Out of Aces (17 page)

“I’m not that hungry,” I said. “But thanks any
way.”

Her eyebrows crunched together. “I’ll bring you something.” She stood and left the
room.

Galatopita turned out to be a sweet pudding, kind of lumpy but not bad. Koulouri was bread covered in sesame seeds, which I made myself eat because Kosta’s mom was watching me. I was forcing down a bite when Kosta put his head in the
door.

“Hey,” he said. “How did you sl
eep?”

“Pretty good.” I wiped my mouth. “Your mom is taking care of me h
ere.”

Anatolios squeezed in behind Kosta. His eyes got huge when he saw
me.

Kosta said over his shoulder, “I told you. You owe me twenty bu
cks.”

Then Father Giorgios walked in. He was wearing his black dress and XL gold cross, and for one crazy second I thought he slept in his robes—and then I realized he was just dressed for work. He looked at me and ran a hand over his beard. “It looks like you got in a fight with the wrong people. Dr. Petrakis is here to see
you.”

I glanced at the door. People had been coming in, but no one had gone out, and it was getting really crowded in the room. Not to mention that I was still half-naked under the covers. “Um,” I
said.

Everyone was pressing back to make space for a little woman with long black hair and round glasses perched on her nose. She was wearing a jean skirt and a tight black sweater, and she had some sort of scarf around her head. I couldn’t help noticing how pretty she
was.

She set a small leather bag on the bedside table and looked me over. “Let’s take off that blanket, please.” My eyes flew around the room.
Is she ser
ious?

Kosta’s mom caught my look and said, “Give him some privacy. You know how Americans need their
space
.” She gave Father Giorgios and her sons little pushes on their backs until they were out the door. She winked at me as she followed them and pulled the door closed—mostly. I noticed she left it open a c
rack.

Dr. Petrakis smiled kindly. “Big fi
ght?”

“Something like that,” I murm
ured.

“You’ll need some stitches over your eye, but we can do that in a moment. Why aren’t you taking off the covers?
Shy?”

I cringed. Then I thought,
Fine. A hot older woman wants to check me out?
I pulled off the blanket, keeping my abs t
ight.

Dr. Petrakis gently pressed my shoulders. “I’m going to feel you for swelling. Tell me when it hurts, all ri
ght?”

“It all hurts,” I said, looking into her dark
eyes.

Her mouth turned up in a tiny smile. She pressed lightly along my collarbones and chest. When she got to my ribs, I groaned. “Right there?” she asked, pressing again. I nodded. Little starbursts of pain popped through my chest. “Well, you may have a fractured rib.” She lifted her hands, and I let out my breath. “If you do have a fracture, it should heal in eight weeks. But those may just be deep bruises. You should spend a week in bed, doing nothing. Do you work? Go to sch
ool?”

“Not anymore,” I
said.

She looked surprised. “Okay. Well, just rest, then. Let your family take care of
you.”

I looked away and made a sound like I was agre
eing.

Dr. Petrakis rummaged in her bag. “Let’s get your forehead stitched up. The other cuts should heal on their own.” She snapped on a pair of plastic gloves. Then she held up a shiny needle and threaded it with something like blue dental floss. She leaned in, studying my forehead, the needle just a few inches
away.

“Wait, aren’t you going to give me a painkiller?” I scooted up in
bed.

“I’m only giving you two or three stitches. You want me to ask Father Giorgios for some o
uzo?”

My eyes popped. I knew from Crescent School that ouzo was Greek liquor. “Um, what about, like, real anesthetic? If that’s o
kay.”

“Well, I’ll put on something to numb your skin, t
hen.”

I looked in horror at her focused face as she smeared jelly from a tube on my forehead. The glint in her eyes didn’t seem right. She was obviously the type who liked to dissect frogs in bio
logy.

Then the needle hit, and I squeaked loudly. “The anesthetic isn’t working
yet!”

“Hold still,” Dr. Petrakis said. “It’s only a few stitches. Be a
man.”

I glared at her. “It
hu
rts
.”

She winked at me and poked again, quick
jabs.

“Ooooow! Ow! Ow!
Ow!
”

“There, all done.” Dr. Petrakis tucked away the needle, felt around in her bag, and pulled out a pill bottle and a small plastic bag. “Let’s give you some extra-strength ibuprofen,” she said, opening the cap and shaking a handful into the bag. She set it on the dresser when she was finished. “Those are four hundred milligrams each. Try not to take more than you n
eed.”

“Thanks,” I told
her.

I watched Kosta cough another olive pit into his fist and sip tea from a cup that looked like it was made for a queen a thousand years ago. His mom had called this room the
saloni
when she was pushing us inside, and I was guessing that meant “museum” in Greek. Every time I looked down at the white-and-brown fur rug under my feet, I wondered what kind of animal it came from. There were glass cases on the walls full of wineglasses, plates, and, strangely, a collection of tiny stuffed don
keys.

