try to pronounce the word.

“Parakola?” I say.
My father frowns and says accusingly, “Wrong. If you do not try you will not succeed.”

I glare at him. “I am trying. But we’ve been at this for almost an hour. I’m done,” I retort, taking a sip from my Diet Coke. My father sighs and holds up another card.

“Please say this word.” He starts tapping his finger on the side of the couch. I tinkle the ice in my glass.

“Augh! I don’t know, OK?” My head hurts like it’s been smashed against a wall. “I said I’m done! And I don’t want to study anymore.”

My father looks at me from the top of his thick-lens glasses. “I need you to know how to say these words. It is essential you learn to speak the palia dialekto. My parents do not speak English.” He says this sternly but kindly, with a hint of sympathy in his voice. “I know how you feel, Kora. When I came here from Athens I had to do English learning with my roommate. It was not fun.”

I sit back, seething. I should stop now. I don’t want to say anything I don’t mean, but I need to get four more words in. “No. You don’t know.”

My father takes a deep breathe and leans forward. “Kora, please. Pumpkin, do not be like this. It makes me hurt.” He pats his heart twice and gives me a sad smile. “I try to do my best. Please calm your anger.”

But my anger—the anger that’s been festering for months—boils out of me. My voice reaches maximum volume. “You aren’t trying! You aren’t…I don’t even want to go to stupid Thessaloniki University! I’m in eighth grade and you are stupid to think about college!” I throw in an extra stupid under my breath. I can feel blood rushing through me, sending adrenaline to every corner of my body. My fingers tingle. My head is pounding so strongly. I clench my fists and try to keep myself from throwing up.

My father takes a deep breath and says in a soft voice, “Please keep your screaming to a quiet. The neighbors will hear.”
This makes me even madder.

“Then why don’t we move out of this hellhole and get a real house? I hate having to share a bedroom with you! You have money. I’ve seen your checking receipts. Or get another stupid job.”

When my father gets angry, he forgets about his English and speaks in broken sentences. His voice rises to a dull, quavering yell. “You stop now. I be trying so hard to make the money. And you not appreciate it. I want you to have good life, good future. I never go to college. I be fifty and I be working at a hairdresser for a day nine hours.” He draws his knees up to his chest. He looks like a little girl. I wait for him to stick his thumb into his mouth.

I throw up my hands and make a low, guttural sound that frightens me. A mosquito buzzes by my ear and I swat my hand at it. It flies away and my reflexes flail out at the mosquito. But instead, I make contact with the antique vase sitting on the coffee table. It teeters and falls to the ground, breaking into three equal pieces. My father reaches over and picks up one of the pieces. He runs the pieces between his hands, his facial expression blank. The sharp end slices his finger and a drop of blood falls to his lap where it forms a dime-sized stain.

I stare at the vase and start to cry. First just raindrops, sliding down my cheeks. A wave of warm bile pushes itself up my throat. My feet carry me to the bathroom. I burst open the door and slam it shut. I fall to the cold, tile floor and lift my fingers to my arm. I scratch the skin, over and over. I watch the white as it slowly fades.

My father knocks gently on the door and walks in, kneeling beside me. He sees his fourteen-year-old daughter, scraping her arm and sobbing quietly. He hands me an Advil and a Dixie cup of warm water. I gulp the medicine and lay my head down onto the bathmat. Baba places his hand into my back. I can feel his pulse in his worn, wrinkled skin. He places a soft kiss onto my cheek and I fall into a heavy, dreaming sleep.

***


The light shines in through my window, rustling me from my slumber. I realize that I’m in my bed, not on the cold bathroom floor. I turn over to face the alarm clock. It reads 8:49 am. I do a double take: schools in ten minutes. I jump out of bed and slip into the yellow sundress on my dresser. I sprint into the kitchen and there’s Baba, standing at the stovetop in his pajamas and cooking eggs and pancakes.

“Baba!” I yell. “Why didn’t you wake me up? We’re gonna be late!” I frantically pour myself a glass of orange juice from the fridge. I try to slurp it down but half of it spills onto my dress. A bright, pulpy stain is now just above the hem of my dress.

“Crap!” I scream. I run to my room to change but trip on the rug. I fall to the floor with a heavy thud, my finger bending back. The pain radiates through my hand. My father walks to me and helps me up.

“You’re not going to school today, Kora. I have other things planned.” He hands me a plate of breakfast and sits down with me on the floor. I eat in silence, slowly chewing the eggs and pancake and wondering why my father’s being so nice.
I look up at him and, noticing his puffy raccoon eyes, ask in my gentlest voice, “How many hours of sleep did you get last night?”

He twists his face and says, “Not a matter.”

I finish my breakfast and place the dish in the sink. I reach for the soap and sponge to wash it, but Baba reaches out and takes it. He lathers the soap and starts to wash it for me. I start to put away the eggs but he makes a motion with his hands that means, sit down. I do and, with his back turned to me, he asks, “What happened yesterday, Kora?”

He turns to me, soapy bubbles on his hands and arms. He has his eyebrows raised, and I know he expects an answer.

So I tell him everything.

My father envelops me in a bear hug. A tear slides down my cheek. I don’t want to cry again, but I can’t help it.

He whispers into my ear, “My sweet Kora,” he pauses. “Go get the glue.”


I take a paper bag from the pantry and carry it to Baba. He pulls out the three pieces of the vase. With expert precision, he applies four lines of glue to each side. He sticks them together and smiles. Then, he bursts into laughter he sees his gluing job: the vase is lopsided and sticky. It slump over and falls apart on the table. I look at the vase, this lovely antique vase, and say, “I’m sorry, Baba.”

Baba grabs my hand and shouts, “No! No sad! Only smiles!” He is grinning from ear to ear. “I will not see my little Kora upset. I’ve come this far.”
Then he picks up the gluey pieces of the vase and holds them in his hands. He looks at me straight in my eyes.

“See this?” he says. I nod. “Well, this was my family. Not my parents, no, I love my parents. This was…this was Demetria and I. Never one part. All broken. But maybe, maybe when she left…you and I, we became this.” He picks up my orange juice glass from the sink and dumps out the soapy water. “One part. Together. We did it.” I look at this man, my father. He is old, I realize. His face melting slowly, wrinkles cradling his forehead and lips.

I lean across the table and give him a kiss on his stubbly cheek. “I love you so much, Baba,” I whisper.

Everything stands still for a minute. Then my father reaches under the table and pulls out a square package wrapped in butcher paper. “For you,” he says. I take the package and finger the tape holding it all together. I rip the corner of the butcher paper and peel away the wrapping. It’s a box. It’s made out of Murano glass, about the size of a book. The sides are encrusted with faux jewels and glitter. In the middle of the box is a depiction of an olive tree and two small goats, both chewing grass under the shade of the tree.

“Oh, it is so beautiful, Baba,” I rhapsodize.

“Open it,” he says. I do and there are a bundle of letters. My letters. The ones from Demetria.

“Oh Baba, it’s beautiful,” I gush. “But how did you know?

“I’m sorry. I looked under your bed.”

“No, I love it. Thank you.”

“Good,” my father says, rising from the table. “Would you like to get some baklava from the bakery?”

“Yum!” I say excitedly. “Baklava is my favorite.”

We walk down the three flights of stairs and out the door into the cool May air. A cabbage butterfly lands on my shoulder. I beam as it flits around my head. I feel happy.