The Dig (2 page)

―Want to go watch
Teen Mom
?‖ CeeCee asks me.

―Sure.‖

―For real?‖

I nod. I always avoid this kind of stuff at Greeley. But suddenly I find myself following CeeCee down the hall and down the stairs and into the common room. The show has already started by the time we walk in, which means that I am spared the what-is-
she
-doing-here looks I get on the rare occasion that I do join in. Junior year would have been easier for me if I‘d hung out more. But I say that at the end of every year. I‘ve always been this way. I can only get into something when I know it‘s about to end. I hit the dance floor during the last five minutes of every dance and I usually don‘t

ever come into the common room until whatever silly show everyone loves is about to roll credits.

I sit in the back and wrap my arms around my legs and rock a little. Brrr.

Every single window is open and the cross breeze is intensifying. Nobody seems to be chilled but me. I could cry, awash with the sense that I will never be here again, that the wind is coming for me. Stop it, Zoe. You‘re being lame. Next year you‘ll be in a dorm just like this one.

And if you cry, everyone
will
stare at you. I let go of my legs and try to sit normally, whatever that means, as I wait for the strange bee-stung feeling to pass.

In some weird way, when I later look back on that final night in the Greeley common room, I‘ll wonder if I had a premonition about what was coming, if I knew somehow that I really would meet my destiny in Greece.

We‘ve been trapped on the tarmac at Heraklion Airport in Crete for one hour and six minutes. That‘s not a long time. But when you‘ve been traveling for twenty-two hours, it hurts.

Everyone does the same thing when they‘re grounded in a plane: They talk on the phone and text the people they love.

Why do these people have so much to say when we‘ve all been on the same plane for so many hours? The only person, besides me, who isn‘t on the phone is an old man three seats over from me. I wonder if he lives in America, like me, or if he lives here in Greece. I would wonder if he‘s wondering why I‘m not on the phone either, but like most men in the world, he doesn‘t know I‘m alive.

I‘m not ugly or anything. I just have better things to do than dye my hair blond or pore over shirts at Forever21.com. I have dark, naturally curly hair. Sometimes I look like a Greek goddess with my dark tendrils, but most of the time I look like a ―before‖ picture. I‘ve always had this feeling that I‘ll look my best when I‘m older, like one day I‘ll wake up and find that my nose fits my face and that my cowlick surrendered. But I‘ll be so busy with work that I won‘t even realize it.

That‘s when I‘ll fall in love.

The woman next to me elbows me sharply. It was an accident, but I get it. People are really uncomfortable with silence in close situations like this.

I have to do something, so I log on to Facebook.

CeeCee Banks just landed in MVeee and already landed fun for tonite!

Attached to her update is a Hipstamatic photo of CeeCee with some guy with shaggy blond hair and a polo shirt. They‘ve already friended each other. I don‘t know how she does it. But I try not to take it all too seriously. If I know anything about CeeCee‘s summers on ―MVeee,‖ it‘s that the romances from late June never last long enough to make it into her description of her summer come September. And who knows? Maybe this will be the summer that I have a cute boyfriend to talk about late at night.

When the flight attendant tells us we are finally free to move about the cabin and disembark, chaos ensues. The woman next to me seems to think that if she drops her purse on my feet, she will get off the plane before me. As I shuffle down the aisle, careful not to bump Old Man No Phone when he cuts in front of me, I feel optimistic. My Greece won‘t be about games and myths and silliness. My Greece will be about philosophers and playwrights and people who were too busy building ideas and temples to obsess over what other people think of them. This really is my homeland in a way. Crete is the birthplace of science and I got a solid A in physics this year. I try not to smile because I don‘t want to seem dorky, but the craziest thought zips through my head.

It‘s too bad Aristotle is dead. I feel like we could have connected, almost as instantly as CeeCee and her shaggy summer boyfriend.

I feel silly for thinking that, but then again, it‘s not like I‘m
that
deluded.

It‘s not like I‘m imagining I could have hooked up with one of those toga-clad make-believe gods. Better to crush on someone who once lived than someone dreamed up by desperate superstitious people.

I text Uncle Alex:
Walking
.

Skipping actually, but nobody has to know.