Kosta set his tea on a little wood table. “There has to be somebody you can call. Your pare
nts?”

I shook my head. “It’s cool. I can take care of myself. I just need a ride home, if that’s o
kay.”

“Dr. P. said you shouldn’t be alone for the next twenty-four hours. And you don’t have a phone or a car, man. What if you need help, and you can’t even call someone? You’d—” Kosta broke off and frowned at my empty plate. “Hey, why aren’t you eating? You don’t like
it?”

“Your mom gave me a lot of breakfast,” I said, eyeing the ridiculous amount of food in front of us. There was a huge bowl of olives, a plate of dark green logs floating in greenish oil, a bowl of greasy brown balls, a bowl of tan paste, and triangles of bread. Not to mention a pastry pla
tter.

Kosta scooped a few things onto my plate. “Eat a little.
My
mom will be upset if we don’t clear off most of this, and I can’t do it all myself. Seriou
sly.”

I almost said no thanks, but some instinct told me it wouldn’t be only his mom who would be insulted. I went ahead and took a bite of one of the balls. “It’s good,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too surpr
ised.

“So, what about your girlfriend? Maybe she can come take care of
you?”

I took another bite. It was
really
good. “I don’t think she considers herself my girlfriend anymore.” I’d used Kosta’s phone to check my voice mail after Dr. P. left, and of course there were no mess
ages.

“Oh, sorry,” Kosta said awkwardly. “You guys broke
up?”

“I don’t know.” I shut my eyes, because suddenly the image of Irina was so strong, I could almost feel her standing t
here.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? How do you not know if you’re split
up?”

I glanced at Kosta, who had popped a sugar cube between his front teeth and was sipping his tea through it. He looked really intere
sted.

“All right,” I said. And I told him what happ
ened.

Kosta laughed his head off about the root I bought at the gas station. And he laughed even harder about me puking on Micah. But he looked confused when I finished with, “So she has plane tickets for tomorrow, but I don’t think she’s coming. I left three messages and she didn’t call me b
ack.”

“So that’s it?” he said. “You haven’t called her ag
ain?”

“I’m not stalking her,” I said, remembering Rob’s ad
vice.

Kosta spit another pit into his hand. “Did you send her a present? You have to buy her something really good for this kind of thing. Not just flow
ers.”

“A present wouldn’t make a difference,” I said, but even as it was coming out of my mouth, I wondered if maybe it
would
make a differ
ence.

“Every woman in the world likes presents. Give her nice jewelry and she’ll forgive you like
that
.” Kosta snapped his fin
gers.

I made a face. “I don’t know. That’s kind of che
esy.”

“Oh, really? Then why do all your women like us Greek men so much? What’s her number? Maybe she’d like to go out with me.” He sm
iled.

I almost threw a meatball at him, but it was the wrong room for a food f
ight.

“I have a cousin, Angelos,” Kosta said thoughtfully. “He can get jewelry really cheap. You want me to call him for
you?”

“No. Wait. Maybe . . . let me think about
it.”

“He can get you a pair of solid gold earrings for, like, thirty bu
cks.”

“Okay,” I said wildly. “Okay, fine. Call
him.”

Kosta nodded. “I will. Put the earrings in a nice box with a poem, and just watch. The fight will be o
ver.”

I stared at him. His hair made him look like a mad genius. The place where Dr. P. had sewn up my face was throbbing, a dull, steady beat. I thought about all the romantic comedies my mom watched, and realized Kosta was totally right: girls loved that s
tuff.

But I’d have to work out a strategy. Because I had a pretty good idea that any flowers with my name on them would end up in the fireplace in Irina’s dad’s office. “Call Angelos,” I told Kosta. “And, um, can I get online? I need to find a flower store in Seattle. Do you think there’s any that do same-
day?”

“Oh, they all do same-day,” Kosta said. He twisted in his chair and dug his phone out of his pocket. He tossed it to me. “You want me to help you find a good poem? I have this book I use for my girlfrie
nds.”

There was a weird hacking sound at the door, like somebody was trying to choke back a l
augh.

“Mom!” Kosta yelled. “Go a
way!”

To my shock, I heard footsteps in the
hall.

“I’ll get the book,” said Kosta. “There’s a good apology one in there. It always works.” He stood and dusted his hands, dropping powdered sugar on the fur carpet. “Look,” he said. “I’ll take you home if you want. But why don’t you stay one more night? Because of what Dr. P. s
aid.”

“That’s cool, man. Thanks a lot. But I really have to get go
ing.”

“At least stay for dinner. My mom will be insulted if you leave before din
ner.”

