I picked up my pita, took a small bite, and chewed it slowly.

In my notebook, I’d been writing down all the stuff Yiayia used when she was alive—stuff no one paid any attention to—that now glowed with spooky energy.

• Her face cream is still on her dressing table, ready to be used, but her face isn’t around anymore to put it on.

• Her clothes are in the closet.

• Her mug is in the cupboard next to her tea.

• Her glasses wah-wahed at me yesterday, I swear.

Everywhere you looked, there she was. Except she wasn’t. We were desperate and aching to see her again, but we never would. Now she only existed in our minds, like we’d made her up. I just couldn’t get my head around that. And poor Pappou had to live there with all those constant reminders.

I stared at Yiayia’s rings. They were sitting in a little hand-painted saucer from Cyprus. I wanted to add them to my list, but I didn’t have my notebook with me. So I sat chewing and thinking.

My plan hadn’t worked at all.

I thought that with the necklace gone, everything would return to normal. But six months had gone by, and Mom and Aunt Sophia still weren’t talking. Which meant we weren’t talking to any of their family, and they weren’t talking to any of ours. We stood by Mom, and they stood by Aunt Soph, I guess. We didn’t go in and out of each other’s houses with smiles, hugs, and pots of food. We didn’t sit next to Aunt Soph’s family in church—we sat on the other side and looked everywhere but in their direction. At the stained glass. At the people kissing the feet of icons and sweeping their hands across the floor. At the constant candle-lighting commotion. At the priest clink-clinking the smoking incense holder on its chain. Not at them. I repeat. Not at them.

And we didn’t go to Pappou’s for lunch after church on Sundays, which was weird because we’d been doing that every week since I was born. Now Mom took us on Friday night instead so we wouldn’t see them there. And Mom phoned Pappou every time she wanted to go over to make sure we wouldn’t bump into them.

We still saw them around the neighborhood, obviously, because they only lived a few streets away, and we all lived in the same small community. But we avoided each other. Mom crossed the road if she saw them up ahead. Two days before, she’d put her shopping basket—full of stuff—at the end of an aisle and walked out when she saw Aunt Sophia and Kallie by the frozen food section in the supermarket. It was so awkward. I didn’t know where to look. I went bright red and tripped over my feet on the way out. And I didn’t get my Tic Tacs. That wasn’t the worst thing about walking out of there. Not by a long shot.

The world might have seemed like an OK place from the outside, but what felt warm and full and complete now felt cold and empty and broken. Or maybe that was just me. Except I knew it wasn’t just me. Everyone felt it. Not just my parents and siblings, but all our cousins, aunts, uncles, and distant relatives as well. Probably the whole Greek community. Maybe even the entire world.

As I chewed my pita, the icons looked down at me from the walls. Yiayia was very religious. When I was young, I thought Yiayia was holy, and if I touched her, it was like touching God. I was convinced that if I did anything naughty, like draw on the wall with Mom’s lipstick (which wasn’t naughty because I ruined the wall but because I ruined the lipstick), all I had to do was touch Yiayia’s hand and this glowing light of forgiveness would wash over me.

Apart from Mary and baby Jesus, I wasn’t sure who the icons were, but they all had haloes and very thin noses. Most of them glowed gold, either from around their heads or from their faces, like they had a radioactive tan, but not one of them was smiling. Being holy must be a serious job. I mean, the whole truth/lie thing is complicated enough, never mind having to save the world and everyone’s soul. And if you’re turned into a picture on the wall of Greek houses, you have to constantly watch people eating yummy food, and you can’t have any. No wonder they weren’t smiling.

However, no one was. Not today.

Kat and Nicos had eaten already—I could see their plates in the sink. I was still trying to eat my pita, but how could I when I was being judged by the nameless holy people?

“And the wedding?” Pappou asked in Greek. He said it out of the blue in a thundery voice. He brought it up every time we went to visit, but it wasn’t like we were in the middle of a conversation right then or anything.

Uncle Dimitri’s wedding was originally going to be in July, but they’d decided to move it up to the date of Yiayia and Pappou’s wedding. Dad said they’d done it for Yiayia, to keep her memory alive, and as a sign of love and respect. Except Yiayia and Pappou got married at the end of February. Which was in three weeks’ time. So now we had a problem.

Changing the date was a sweet thing to do, but what kind of wedding would it be with Uncle Dimitri’s family not talking to each other?

I took another bite and chewed slowly. I’d had enough, but Mom kept looking at me with just-eat-it-will-you eyes, so I forced myself to keep going. At least I could eavesdrop on their conversation, which I usually liked. But this time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Because Pappou was right.

What were we going to do about the wedding?