Of course, no one dared point out that it was Isis’s fault the scorpions were hanging around in the first place.
“OH, SHUT UP.” I LAUGH AROUND A MOUTHFUL of gyro. Yesterday Ry took me to the “best” sushi around. I didn’t care for the eel, but the California roll grew on me. I don’t get seaweed, though. Texturally and tastewise, it makes no sense.
Today’s food, however, is effortless to enjoy.
“No, really,” he says.
“You do not love that statue. It’s an atrocity.”
“I absolutely love it.” Ry’s face is straight but his eyes betray him, merry dancing sapphires. “It’s tasteful, understated. Like the life-size bust of my mother in our entryway.”
I snort, barely able to keep my last bite from spraying out. We’re sitting on the grass at the harbor, surrounded by trees, in front of one of the strangest statues I’ve seen in my life. It’s a sailor, tipping back a woman in a passionate kiss. But it’s huge. Swallowing, I say, “I probably come up to the top of her shoe. From far away it looks kind of normal. Until you get close, then it’s bam, humongous giants making out on the grass. In fact, I think that may be the title of the sculpture.”
“If it’s not, it should be.” Ry leans back happily as we watch tourists take pictures beneath the behemoths.
“And why that pose? Her spine must be killing her after all these years of being tipped back.”
“It comes from a really iconic photograph.”
“Huh. Probably worked better as a picture.”
“Yup. How’s the gyro?”
“Meh, you know. So-so.”
“Really?”
I shrug. “I’ve had better.”
“And that’s why you’ve inhaled it.”
I lick the remnants of cucumber sauce off the waxed paper. “I don’t like to waste food.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He watches me suspiciously, and I try to avoid giving away how amazing the gyro really was. He wasn’t kidding—this is the best Greek food I’ve ever had. Which isn’t saying too much, since my mom would never have consented to make it, but still.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “I love it so much I might agree to skip past friends and dating and have its little gyro babies. But you can’t take credit for this food, anyway.”
“No?”
“Nope. The spicy meat? The cool cucumber sauce? Totally stole it. You Greeks and your culture theft.”
“Is it theft if you take something and improve on it?”
“Let’s add delusions of superiority to the list of things that are wrong with you.”
“Me me, or Greeks in general?”
“You you. I’ll try not to hold you against your people.”
“Fair enough. Though you do know your name is Greek, right?”
I gasp. “It is not!”
“Is so. Look it up online. Isadora means Gift of the Moon.”
“No, it means Gift of Isis, who was also goddess of the moon on occasion. And it’s from when the Greeks went ahead and stole worship of Egyptian gods, so technically it’s Egyptian, not Greek.” Also evidence of how desperate my mother has been getting lately to find names that are versions of her own or Osiris’s after having so freaking many kids. Two hundred years ago she wouldn’t have touched anything even mildly Greek in origin.
But wait. Ry looked up what my name means? He can’t have just known. That’s something a friend would do. Right? Right.