The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares Page A

“I'm going to get more food,” she said.
    Later, she sat on the single chair outside the front door eating delicious stuffed grape leaves called
dolmades,
and olives. As many thousands of times as she'd eaten Greek food back in Maryland, it had never tasted precisely like this.
    Kostos peered out the door. “There you are,” he said. “You like to sit alone?”
    She nodded. She'd chosen this spot mostly for its one chair.
    â€œI see.” He was very, very handsome. His hair was dark and wavy, and his eyes were yellow-green. There was a slight bump on the bridge of his nose.
    That means you should go away,
she urged him silently.
    Kostos walked into the passageway that led past her grandparents' home and wound up the cliff. He pointed downhill. “That's my house,” he said, pointing to a similar structure about five doors down. It had a wrought-iron balcony on the second floor painted a vibrant green and holding back an avalanche of flowers.
    â€œOh. Long walk,” she said.
    He smiled.
    She was about to ask whether he lived with his grandparents, but then she realized that would be inviting a conversation.
    He leaned against the whitewashed wall of the passageway. So much for the notion that Greek men were short.
    â€œWould you like to take a walk with me?” he asked. “I want to show you Ammoudi, the little village at the bottom of the cliff.”
    â€œNo thanks,” she said. She didn't even make an excuse. She had learned long ago that boys took excuses as further reasons to ask you out.
    He studied her face a moment, openly disappointed. “Maybe another time,” he said.
    She wanted him to go back inside and ask Effie to see Ammoudi, but instead he walked slowly down the hill and into his house.
    I'm sorry you asked me out,
she told him silently.
Otherwise maybe I could have
liked you.
    There were guys at soccer camp, as it turned out. There was one guy. No, there was more than one guy, but for Bridget, at that moment, there was one guy.
    He was a coach, it appeared. He was on the other side of the field, consulting with Connie. He had dark straight hair and skin several shades darker than hers. He looked Hispanic, maybe. He had the graceful build of a midfielder. Even from here, his face looked complicated for a soccer coach. He was beautiful.
    â€œIt's not polite to stare.”
    Bridget turned and smiled at Ollie. “I can't help myself.”
    Ollie nodded. “He is every kind of hot.”
    â€œDo you know him?” Bridget asked.
    â€œFrom last year,” Ollie explained. “He was assistant coach of my team. We drooled all summer.”
    â€œWhat's his name?”
    â€œEric Richman. He's from L.A. He plays at Columbia. I guess he'll probably be a sophmore this year.”
    So he was older, but not
that
much older.
    â€œDon't get your hopes up,” Ollie said, reading her mind. “The camp has a big antifraternizing policy, obviously. He follows it, though a lot of people have tried to get him not to.”
    â€œLet's gather!” Connie was shouting across the milling clumps of girls.
    Bridget pulled her hair out of the elastic. It fell around her shoulders, seeming to capture far more than its fair share of sunlight. She wandered over to where Connie had gathered with the other coaches.
    â€œI'm going to read out the teams,” Connie told the assembled group. Like many other longtime coaches, she had a voice loud as a bullhorn when it was necessary. “This is a big deal, okay? You stick with your team for two months, from the first scrimmages to the Coyote Cup at the end of the summer, okay? Know your team. Love your team.” She looked around at the collection of faces. “You all know great soccer isn't about great players. It's about great teams.”
    The crowd let out a little cheer. Bridget loved these pep talks. She knew they were corny, but they always worked on her. She imagined Tibby rolling her