Call Me Athena Page 2

  down the road.

  The rest of us

  getting covered

  in dust.

  When we get to school

  two boys

  are dragging each other

  through the yard.

  Gus climbs on top

  and pulls them apart.

  He winds up with a bloody lip

  before the bell rings.

  We file into

  the classroom.

  I hear Evie Williams

  talking about me.

  Two sizes too small!

  You can see EVERYTHING!

  Her friend Fay

  looks at me

  and mouths

  an apology.

  Evie stares

  at the popping buttons

  on my dress.

  Eyes wide

  like the barrel

  of a gun,

  loaded

  and ready

  to fire.

  My whole body

  feels hot

  and panic

  swells my brain.

  I am a sack of grain

  with a target

  painted

  on my chest.

  I settle on a bench

  between Marguerite

  and Elena.

  Elena’s parents

  are from Romania.

  She was born

  in America

  just like us.

  Elena’s cheeks

  are ripe, round

  plums.

  Her black, straight hair

  smells like cooked

  cabbage.

  We link

  our elbows together.

  If our school

  were a garden,

  I think Elena,

  Marguerite, and I

  would be growing

  on the very same

  vine.

  We rise and pledge

  allegiance

  to the flag

  of the United States

  of America.

  We all speak

  in different accents.

  Our voices ring

  in unison.

  Liberty and justice

  for all.

  For a brief moment,

  it feels like

  we might

  have something

  in common.

  Then I see Evie

  sneering at me again.

  CAREER

  Our teacher, Mrs. Patterson,

  scribbles the word

  on the blackboard.

  Asks us to write

  a paragraph about what

  we want to do

  when we graduate.

  What are your dreams?

  My brothers

  start writing immediately.

  John wants to be a pilot.

  Gus wants to be a soldier.

  Jim wants to build skyscrapers.

  Marguerite wants to be

  a homemaker.

  I don’t write anything.

  Good Greek Girls

  know better than to dream.

  Good Greek Girls

  never speak before spoken to.

  Good Greek Girls

  never ride bikes.

  Good Greek Girls

  marry at a young age.

  Good Greek Girls

  take care of the babies at home.

  Good Greek Girls

  don’t have jobs.

  Good Greek Girls

  don’t dance and smoke and drink.

  Good Greek Girls

  never complain.

  I don’t know if I want to be

  a Good Greek Girl.

  My mother calls her daughters

  to the kitchen.

  We carry serving dishes

  filled with

  stuffed tomatoes and peppers

  and large bowls

  of cucumber salad.

  We eat outside

  in my father’s garden

  under the climbing grapevines.

  Amidst the aroma

  of the blooming roses

  and carnations

  planted

  to remind him

  of Greece.

  My mother loves

  when we eat and drink

  and laugh together

  at the table.

  After dinner,

  she serves

  the bright-red cherries

  that we canned

  last fall.

  She ladles them

  into small crystal bowls

  with silver spoons

  souvenirs

  memories

  from her life

  in France.

  I saw a fight in town

  my brother Gus says

  from the corner of a full mouth

  as he reaches

  for a second helping

  of cherries.

  My mother glares at him.

  A real doozy.

  The whole works.

  One guy was calling

  the other guy names.

  He didn’t like it much.

  Pulled out a blade.

  The crowd gathered in a circle

  around them.

  I didn’t stay

  to see how it turned out.

  He shovels more fruit

  into his mouth

  and doesn’t notice

  the bloodred juice

  staining his chin.

  My father holds his worry beads

  clicks them

  between his forefinger

  and his thumb.

  Too many men

  out of work.

  His voice

  accents each word

  like the beads

  on the string.

  The factories

  were the only thing

  keeping peace

  in this town.

  My mother puffs air

  out of her mouth

  in exasperation,

  Now everyone is praying

  that the immigrants

  will go home.

  This is our home.

  What would it feel like

  to have blond hair and blue eyes?

  My sister asks

  with a dreamy voice.

  I look at Marguerite’s

  big, beautiful, black, curly hair.

  Her amber eyes

  and olive skin.

  I can’t help laughing.

  What would it feel like

  to have a name

  like Smith or Jones?

  I retort.

  What would it feel like

  to have great-great-grandparents

  who arrived on the Mayflower?

  she giggles.

  What would it feel like

  to drink Coca-Cola

  at the beach

  under an umbrella?

  I act like I’m opening

  a parasol.

  What would it feel like

  to not speak Greek,

  eat Greek food,

  go to Greek church?

  Normal?

  my sister asks.

  “Normal” is not a word

  I have ever used.

  I say with a flourish.

  I take her hand

  and spin her

  ar
ound the yard.

  There’s a pharmacy and a soda shop

  on the corner.

