Oh. My. Gods. omg-1 Read online

  “Weak?” I give him a sideways glare. “You’re crazy. Any compulsion to help people-voluntary or not-is a strength. It’s noble.”

  “You don’t under-”

  “There’s nothing to understand, Griffin. You help people. That’s the bottom line. There are a lot of people in the world who don’t help anyone but themselves. And a lot more who wish they could do something-anything-to help someone in need, but can’t or won’t. The fact that you have to help people doesn’t diminish the fact that you do help them.”

  We walk quietly for a few seconds. I give him time to let what I’m saying sink it-if he’s felt this way his whole life then it might be hard to accept. And it might explain why he’s such a jerk half the time. A little rebellion against his heroic blood.

  Not that this excuses his behavior.

  As we pass the finish line of our sixth lap, he says, “I guess I never looked at it that way.”

  “Well,” I say, speeding up to a full run, “you should.”

  He falls silent for a few seconds before blurting, “I broke up with Adara yesterday.”

  “Oh really?” I ask, trying for cool, disinterested calm when my insides are jumping for joy. “That’s too bad.”

  “No, it’s not,” he says, not looking at me but smiling just the same. “I never realized what an awful person she could be until I saw how she treated you.”

  Though my heart is pounding like a bongo, I don’t say anything else. I just let the excitement over the possibilities crackle in the silence.

  Together, we half-race around the track a few times before doing another cooldown. Racing Griffin in a good-natured competition feels good-like a kind of freedom I haven’t felt before. I want to win, but at the same time I’m just having fun. And if the big smile on his face is any sign, he’s having fun, too.

  When we finish our last lap, he teases, “Race you to the water fountain.”

  “No,” I reply, swatting him on the arm. “Then we’d have to cool down again.”

  “Afraid you’ll lose?”

  I look him straight in the eyes. “I won’t lose.”

  Then I take off for the water fountain in the tunnel at full speed.

  Griffin is fast on my heels as I skid to a stop, bending to take my victory drink.

  “Well, well, well,” a girl’s voice echoes through the tunnel. “Aren’t you two having fun.”

  “Quite the pair of running buddies,” another girl-the voice sounds like Stella, but I can’t be sure with the echo-says.

  Griffin moves closer to my side, like he has to protect me from something. Must be that hero instinct in him. Seconds later, Adaraand Stella step out of the shadows at the top of the tunnel, heading straight for us. They come to a stop, posing with hands on hips, directly in front of me.

  “Looks like you won the bet,” Adara says, looking right at me.

  “What bet?” I ask, genuinely confused.

  If she’s talking about my deal with Stella there was no bet involved. That must mean“Dara, don’t,” Griffin says.

  “Sure does.” Stella looks me up and down like I’m something stuck to the bottom of her ballet flats. “I believe you owe me a latte.”

  “What bet?” I repeat.

  “It’s nothing,” Griffin says-not that I believe him.

  “Nothing?” Adara looks at Griffin, shocked. “I think this was a major coup.”

  “And I thank you for it.” Stella gives Griffin the most evil looking smile I have ever seen.

  “What bet!?”

  Adara answers, “It’s quite simple, really.”

  “Griffin said he could get you to fall for him,” Stella says, “even though he treated you like trash when you first got here.”

  “I didn’t think he could,” Adara says. “I thought you had more self-respect than that.”

  “But I knew he could.” Stella winks at him. “He’s charming and you’re weak. I was right.”

  Griffin stands there, stiff and silent.

  “We made a bet.” Adara links her arm through his. “A latte at Kaldi’s coffee shop to whoever was right.”

  I stare at Griffin. “You knew about this? You started this?”

  He makes no indication he even hears me.

  “I must confess,” Stella coos, turning her attention to Adara. “I did cheat a little. I gave Phoebe some motivation to spend time with him-to befriend him. If you want to call the bet, I understand.”

  “No,” Adara assures her. “You were right. Whether you urged her along or not, she still fell for him like a lead anchor.”

  My head is spinning.

  It was all because of a bet. He spent time with me, treated me like a friend, all because of some stupid bet. The whole Hercules thing was probably a total lie. And that garbage about breaking up with Adara.

  Before I can stop myself, I take two steps toward Griffin, pull back my hand, and slap him as hard as I can. I don’t wait around to see if I leave a mark.

  “Nicole was right about you. You’re a selfish bastard.” I barely have control of the tears trying to fill my eyes. “Stay away from me.”

  Then I run all the way home.

  Mom tries to get me to talk when I won’t even leave my room for dinner, but I tell her it’s just hormones and she leaves me alone.

  Even if she doesn’t believe me.

  Spending an entire day locked in my room, avoiding all social interaction, gives me a lot of time to think. I go back over all the moments with Griffin, analyzing each one, and decide that I can’t tell when he was being straight and when he was playing me. Which only reinforces my decision to stay as far away from him as possible.

  I can’t trust myself to tell which Griffin I’m talking to.

  Around ten o’clock I decide to check my e-mail.

