Oh. My. Gods. omg-1 Page 4

  “Unfortunately,” Damian says, “only Level 13s are permitted to visit Serifos during the semester.”

  I’m about to ask what a Level 13 is and why they’re so special, when Stella says, “I’m a Level 13.”

  Of course she is.

  “Yes,” Damian says. “Because she plans to attend university in England, Stella must study for an additional year beyond your American twelve.”

  Across the table-a massive piece of dark wood furniture worn so smooth it must date back to the original Academy-Stella smirks.

  “Yes,” she coos. “British academic standards are much higher.”

  “Yeah, well,” I say. It is on the tip of my tongue to say she must need remedial school only her dad’s too nice to say so, but Mom kicks me under the table. Ouch! Clutching my throbbing shin, I cover by saying, “I’m going to USC, so I don’t need another year.”

  “If you need anything at all,” Damian says, “please let me know and we will make arrangements. There is very little we cannot get here on Serfopoula.”

  Yeah, except TV.

  The servant, an older woman with wrinkled leather skin and a loose cotton dress decorated with embroidered blue flowers, sets a plate in front of me. There is some kind of salad, with recognizable cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, and stinky goat cheese that would be edible assuming I can pick around the onions. Next to the salad are two big slimy things that look like green sea slugs.

  Damian must be able to guess what I’m thinking because he says, “Those are dolmades, traditional grape leaves stuffed with a rice mixture.”

  Stella laughs at me and pops one in her mouth.

  “Yia Yia Minta makes these,” I say, poking at one with my fork.

  “They’re just not usually so… wet looking.”

  “Ah,” Damian says, smiling at the old servant woman. “That is part of Hesper’s secret recipe. She drizzles them with olive oil before serving.”

  “Shhh.” The old woman, Hesper, bats at him. “You talk too much.”

  “But, Hesper,” he replies, “they are family now.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. At first I think it’s because of Damian’s mushy comment-I don’t think one little City Hall marriage ceremony makes a whole new family-but then I catch Stella’s eye and she’s staring at my plate and looking, well, constipated.

  Light from somewhere reflects off my plate, shining up at me.

  I look down and

  “Aaaack!”

  Jumping up, I knock over my chair, trip when my laces get caught on one of the legs, and wind up face-first on the floor.

  “Phoebe,” Mom cries. “What’s wrong?”

  She rushes to my side, but by then I’ve twisted around and leaped to my feet. I point at my plate-now looking like a completely normal dinner salad-and scream, “M-m-my food!” I glare at Stella, who is looking way too proud of herself. “It was alive!”

  Those green sea slug dolmades had come to life and were wriggling around in my salad with the olives and stinky goat cheese.

  Any other day in the history of my life I would have checked myself into the nuthouse for seeing things, but after seeing Stellashimmer onto the boat-and zap my backpack-and my plate glowing, I know I’m not crazy.

  So does Damian.

  “Stella Omega Petrolas!” he yells.

  Two throbbing veins pop out on his forehead and his face turns bright, bright red. Wow, he looks like he’s going to explode. Crossing my arms over my gray RUN LIKE A GIRLT-shirt, I smirk at Stella.

  Let’s see her shimmer her way out of this one.

  Damian takes a deep breath and says a little calmer, “You know the rules about using your powers against another.”

  “But, Daddy,” she whines, the fake tears starting. She’s even got the poor pitiful me pout.

  I watch with great admiration. I’ve never been able to actually produce tears. Maybe if I pay attention I can pick up some pointers.

  “No buts,” he says. He points at her with his right hand and a bright light shoots from his fingertip and suddenly all of Stella is glowing. “Your powers are grounded for one week.”

  “A week!” she shrieks as the glow subsides. “That’s not fair. I only-”

  “One week. Next time it will be a month.”

  Stella tries to stare him down-like that has ever in the history of the world worked to change a parent’s mind. If it did then I’d be in Cali right now, and not on some stupid island trapped with a supernatural teenager clearly intent on making my life miserable. I can only hope that the rest of the kids at this school aren’t this bad.

  “Please,” Damian says, oblivious to his daughter’s angry eyes, “continue the meal.”

  I pull my chair upright, but hesitate before sitting back down.

  I don’t plan on eating anything that was crawling across my plate two minutes ago.

  Sensing a searing glare, I glance up at Stella. Her gray eyes burn with undisguised fury. In comparison, the dolmades are much more inviting.

  Besides, I need to eat all I can before she gets her powers back.

  “So what is this school like?” I ask, forking a piece of cucumber.