  Marguerite and I

  don’t have the ten cents

  to buy a copy of

  Ladies’ Home Journal

  so we stand in the aisle

  and suck

  penny candies

  and read the articles,

  “Keep That Wedding Day Complexion” 5

  “A Man’s Idea of a Good Wife”

  “Hints and Suggestions for Helpful Girls”

  Just as we are about

  to dig into

  a particularly juicy story,

  “Promiscuous Bathing” 6

  Mrs. Banta,

  the owner’s wife,

  finds us huddled

  in the corner whispering.

  She sweeps us out

  of the doorway

  with her broom.

  We look into the shop windows

  to examine ourselves.

  Dab our lips and cheeks

  with red rouge.

  We pose like starlets

  in the magazine.

  Jazzy flappers.

  Imagine

  we have short, cropped curls

  and flasks

  tucked into

  our knee-highs.

  Girls who drive

  in cars with boys

  and dance.

  Come look!

  I pull Marguerite’s arm

  until we’re standing

  in front

  of a dress shop.

  A mannequin

  with a surprised expression

  gestures

  toward the heavens

  like she just felt

  the first

  drop of rain.

  An emerald green

  evening dress

  draped

  across her form.

  Rose beige

  patent leather

  T-straps.

  A gardenia

  in her hair.

  Oh, Marguerite!

  Isn’t she divine?

  She’s beautiful.

  I wish

  we had matching dresses

  just like this

  and a place to wear them.

  I wish we had new boots.

  I look down

  at our worn boots

  and my dreams

  fizzle.

  The clouds turn gray

  and disappointment

  falls

  from the sky.

  Our boots are practical

  Black.

  Sturdy.

  Thick soles.

  They’re meant to last.

  We will wear them

  until the thread unspools

  and the leather cracks.

  Until the rainwater

  soaks through

  and our bones

  are cold.

  We will stuff them

  with newspaper.

  It won’t make a difference.

  Only then

  will we beg our mother

  for a new pair.

  She will look

  at all of our shoes

  and decide.

  Whose feet are the coldest.

  Whose lips are the bluest.

  Who needs the warmth

  the most.

  After church on Sunday

  there is a man waiting

  at the carved doors

  of the entryway.

  My father embraces him.

  Dimitris takes my hand

  and brushes it

  with his dry lips.

  His striped vest

  bulges

  with his belly fat.

  Dimitris tells me

  he owns a shop,

  a haberdashery.

  He sells men’s clothing.

  Silk and felt hats

  of all shapes and sizes.

  Fabric and thread

  ribbons and zips

  buttons and clasps

  and small notions.

  Dimitris lives alone.

  In a sad house

  that smells like

  soup.

  I tell my father

  if that man

  comes in the front door,

  I will go out

  the back.

  My mother yanks me

  into the kitchen.

  Control your temper.

  My sister

  is peeling carrots

  at the table.

  In my frustration

  I blurt out,

  What about Marguerite!

  Why doesn’t she

  have to get married?

  As soon

  as the words

  come out of my mouth,

  I feel sorry.

  Marguerite

  looks up from

  her work

  with a panicked

  expression.

  A fox

  caught in a snare.

  I am more concerned

  about you, Mary!

  my mother snaps.

  What man

  would choose a girl

  like you?

  I imagine the day of my wedding

  I walk down the aisle

  toward a man

  I do not love.

  Surrounded

  by hallowed images.

  The priest blesses us

  as the chorister chants,

  Ησαϊα χόρευε,

  η Παρθένος έσχεν εν γαστρί.

  (Isaïa chóreve,

  i Parthénos éschen en gastrí.)

  Isaiah dance,

  the Virgin is with child.

  He signs the cross

  and lays a wreath

  of flower buds

  on my black curls.

  Another

  on the gray hair

  of my groom.

  Entwined together

  by the Father, the Son,

  and the Holy Spirit.

  We drink from one cup.

  Servants of God.

  Marguerite is lying on her back

  in the garden.

  Her arms and legs

  spread like a starfish

  on a rock.

  I lay down beside her.

  We look like stars

  in the same constellation.

  I don’t want to leave.

  I don’t want to get married.

  I’m happy in this home

  with you.

  She holds my hand

  and says,

  It can’t stay the same forever.

  Even if

  we wish it could.

  I feel like someone

  has thrown a stone

  into the heavens

  and smashed the stars.

  We are falling

  from the sky.

  I lie for a long time in the grass

  even after Marguerite has gone.

  I turn on my shoulder

  and spy a shovel

  lying on the ground.

  I stand and pick it up.

  Walk down the cellar steps

  to return it to where

  it belongs.

  The cellar smells

  of the dark, moss, fungus

  that lives

  in the packed dirt f
loors

  of this subterranean space.

  Shelves hold

  boxes of potatoes,

  garlic, apples, and onions.

  I lean

  the heavy shovel

  against the wall

  and it falls

  with a loud crash

  onto a shelf.

  Boxes topple down.

  Heads of garlic

  fly across the floor.

  I groan and bend to gather

  the rolling bulbs

  when I notice

  an ancient wooden box

  covered in dust.

  The clasp sprung open.

  A stack of letters

  tumbling