How to Be Brave(9)

“Um, well…” I put down the cheers and slide my history book back in front of me. “Now we’re learning about the making of America, like Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin and all of that.”

My dad shuffles a few bills on the glass counter. “I remember, from my citizenship tests way back.” He takes a hundred-dollar bill from the pile of money and holds it up. “Look, I have one of Franklin. Only one, though.” He shakes his head. “It used to be that we’d have at least nine of these come in every day.…

“Anyway.” He catches himself and lays the lone paper in its own stack. “Benjamin Franklin. He was a good man. Did you know he spoke Greek? I bet your teacher doesn’t know that. And he wanted Greek to be the official language of the United States. If he had it his way, we’d all be speaking Greek and then you and I could understand each other.”

I act surprised, like I didn’t know that, but the truth is he’s told me this before, a few times probably. The thing is, though, it’s a myth. I looked it up online. I wanted to be certain of my facts before I went up to any history teacher with unconfirmed stories from the Greek imagination. Turns out Benjamin Franklin did not want Greek. A few Brit haters wanted anything other than English, and they did propose Greek or Hebrew since it was considered to be the language of God, but it was never a true possibility. And it certainly wasn’t wanted by any of the major leaders like Franklin.

But who am I to burst my dad’s bubble?

“What else?” He writes a number and looks at me. “Tell me something else about school. About what you’re doing.”

I take this as a window of opportunity. “Well, I’m learning my cheers. I mean, I’m trying out for cheerleading.”

“Yes? Ra-ra-shish-boom-ba and all that?” In his very thick Greek accent, it comes out sounding like something in Greek, with his rolling R’s and heavy B’s. He presses a few buttons on the register and it spits out a reading of totals. He squints over it. “Well, very nice. And you’ll wear something colorful?”

This has always been a point of contention for my dad and me. He always complained to my mom that I wear too much black, that I look like I’m going to a funeral every day, like I’m in mourning. “Who died?” he’d say. “I feel like I should put an armband on or something.”

The weird thing is he hasn’t said anything about my new clothes, about the fact that I haven’t worn anything black for over two weeks. And that of all the times when technically, according to Greek custom, I should be wearing black—right after my mom died—I don’t. That’s my dad. He wears blinders and sees only what he wants to see.

“Yes,” I concede. “Yellow and blue. The school colors. The thing is, though, Dad, I’m going to need some money for uniforms and trips and stuff.”

He looks up from his totals. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to bring up money. Or maybe, with all that cash in front of him, he’ll just hand me a few bills and call it a day.

“But you don’t know if you got in yet, right?”

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad. I don’t say this.

“No, I don’t.” But I’m trying to think positive, damn it. I’m trying to plan for the best possible outcome. I don’t say this, either.

“Well, siga, siga,” he says in thick Greek. “Siga ta laxana.”

“Dad…” I sigh. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Slowly the vegetables, you know? You cook them too quickly and they will burn.”

“Um, yeah, I still don’t get it.”

My dad and I speak different languages. And I don’t just mean the fact that I hardly speak any Greek, while he speaks some obscure form of Americanized Greeknglish that involves a thick accent and a confusion of clichés and proverbs. I mean that if we were a radio, I’d be tuned at 93.1 FM and he’d be at something like 1480 AM. We’re not even on the same dial. We’re both in the same room, but our signals rarely cross.

“This is what it means: We’ll figure it out when we get there. Take it easy, okay? Each day, each day.”

In other words, no.

He goes back to his money and I go back to Thomas Paine and that’s the end of that for now. Maybe he’s right. First I have to make it through. And before that, I have to “be myself, but better!” for the world of Webster High School.

We close up and drive home in his old beat-up Buick in silence.

The tall lights of the city street flash against the windshield. I press my head against the warm window and look up at the towering buildings. They make me feel so small.

This is what I learned today: Without my mom, I’m pretty much on my own. My dad means well, but he doesn’t understand.

He’ll never understand.

*

I sit on the faded wooden bench in the locker room, counting the minutes on my phone until Doom Time. Excuse me. I mean Happy, Fun, Smiley Time. A group of half-dressed freshman girls swarm around me. They’re petite and bubbly and fidgety and oh-so-overjoyed. They don’t seem to notice the thick grime of dirt caked on our neglected lockers or the pungent scent of chlorine and toilet water hanging in the air. They’re too busy squeezing their tiny arms into even tinier sports bras, smearing their eyelids with yellow and blue (Webster HS colors), and dousing themselves in hair spray and body lotion.