I frowned at him, like,
yeah right
—but he was serious. I could see it on his face. “For real?” I said after a se
cond.

“Oh, believe
me.”

“All right, t
hen.”

Kosta’s grin was so big, I knew I’d done the right t
hing.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

D
on’t hang up,” I said to Irina later that night. I was sitting in the guest room, where someone had crept in and made the bed, and washed and folded my shirt. I was holding Kosta’s phone so tight, my fingers were white. My chest was ac
hing.

Silence. Then: “This isn’t your number. Where are you calling f
rom?”

“My friend’s phone. I lost m
ine.”

“I got the flowers and the poem. Thank
you.”

I licked my lips. My mouth was sticky and dry. “Do you know why I picked that p
oem?”

“You were saying sorry,” said Irina. I heard something rustle on the other end. “That was pretty smart with the c
ard.”

“Did they hide one card inside the other? That’s what I told them to
do.”

“Yeah.” There was more quiet rustling, a waiting
sound, like maybe Irina was turning over in bed. And I realized I’d gotten halfway down the court, but now I had to put the ball through the net. Kosta would know exactly what to say, but I felt like I was blindfolded with another gun to my
head.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I love you. I know we have a lot of stuff to figure out, and I know I screwed up bad about Micah. I do trust you.” I took a breath and thought,
Step softly.
“So I’m not asking you to pick up where we left off. I’m just asking you to use the tickets. Give me that time, and whatever you decide, I’ll respect
it.”

“Oh, Gabe.” The soft sound in her voice told me I was gaining gr
ound.

“I know long distance is hard. I don’t think either of us really knew how hard it would be.” It was a relief to say it out
loud.

“I definitely didn’t,” said I
rina.

“But we have something people spend their whole lives looking
for.”

She didn’t an
swer.

I ground the phone into my ear, listening to beat after beat of frightening silence. “Am I crazy? Or do you ag
ree?”

“You’re not crazy,” she said. Then, “I’m going to come. But I’m getting a ho
tel.”

“A hotel?” I repeated stup
idly.

“We have things to talk about that could turn into a fight. I don’t want us to be trapped in the same room. With only one
bed.”

“So you’re
planning
to fight with
me?”

“No, of course not. But I know how these conversations can
go.”

I closed my eyes and pressed my fist to my forehead. I would
not
get into it with her right now.
Step softly.
“Okay. Whatever you w
ant.”

“All right,” Irina said. “I’m going to get off now. The phone is no good. We’re already misunderstanding each ot
her.”

“Irina, I’m
trying
,” I
said.

“I know you are.” Her voice was gentle again. “That’s why I’m coming. Are you picking me up at the airport tomor
row?”

“Yeah. Wait, I mean . . .” My stomach bottomed out.
My
car.

“W
hat?”

“Nothing. Yeah. I’ll pick you up. I’m probably getting a new phone tomorrow, but if I don’t, just wait at passenger pick-up, okay? I’ll be there. And, um .
 . .”

“What?” She sounded suspic
ious.

I almost warned her about my face, but then she’d want to know why, and I wasn’t ready for that. I needed the next twelve hours to think up a story. “Nothing. Never m
ind.”

“Okay. I’ll be on the flight. I’ll see you then.” Her voice was faint, as if she’d moved the phone away from her mouth, and I had an image of her getting smaller and smaller, turning into a point of light. No matter how hard I worked or far I reached, I’d never quite catch
her.

“What did she say?” Kosta asked when I came back out of the guest room. He was sprawled out, feet kicked up on the doily-covered couch. A magazine was cracked open over his stomach. His mom and dad and brother were at the table in the other room. Dinner had taken two hours, no joke. And they were still talking over coffee and
cake.

I gave him the thumbs-up. “She’s coming. The flowers and poem wor
ked.”

Kosta gave a delighted laugh. “Just wait until you get her some earri
ngs!”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll see.” I was thinking earrings weren’t on the top of my list, considering I had no car, no phone, and a face like a losing b
oxer.

“Believe me, it’ll be great. When is she com
ing?”

“Tomorrow,” I said, with the weirdest mix of excitement and fear. Fear because the whole thing was ridiculous, a scam; how could I pull it off? Excitement because I’d gotten her to say
yes
. And because I needed this pressure to kick me into gear and make something ha
ppen.

“Bring her to Helios,” said Kosta. “I’m working tomorrow ni
ght.”

I glanced at him. It wasn’t like I had any better i
deas.

“I’ll take good care of you,” he promised. “Any time after ei
ght.”

“Okay,” I said. “Maybe I will. Thanks. Listen, I should probably get going. I have to figure out a couple things before she gets h
ere.”

“Like how to use cover-up?” Kosta grinned. “Just kidding. But you do look kind of ugly. I hope you warned
her.”