It‘s always easy to spot Uncle Alex and Aunt Sophia at an airport. You look for the most garish, beaten-up van you can find. Then you look for the middle-age couple in matching khaki getups. They look like they‘re going to a costume party as Mr. and Mrs. Indiana Jones.

I walk over to the van and climb in the back. Alex is driving and Sophia is on the phone coordinating the arrival of an intern. They have a nice way of sensing when I want to be left alone.

It‘s wonderful to just kick back in the van and look out the window and get to know my summer home. From the outside, Heraklion Airport actually looks like an ancient coliseum, as imagined by the architects who build theme parks. And as we venture into the surrounding city, I get the nervous sensation I get every time I arrive at a dig. I remember my first dig in Hawaii, landing and being so disturbed by the fast-food chains. Alex and Sophia wanted to know why I was being so quiet and I said that, from the sky, Maui looked wild with mountains and lush grass, but all that I saw must have been an illusion. They told me to close my eyes and wait. And I did; I was exhausted. When they woke me up, I could barely speak—volcanoes, wild palm trees and sun so hot it felt like you could hold it in your hands.

At the edge of the dig site, we pull up to a roadblock. A man with a clipboard and a long, skinny beard approaches the car. I know by now who this guy is; he‘s a guard. Usually, we dig on protected lands, places where tourists aren‘t allowed to go and locals avoid because they respect their history and they don‘t want to build a house or a Taco Bell there. As my aunt and uncle small-talk with the clipboard guy, I look up at the tall grass waving ahead in the distance and I feel like a runner about to reach the finish line. I am so focused on the road ahead that when my uncle shifts the clunky van into gear, I fall back. Aunt Sophia and Uncle Alex share a little laugh, and then something strange happens.

Aunt Sophia squeezes his hand. They never hold hands, at least not in front of me. A wave of loneliness sweeps over me. I gaze out the window and take in the new land. The trees all look thirsty but stubborn, like if you sprayed them with a hose, the water would come splashing back at you.

They are jagged and enormous. If I were a little kid, I would be having nightmares tonight.

It‘s all just so rambling and disorganized. I spot a patch of electric green grass, almost like the area rug in the common room at school. And why? It makes no sense. Walls of rock spring out of nowhere and I grow dizzy. In a place like this, how do you even know where to begin digging?

―What do you think, Zoe?‖ Alex asks.

―It‘s wild.‖

―You have to be very careful here,‖ Sophia says. ―These bushes, most of them have thorns.‖

―I can tell.‖

―And you can‘t go wandering off into the valleys. The paths are not well marked.‖

―I know. Because tourists aren‘t allowed.‖ Aunt Sophia catches my eye in the rearview mirror and smiles. ―Is there anything you
don’t
know, Zoe?‖

―No. Obviously I know everything.‖

What a stupid thing to say: ―I know everything.‖ There is so much I don‘t know. I don‘t know where I‘ll go to college. Heck, I don‘t even know what I‘ll write my admissions essay about.

It‘s irrational of me to blush, but I do, because thinking about college makes me think about the ridiculous essay I‘d started writing the other night.

One of my dream schools demanded that all prospective students answer this question in the form of an essay:
Who are you and what makes
you different from everyone you know?

Applications aren‘t due for a long time, but I‘m really excited about college and I really didn‘t want to go to the Junior Jam on the West Lawn, so I sat on my bed in the empty dorm trying to answer that question. I started out writing about archeology (what else?) and then my dislike of Facebook until soon enough I‘d managed to write the dorkiest sentence of all time:
Feelings are
just plain not as lasting as stuff. You can’t dig up love that’s
2,000 years old. But you can dig up a
hunk of clay.

I cringe just thinking about it. I couldn‘t even get a job writing birthday messages for a greeting card company.

―Earth to Zoe.‖

And then, in a flash, I forget all about my essay. We have arrived at the dig. This is my favorite part of summer. The tents are up. Metal bowls of hummus and carrots are catching sun and blinding me, and the yellow-T-shirt-clad volunteers are buzzing about, transporting pickaxes, blueprints, water jugs.

I am home.

Aunt Sophia turns and smiles at me. ―Zoe, we have some very exciting news.‖

I look at her. Then I look at her hand, still locked in Uncle Alex‘s. I panic. I‘m always afraid they might have a baby. It‘s not that I don‘t like kids or anything. But a baby can‘t go on a dig, right? I swallow.

