A Shrine to an Unknown God

CULTURE SHOCK

IN THE CURVE OF A CUL-DE-SAC rests the Moon family home. As far as Florida houses go, it is nothing atypical—yellow stucco capped with a red tile roof. Palm trees and other tropical plants line the walkway. As Marisol leads me up it, a lizard darts across our path. Her hair is still dripping wet, sticking to her t-shirt. In the short amount of time that we've been outside after Dahlia dropped us off, she's accumulated enough sweat dripping down her face to become visible to me. The humidity rubs itself to a paste against my skin.

We walk inside and the world comes to life. The AC's on full-blast, the cold air buzzing as it circulates rich spices through the air. Warm golden light spills from overhead. A peppy tune—"pop" music, as I've learned to call it—trickles out from a speaker that magically changes color with each beat. We're dumped into the brightly-lit kitchen, where her parents cook side-by-side. A yappy, medium-sized, curly-tailed dog with orange fur dances around our feet, licking our ankles and sniffing at us.

"This is Gucci," Marisol says, rubbing the dog behind her ears. "Ooh, my baby, did you miss me?"

I let her sniff my hands. "Hi, Gucci."

Her mother is this tiny little Korean-American woman. She is clothed simply in a t-shirt and jeans cuffed at her ankles, and her silky black hair falls to her shoulders in perfect little waves. Her eyes are dark and intense and seem to see right through me.

In contrast, her father's outfit has, as Marisol would put it, "drip." A pair of slacks and a suit jacket unbuttoned casually over a white blouse. He's small and round and bald, but he has a full coily brown beard. He's black, dark-skinned.

"Hi Mom!" Marisol throws herself into her mother's arms, then embraces her father. "And hi Dad!"

"Hi, spawn." Her father hugs her back and spins around to me, hugging me warmly. "You must be Antigone. I'm Marisol's old man. You can call me Desmond if you want."

"I'm Judy." Her mother offers me her hand like we've made a business deal. "We've heard so much about you."

"Moooooooom!" Marisol whines. "Not that much."

"What?" She holds up her hands in mock innocence and then returns to the pan simmering on the stove. "I'm just—what is it that you say, M&M? Spilling the tea? You're all she seems to talk about these days."

Well. She did decide to illegally smuggle a Greek demigoddess into her country, one whom she thought was on the run from a god that wrongfully wants her dead. Something of that nature is bound to take over a person's life.

Except I can't say any of that. So, instead, giggling, I poke Marisol in the side. "Oh? What about, pray tell?"

Marisol's cheeks redden. Playfully swatting my hand away, she rolls her eyes. "Shut up!"

"Girls! Hot food, be careful!" her mother flaps her hands at us, shooing us off. "Dinner'll be ready in fifteen. Have a seat at the counter."

We do as we're told. Marisol's so short, her feet can't reach the little footrest on the tall chair, so she tucks her legs up underneath her. Gucci the dog parks herself beneath us, pawing at our chairs for attention.

"So, Antigone." Judy says as she chops a carrot. "Marisol tells me you're from Greece. What part?"

"Apollonisi," I answer at the same time that Marisol says, "Athens."

"Apollonisi is a neighborhood in Athens," Marisol explains. "It's really nice there, right, Antigone? Down near the water."

There's no reason to lie so senselessly to her parents. Just because they know where I'm from doesn't mean they'd ever find out the truth about me, so why not tell them some semblance of it? Wasn't the entire reason for me to meet them because Marisol felt so guilty about hiding me from them? Why does lying to them make her feel any better about this situation?