Intrigue (14 page)

How to Flunk Bowling—Also known as
The Incident

1.Put on anti-bacterial lotion on your hands right before you bowl;

2.Make sure your little hands are
way
to small for the average bowling ball holes;

I yelled to Jazz to call 911 and get an ambulance here ASAP. I told Key to call the school to let Principal Wakefield know what happened. I might be a bowling loser, but I was pretty good in a crisis. Rafe was on Mr. Brown’s other side and had given him something to bite down on to help with the pain. I continued with the heartfelt apologies until Rafe finally motioned me to zip it. Mr. Brown finally spoke and told me to get everyone ready to leave. As I looked at my classmates, I noticed three general reactions to the dreadful accident: shock and disgust at the appearance of Mr. Brown’s leg, fascination with Mr. Brown’s leg, and amusement at what a
total bowling tool I am.

I started making people go back to their lanes, put their balls back, and clean up their stuff. The ambulance got to the bowling alley in under 10 minutes, and they gave Mr. Brown something for the pain before they had to move his leg. He was still in the same position because Rafe would not let him move. They put an inflatable cast on to stabilize his leg, then gently moved him to the stretcher while the whole class gawked and shuddered at his moans of pain. I moved back to his side with a stream of my apologies again and before they took him away he addressed the class in the following
classic
, Mr. Brown way:

“I want you all to learn one main lesson from this unfortunate event,” Mr. Brown announced through clenched teeth.

Some class member yelled out, “Never stand behind Calli when she bowls!”

Mr. Brown cleared his throat to make the laughter die down, “Well two lessons, then. Never stand in the lanes behind someone,
and
there is no excuse for foul language even if you are in a tremendous amount of pain. Good manners cost
nothing
!” Most of my class managed to smother their smirks or laughs at this statement, but the EMTs had to cover their mouths to avoid offending Mr. Brown. Luckily, our bus driver arrived just as the ambulance pulled away, and we were able to make a hasty retreat. Key put her arm around me and Jazz tried to cheer me by saying “Maybe this means no more bowling!”

Rafe just shook his head and said, “I am sorry to disappoint you, but I really don’t see professional bowling in your future, Calli.
”

On the ride home, I heard the phrase “Good manners cost nothing,” at least 10 times in the short trip. Unfortunately, I think that is probably going to be the new buzz phrase for our junior class, and it was
true
good manners do cost nothing. Thrace was waiting inside the entrance to the school along with various other students milling around. They all seemed to have heard the news but were waiting for more details or to make fun of me—which I
totally
deserved.

As Jazz, Key, Rafe, and I walked in, Thrace threw his arm around me and announced, “Calliope Edonides, I knew you were lethal. I never expected it to be with a bowling ball.”

Jazz and Key rolled their eyes. I mumbled back at Thrace something to the effect that he
would
n’t think it was funny if he had seen Mr. Brown’s leg. As I pulled away from Thrace, I saw Rafe’s shocked expression.

I gave Rafe a questioning look as he quietly asked me, “Your name is Calliope, not Calli?”

He got a round of weird looks from all of us then. He had become a part of our group so quickly that we had forgotten that he was not privy to all our life histories. I studied Rafe for a minute trying to figure out why the answer to this question was so important to him. “No one calls me Calliope except my parents or Thrace when I have done something bad. I have always been Calli, why?”

He looked shaken for a moment but quickly realized his reaction to my real name was odd. “Did your dad specifically want you named after the head Muse in Greek Mythology?”

“No, my dad is not that Greek. He is more like a Christmas and Easter Greek than a
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
Greek. No Greek school for me, no 100 Greek first cousins. Just church and the Greek fest every year.”

Thrace piped in at that moment to further make fun of me today. “Her mom got to name Calliope after her favorite trashy romance novel heroine.”

I snarked back at Thrace, “We can’t all be named after kings and countries that were part of Greece like you were.”

My snarking seemed to be the cue for everyone to get back to normal. I let Jazz and Key fill everyone in as I headed off to class. The rest of my day was spent in razzing and humiliation. The next day I heard that Mr. Brown was going to have knee replacement surgery, and he wouldn’t be back for at least a month. I had hoped that maybe he had bad knees to begin with, and he would have had the surgery eventually. He was in his 40s. His knees might have been shot anyway—maybe. Another day of classmates razzing me, and “Good manners cost nothing” made my karate class come in handy. Maybe my classmates would finally let up next week because: 1) it was my birthday, and 2) the substitute gym teachers we have had so far (both a male and a female) have far exceeded Mr. Brown in looks and ability in real sports.

Hermes Field Log: September 2007

Now it all makes sense. Calliope is a Muse. And Apollo is trying to both hide and protect her from Ares. I can’t say I blame him based on his last time around with those two in Vienna, but the tables are turned now and Ares controls the city. Why did Apollo let me think she was an ordinary human? Why did he not let me protect myself from falling under her spell because it is really too late now? Of course, just because Apollo found her first does not mean that she is his. My connection to her is real. I can feel it. But if I act on it, I would be betraying the trust Apollo has in me. Yet, we have no idea whose Muse she is until she is an adult. If I have learned one thing in my existence, it is that happiness is fleeting. When you find it, you hold on to it for however long it lasts. Yet, your honor is the core of being a protector. My relationship with Calliope has been mere seconds compared to my relationship with my brother. Yet, I want to choose my Juliet. One thing is clear. In the words of Shakespeare’s Romeo, “O, I am fortune's fool!”