  I have been avoiding it all day-just in case there’s another drama/crisis/problem waiting for me in my inbox. After deleting all the spam-you would think the gods could develop some sort of supernatural spam-blocker-I have three new messages. I decide to open in the order of most likely to make me feel better-or rather, least likely to make me feel like worse crap.

  The first is from Coach Jack at USC.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Cross-Country Scholarships

  Miss Phoebe Castro, I am pleased to announce that you are being considered for the Helen Rawlins Memorial Scholarship. Pending your successful admission to the University of Southern California, you will compete with three other candidates for this prestigious scholarship that will cover your tuition, books, fees, room and board for up to four years of undergraduate education.

  Annual renewal of the scholarship is dependent upon maintaining an above-average academic record and participation in the USC cross-country team.

  Best of luck,

  Coach Jack Farley

  This isn’t anything I didn’t already know. Coach Jack told me at camp that I was up for the scholarship, even though the officialannouncement wouldn’t be made until the fall. He also said that if I get through senior year with a B average and do well in crosscountry meets then the scholarship is mine.

  Six months ago that didn’t seem like a difficult task.

  Today it seems impossible.

  I move that message into my USC folder and go on to the mes sage from Cesca.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Jerk Alert

  I’m sorry I’ve been acting like such a jerk, Phoebe. There has been so much going on and I don’t have you here to talk to about any of it. When you said you couldn’t tell me what that IM was about I guess I just took out all my frustrations on you.

  Forgive me?

  Cesca

  I saved her message for second because I couldn’t tell what it was going to be like from the subject line. She could just as easily have been calling me the jerk.

  I am massively relieved that she’s apo
logizing-not that she needs to. I’m the one with the secret. I should be apologizing, too.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Just As Jerky

  Forgiven.

  Now do you forgive me? I really, really, really wish I could tell you what I meant, but it’s not my secret to tell and it affects a lot of other people. Just know that there aren’t any important secrets between us and there never will be.

  Love and kisses,

  Phoebe

  After clicking send I stare at my inbox, wondering whether I want to open the third message. It’s from Griffin.

  Curiosity gets the better of me.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: If I could do it over… … I wouldn’t treat you so badly.

  I’m sorry.

  Today wasn’t about the bet.

  Give me another chance.

  G

  Just like him: brief, cryptic, and full of crap.

  I’m tempted to delete the message-he certainly has no place taking up bytes in my mailbox-but can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I make a folder named “Liars” and move his message there.

  For the first time since running out of the tunnel this morning I actually smile.

  All this introspection time today makes me realize that I have tostay focused on my goal. I can’t let USC out of my sights for even a second. No matter what Mom, Damian, Griffin, or anybody else on this stupid island thinks or does, I have to get that B average, stay on the cross-country team, and count down the days until I go back to California.

  I don’t want to be away from Cesca and Nola any longer than absolutely necessary. I’ve only been gone a few weeks and look what a mess my life has become.

  No, from now on I’m single-focus-Phoebe.

  Nothing can deter me.

  “Mom, I’ve made my decision,” I say when I find her in Damian’s office, scanning wedding websites. “I’m going to USC and that’s final.”

  She turns away from the computer, a surprisingly neutral look on her face. I expect her to yell and scream and ground me until I’m twenty-five. Instead, she smiles and says, “If you’ve considered this carefully as I asked, then I support your decision.”

  Wow. Where did that trust in my decision-making abilities come from? What happened to nothing but dictates and unilateral decisions?

  I’m not going to question my good fortune.

  Who knows when the rug will be pulled out from under me.

  “Yes, I have,” I explain. “I don’t fit in here and I am only making things difficult and uncomfortable for myself and everyone else.”

  She steeples her hands over Damian’s desk. Uh-oh, therapist mode.

  “That sounds like you’re running away from your problems.”

  “No,” I insist as I drop into one of the chairs in front of the desk. “It’s more than that, really. I miss Cesca and Nola and Southern California. I even miss…” I pull out the surefire family card.

  “… Yia Yia Minta. I bet she misses me, too.”

  Mom smiles. “Nice try.”

  Can’t I get anything past the adults in this house? Mom might as well read minds like Damian.

  “Fine, it’s not about Yia Yia Minta. It’s about me.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not happy here. I’m not going to be happy here.I’m counting the days until I can go home-something this place will never be for me.”

  She watches me for a long time, like she’s evaluating me for a psych report. I’m used to this. She’s been shrinking my head since I was a baby-and it’s not going to work any better now than it did then.

  I just lie back and relax until she reaches her conclusion.

  What she says surprises the crap out of me.

  “I’m sorry for putting you through this.” She actually looks sad.

  “If there had been any other way-I feel so selfish for turning your world upside-down, just so I could be happy.”

  Her voice kinda cracks at the end, and I see tears form in her eyes. Can she really be this heartbroken? After all, she’s the one who brought me here. I tried to tell her I didn’t want to-

  She sobs. A big gasping sob backed up by a whole lot of tears.