Sophia laughs. ―Relax. I‘m not pregnant.‖

―So what is it?‖

She turns away from me and looks ahead at the base camp, which I now realize has an energy that‘s different from what I‘ve experienced on past digs. One of the volunteers is gasping and waving her arms, as if she‘s witnessed some kind of miracle.

―Guys, seriously. What‘s the news?‖

Uncle Alex breaks away from Sophia and grabs his keys. He turns and looks at me. ―You‘ll see.‖

It must be a hundred degrees in the tent when I wake up the next morning, covered in sweat. I love that first morning at a new site. I‘m disoriented but safe. I‘m groggy and jet-lagged and there‘s that wonderful moment when it‘s unclear where in the world I am or how I got here.

Naturally, Aunt Sophia says that is no excuse for being late. But she should know by now that this is the only day of the summer that I get all girly. It‘s like the first day of school. And given that this dig is pretty much the biggest dig of my life and theirs, I think I‘m allowed.

They came here hoping to unearth an ancient village, but what they found was an ancient temple. I haven‘t seen it yet, but everyone at dinner last night used the same adjectives: mind-blowing, jaw-dropping, bigger than the White House, larger than life. Anytime I‘m about to get my mind blown and feel my jaw drop, I‘d like to look my best. And okay, this isn‘t
just
about the giant temple. Much as I hate to admit it, this is also about boys.I‘m finally seventeen. I‘m going to be a senior. So if there was ever a summer when I might actually have a little romantic adventure, this would be the one. And the adventure is more likely to happen if I‘m wearing something cute. The college students were off camping last night, so I didn‘t meet any of them.

I‘ve never had a summer boyfriend, but Alex and Sophia keep saying that this year‘s crop of students is really special.

And two of these special individuals are
boys
.
I mean, you never know.

Maybe the discovery of the temple is some kind of omen. Maybe this is the summer that everything comes together.

And maybe white pants are the key.

On a rare excursion to the mall in town near Greeley, I let CeeCee pick out clothes for me.

They‘re impractical and kind of silly, but maybe that‘s a good thing. I slip on my new white cargo pants. I‘ve never owned white pants before, and they‘re crisp and tighter than my khakis. The tank top she selected looks about three sizes too small, but once I layer it with a tan linen shirt, I feel a little more like me. I flip my hair and rub straightening gel into my scalp, through the cowlick and down to the ends. There‘s no mirror in the tent, so I grab my iPhone and snap a picture of myself.

The mascara I put on makes me look kind of clownish, but at the same time, I feel more sophisticated. Good enough for Aristotle…maybe.

It‘s my bad luck that Aunt Sophia happens to be passing the moment I exit the tent. She stops walking. Her eyes bulge.

―Zoe, where is the party?‖

―Stop it.‖

―White pants? Are you kidding?‖

―They‘re cotton. Anything will wash out.‖ She shakes her head and approaches me. She whispers, ―You‘re wasting your time. The college students aren‘t back from their night away. No boys for you just yet, Zoe.‖

My cheeks flare up and I want to go change immediately. Am I that obvious? I look around. Everyone else is in dark pants. I could kill CeeCee.

Hanging my head, I start back into my tent, but Uncle Alex intercepts me.

―Come on, Zoe.‖

―I have to change.‖

―No you don‘t. But take off the tag. Don‘t want to litter in the largest ancient temple discovered in the last hundred years.‖ I rip off the tag and toss it in the trash. Forget boys. History is here now.

I don‘t understand where all this sand came from. We‘ve been plowing and huffing and puffing and it feels like we‘re not getting anywhere.

Walking through the sand feels like walking through snow in stilettos.

―Okay, won‘t be long now,‖ Uncle Alex says.

―You said that an hour ago.‖

―Nonsense. An hour ago you were having a fashion show.‖ Uncle Alex motions for me to grab a branch to steady myself as I follow him over a large, lopsided rock. When I land on the other side of the rock, I see it for the first time. The site. For a moment there are no words. Nobody was exaggerating and my mind is blown and my eyes are full and my jaw is somewhere beneath my boots.

―Aren‘t you going to say something?‖