“Not exactly. Anyway, she loves me for my personality,” I
said.

He thought that was hilarious. “You sure you have to
go?”

“Yeah, I really have to get b
ack.”

“Well, ah,”—Kosta looked guilty—“my dad said he wants to take you home. Is that okay? He said he wants to talk to you. Or something.” He was turning
red.

“Sure,” I said, playing it cool. But I was nervous. Priests seemed like advanced cops who could read your mind
and
your soul. Not that I’d ever known any—so maybe I wasn’t being
fair.

“Baba!” called K
osta.

There was a scrape from the dining room, chair legs on tile floor. “One minute,” Father Giorgios ca
lled.

Kosta set his magazine on the back of the couch and stood up. Behind us, there was a clink of plates in the other room and the mutter of low voices. He shifted his weight, and said, “Look, if you need anything, or if you start hurting or whatever, just call and we’ll come get you ag
ain.”

“Thanks, man. That’s really cool of you.” I looked at his worried brown eyes and felt grat
eful.

“Don’t be a stranger. Bring your girl into Helios tomorrow night. Rea
lly.”

“I w
ill.”

Kosta clasped my hand. “Take care of yours
elf.”

“You, too,” I said, shaking hands good-bye, and then Father Giorgios walked out of the kitchen, jingling his keys. Presbytera Anna was behind him, carrying a Tupperware container and a plastic
bag.

“Just a few things for later,” she said. “Since you liked dinner.” She handed the food to Father Giorgios and kissed my cheeks—not air kisses, but real, hard mom kisses. Then she grabbed my chin and said, “You come back. Underst
and?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, breaking into a s
mile.

“Soon!” She let go of my chin and watched us head out the
door.

Father Giorgios’s car was at least twenty years old, maybe more. It smelled like cigars, and the seat was as smooth and soft as old shoes. Little paper pictures of saints with dark skin and serious eyes were tucked along the dashboard. A wooden cross dangled on a black string from the rearview mirror. It took a few tries before the engine coughed on, and then Father Giorgios poked his glasses farther up his nose, leaned forward, and eased down the driv
eway.

I looked out the fogged window at the houses slipping past. Maybe we would both be really quiet and I could just rest. Maybe there would be no more twenty questions like we had at dinner, although to be fair, that was mostly Kosta’s
mom.

Or maybe
not.

Father Giorgios cleared his throat. “Forgive me for saying this, but eighteen is very yo
ung.”

“I know,” I said, feeling t
ired.

“I’m worried that you have no family h
ere.”

I felt guilty. Like somehow it was my fault that I didn’t have any
body.

“You said your mother is in Washing
ton?”

“Y
eah.”

“I’m not trying to pry into your business.” He gave me a worried look, driving slowly through a yellow light. “I don’t need to know details. But this beating was very rough. Will those people come after you ag
ain?”

“No,” I said immedia
tely.

“Are you s
ure?”

“Yeah, and even if they did, it’s okay. I can handle
it.”

Father Giorgios blew air from puffed lips. “A tough guy! Have you been taking notes from my s
ons?”

I smiled. “No,
sir.”

“What I’m trying to say . . .” He turned right, almost nicking the curb, and started the long crawl down Trop. “Is that I’m worried. I wouldn’t like to see Konstantinos or Anatolios in your situation. So if there’s any help I can give, anything at all, you must ask me. Will you promise?” He sounded almost shy, and my nervousness disappe
ared.

“Okay,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll need any help, but thanks for offer
ing.”

He patted his long beard thoughtfully. “All right. Now, I have something for you.” He reached for the glove box and jerked the handle a couple of times. It fell open and a stack of papers slid out. I caught them and set them back in p
lace.

“See that black can in front?” said Father Giorgios. “The one with tape on it? Take it out.
Carefu
lly
.”

I pulled out a black canister wrapped in masking tape and turned it over, trying to figure out what it was. It looked sinister, like a taped-up
gun.

“That’s police Mace,” said Father Giorgios. “If those hooligans come after you again, you can defend yours
elf.”

I was so surprised, I laughed out loud. “Where did you get t
his?”

“There are some Greeks in LVPD,” Father Giorgios said. “I’ve been mugged before, and they thought I needed some. I’ve never used it, but they tell me it works well. You can’t buy that kind in sto
res.”

“Thanks, but I can’t take this. It’s yours.” I reached forward to put it back in the glove box, but he stopped me with a tap on the
arm.

“Don’t insult the giver by returning the g
ift!”

Like with the food, I had a feeling there were layers here I didn’t understand. I glanced at him—he was frowning—and turned the Mace over in my hands. “Okay. Well, thanks, t
hen.”

He nodded and blasted his horn at a Maserati that he’d cut off. “You’re welcome. I hope you never have to use
it.”