  As she reaches for a tissue from the nearest bookshelf, I feel super guilty for making her feel so rotten.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mom,” I soothe. “You deserve happiness as much as anybody. More, on most days.”

  “I should have waited,” she says, shaking her head. “Damian and I could have married next summer.”

  I wince as she blows her nose with a big honk.

  “I’m over that,” I say, handing her the box of tissues.

  “I’m going to miss you so much when you go off to college.” The tears start again with more force. “After your father died you were the only thing that kept me going. I want to hold on to you for a little longer, is that so wrong?”

  “Aw, Mom.” I jump out of my chair and hurry around to her side.

  Pulling her into a big bear hug, I promise, “I’ll still come back on holidays and maybe even summer vacation. I’ll be the only kid on campus who gets to spend all her off time on a Greek island. Everyone will be so jealous.”

  She laughs through her sniffles and squeezes me back.

  We are still clutched in a tight hug when Damian walks in.

  “We have a problem,” he says, his voice tight and flat. “A big problem.”

  Chapter Nine

  “OUR WEB SCANNERS flagged another search,” Damian says.

  I can practically hear his teeth grinding. Letting go of Mom, I stand up straight to defend my friend.

  “It wasn’t Cesca this time,” I say. “I’m certain.”

  Mom looks back and forth between us like she has no clue what’s going on. Maybe Damian hasn’t told her anything.

  “The scanners also caught a blog post titled Secrets of Serfopoula. ”

  A muscle just below his left eye starts twitching. “We suppressed the post, but the entry was… imaginative.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “What’s going on here?” Mom asks.

  Damian answers my question. “The author proposes that Serfopoula is the secret base of operations for an elite force of superheroes.”

  “Well,” I say, relieved, “at least it isn’t accurate.”

  “No,” Damian replies, “but it suggests that the origins of the superheroes date back to ancient mythology.”

  “Oh.” That’s a little closer to home. “Well, I know it’s not Cesca, because she doesn’t have a blog. Besides, that’s a huge leap of imagination from supernatural powers to Greek mythology. Maybe this is completely unrelated to my slip-up.”

  Mom stands up and smacks her hand on the desk. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  Damian raises his brows at me-a clear indication that I should be the one to tell her. Taking a deep breath, I explain, “I let half a detail slip in an IM chat with Cesca last week.” Turning to Damian, I add, “Not enough for her to jump to this conclusion. Besides, Cesca wouldn’t do this. She couldn’t. Her computer literacy does not extend far beyond turning it on and opening IM.”

  “The fact remains,” he says, “that someone is looking into the island and that is jeopardizing our security.”

  Mom gasps. “Are the children in danger?”

  “Not yet,” he assures her. “But if the perpetrator outwits our web scanners, they could be. We all could be.”

  “Well,” I insist, “it’s not Cesca.”

  “I know that.” Damian unfolds a piece of paper from his pocket.

  “The author of the blog is using the name JAM Freak. ”

  Oh no! I gasp and both Mom and Damian turn to look at me.

  “Do you know who that is?” he asks.

  My mind racing, I can only nod.

  “Who is it?” Mom asks.

  I shak
e my head, not believing it.

  He wouldn’t.

  He couldn’t.

  Damian hands me the paper.

  Blog entry: Secrets of Serfopoula

  Results: suppress

  Location: Los Angeles County

  Author: JAM Freak

  He did.

  Crumpling up the paper, I drop it on Damian’s desk. I can feel my ears overheating and I see red all around the edges of my vision.

  “If we know who the author is,” I ask, “can we, like, erase his memory, or something?”

  “His?” Mom parrots.

  Damian takes a step closer. “Yes.”

  My lips spread into a Stella-worthy evil grin. This boy is going to regret ever messing with me, my family, and this stupid island. I feel excitement bubbling up inside. I’ve been waiting two years to say, Payback ain’t pretty. “Justin Mars.”

  Damian writes down Justin’s name on a sticky note.

  “I’ll dispatch someone immediately to shroud his memory of the island and anything peripherally related.” He looks at me, questioning. “He might forget you, as well, Phoebe.”

  I smile bigger. “Good.”

  That dark stain on my dating record is going to pay for trying to harass me from two thousand miles away.

  The only question is: How did he find out about my IM slip-up?

  Remembering some of the strange phrasing in Cesca’s last e-mail, I’m afraid I know the answer.

  “Mom,” I say, “I need to make a phone call.”

  She looks confused, but nods. “All right.”

  When she and Damian make no move to leave, I add, “In private.”

  Damian seems to understand what I’m about to do. He takes Mom by the shoulders and leads her out. “Come, Valerie. Let’s leave Phoebe to her phone call.”

  He waggles his eyebrows at her. She giggles in return and they hurry out of the office-headed for their bedroom, no doubt.

  I wait until my gag reflex relaxes before dialing Cesca’s number-burned into my memory since she got her private line in sixth grade-careful to add the international dialing code first.

  She answers on the third ring.

  “Hi, Cesca.”