Chapter 12: Flocked Up Movie Night

It's one thing to want someone out of your life, but it's another thing to serve them a wake-up cup full of liquid drainer. —Veronica Sawyer--Heathers

Thrace’s constant teasing about
The Incident
grated on my nerves so much that I finally took Rafe’s suggestion to heart from the pool party. I decided that I would do the traditional date night on Friday with Thrace, but on Saturday, Jazz, Key, and I were hanging out without the guys. These weekend plans were also caused by the fact that Thrace wanted to go to a party on Saturday thrown by a senior that was well known for his epic events—usually resulting in police intervention. I guess his grounding was now over. When Thrace pulled up to my door for Friday date night, there was still some tension left over from the “you go your way and I’ll go mine” plans for Saturday night. As I got in his car, my hopes were not set real high for a pleasant evening. But then, he pulled out a box with a little piece of paper inside that said Step 5: Kissing on Lips: No Tongue.

I laughed as I looked at Thrace’s hopeful expression. “You really want to get past this one quickly, so it is back to business as usual.”

Thrace leaned over before lightly kissing me on the lips. He finally said in dramatic whisper just in case my dad could hear him, “You have
no idea!
”

I laughed again, gave him a peck on the lips, and said, “So what’s on this evenings agenda, Jeeves?”

Thrace seemed a little hesitant to tell me where we were heading. He finally announced, “Since next weekend is gonna be all about you for your birthday, I thought you wouldn’t mind heading down south to go to the Milan Dragway.”

I smiled at his arm-twisting attempt. Thrace
loved
muscle cars and drag racing. As soon as he turned 18 and he had the money, he would be on the track at Milan for a true test run. Until then, he and his buddies loved heading down to Milan Dragway for any type of event. Thrace had said many times what kind of crazy world it was that the birthplace of the Big 3 didn’t have their own dragway since the Detroit Dragway/The ‘Dirty D’ was closed in 1998.

I raised an eyebrow at him and announced, “Only if you have brought me earplugs and only if we get some greasy burgers and fries on our road trip.”

A big smile spread across Thrace’s face as he tossed me a package of earplugs and turned on a really loud Def Leopard song as he pealed out of my driveway. It was only about a 30-minute trip down to Milan, but with numerous 80s hair band songs later, it felt much longer. Thrace was completely pumped up and hyper by the time we got there. I had a pretty good time people watching, and I managed to find at least one sweeeeettttt mullet—both male and female. (If only I could include a picture section in this book!)

The next day after karate class Jazz, Key, and Thrace decided to join Rafe and I as we headed to the DUA. Something was still up with my mod squad. As we walked in the GAR, Dr. A greeted us and sent my friends up to the research lab, but he asked me to remain behind. He said since I had been volunteering longer than my friends that he thought I might like to go on a scouting trip. I enthusiastically agreed, but he downplayed the trip by letting me know that it was just a preliminary drive by with pictures and note taking. My enthusiasm remained undimmed as I raced outside to catch my ride.

As I flew out the door and came skidding to a halt in front of the GAR building, Delian came pulling up in a brand new-looking Black Dodge Charger. It fit him to a tee. As I was doing my usual gawking, he quickly came around the car, opened my door for me, and hustled me in as if he was afraid I wouldn’t go.

Once he was back in the car, he looked at me solemnly and said, “Thanks for coming with me Calliope. I really appreciate your help.”

I did my stuttering routine again as I tried to get out a simple question. “Where…where…..are we going? Dr. A forgot to tell me.”

Delian gave me a knowing smile as he clued me in to our destination, “We’re heading out to Belle Isle.”

A slight groan escaped from me as I remembered the beautiful island in the middle of the Detroit River that was the most frequent destination for school field trips. It had a conservatory, nature center, and rich history, which bored elementary students that just wanted to run out and play in its open spaces and wooded trails. Belle Isle, which was primarily owned by the City of Detroit, was struggling to survive with some of its previous showplaces falling into disrepair much like the rest of Detroit. As we got older, Belle Isle had become one of those romantic places to take a date, which pretty much defined it as being one of the last places I wanted to be alone with Delian. I know of at least five girls that asked their dates to go with them to the back to school dance on Belle Isle (and at least a dozen girls in the high school that lost their virginity somewhere on Belle Isle). He seemed to, as usual, sense the direction of my thoughts as he commented, “Alone on a deserted island with me—sounds like your idea of heaven.”

I quipped back, “Or torture. And first of all, it is not totally deserted. Second, the island has a bridge, so I have already come up with at least four ways to escape. Where are we going on Belle Isle anyway?”

He glanced at me as he weaved his way through traffic and headed to the MacArthur Bridge that would take us over to the island. “Well, first we will have a little picnic by the fountain and casino (not gambling casino—a meeting place casino), then we are going to get pictures of the Aquarium. We might team up with the city to see what the possibilities are for renovation.”

As we headed over the bridge, I finally was able to get picnic panic out of my head as I said, “Ixney on the picnic, I am here to work not be wooed.” Unfortunately, my stomach chose that exact time to growl, so I knew I was fighting a losing battle.

Delian gave me his sarcastic eyebrow raise then said in no uncertain terms, “No picnic…no work…I’m hungry and it is time for lunch. You can watch me eat if you want. I promise that there are no roses or champagne in the picnic basket.”

By the time he pulled into the casino, I was ready to jump out just to get away from his all too potent personality, looks, and pheromones. Apparently, our chemistry was much more powerful than I have previously given it credit for. There was something about being in a small, enclosed space with Delian that was playing havoc on my system. As soon as I got out of the car, I took several deep breaths to clear my system of his scent. By the time I turned back around, he had already pulled a picnic basket and blanket out of the trunk.

I was planning to sit quite a distance away from Delian as we had our lunch, but I couldn’t judge the size of the blanket. As we started to walk toward the open grassy area that looked toward Detroit, I was finally able to speak again, “That better be a big blanket.”