  “I mean, if everyone is from all different places, then how do they take all the same classes?”

  “For many centuries,” Damian explains, “all classes at the Academy were taught in Greek. The gods felt that their descendants should learn their native language.”

  Oh great. How am I ever going to pull that B average I need for USC if I can’t even understand the instructor? This is like one of those social experiments where they drop kids off in a foreign country and they have to either learn the language or be stuck there forever.

  “When the British Empire rose to power in the early 1800s, the headmaster lobbied the gods to change the official school language to English.” He takes a drink of water. “This turned out to be an extremely wise decision since many of our students go on to study at Oxford, Cambridge, and Ivy League universities.”

  Whew! Though, in the great grand scheme of things, the language barrier would be a minor problem.

  “And if everyone but me has superpowers,” I say carefully, building up the courage to ask what’s really bothering me, “am I going to get zapped like a zillion times a day? Am I going to get…” I glance nervously at Stella, only mildly secure in the idea that her powers are grounded. “Smoted?”

  Damian gives Stella a disapproving look, like he knows she threatened to smote me. “Certainly not,” he says, his voice clipped. “The students have been made aware of your arrival and know better than to use their powers against you. If anyone…” The word hangs there, but I think we all know he’s talking about Stella. “… disobeys my instructions you are to report them to me immediately.”

  “Sure.” I push my plate away. But what if I can’t tell him because I’ve been turned into a sea slug? “I assure you, Phoebe,” he says, smiling like I said something silly, “no student has been smoted from the Academy in generations.”

  Yeah, like that makes me feel better. That just means they’re out of practice. They’ll probably do it wrong and I’ll end up on Mars or something.

  “I know this is a little…” Mom sits down on my bed while I unpack my suitcases. “… hard to absorb.”

  “Hard to absorb?” I cry, flinging my good Nikes onto the floor and wheeling around to gape at her. “Hard to absorb? Finding out that Ben Jerry’s had discontinued White Russian was hard to absorb. This is…” I wave my hands in the air, trying to find the words to actually describe how I feel. “… freaking unbelievable.”

  She starts taking T-shirts out of the suitcase and folds them into neat piles according to color family.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, setting a red RUN HARD OR RUN HOMET-shirt on the red, orange, and yellow pile. “I should have told you sooner, but I thought you had enough on your mind already with all the major changes in our lives. I didn’t want to overburden you with this additional worry.” />
  So instead she waits until we’re almost here. When I can’t get away.

  I snatch the T-shirts off the bed before she can restack them in order of shade and hue. Color coding is so not my thing.

  “Whatever,” I say, not really meaning it-I mean, she did keep this a secret for over a month. A month! “I’m over it.”

  There is a tall dresser in the corner of my room, and I try to pull open one of the middle drawers while balancing the enormous stack of T-shirts in my left hand. The drawer does not cooperate and it takes a monumental tug to pull it open, sending the T-shirts tumbling.

  After I pick the T-shirts up off the floor I proceed with putting them away.

  The dresser is the closest thing my room has to a closet. Other than that I actually kind of like the room. Like the rest of the house, the furniture is seriously old-the sturdy, made-to-last kind-and the floor is age-worn tile in the same dark brown as the furniture.

  The walls are bright white plaster and they feel cold when I touch them. I can’t wait for our boxes to get here so I can add some of my own color.

  “Phoebe,” Mom says like she’s disappointed that I’m not spilling my feelings all over the tile floor. “You can’t bottle up your emotions inside. Talk to me. Are you worried about fitting in?”

  “Look,” I say-fine, I shout-as I slam the drawer shut, “drop the shrink act. I’m fine. I don’t need psychotherapy or a Rorschach test or an open dialogue. Just point me to the computer so I can e-mail home.”

  She looks like she really wants to say something shrinklike, but thinks better of it. Good thing, too. I grew up on her therapist approach. It so doesn’t work on me anymore.

  The computer-something from the dark ages of technology if the dingy gray plastic is any sign-is in Damian’s office. You’d think a guy with Greek gods on his PTA could afford to upgrade.

  He is in his office when we get there, filling out some paperwork at his desk. Looking up, he smiles and asks, “Are you here to use the computer, Phoebe?”

  I nod, thinking that’s enough of a response. Until Mom pokes me in the ribs.

  “Yeah. I want to e-mail my friends back home.”

  “Oh.” His face falls and he looks to Mom for support.

  Great. Another secret? Another reality-shattering headline? “Honey,” she begins. Her voice is quiet and way too hesitant, but it’s the hand on my shoulder that tips me off to the really bad news.

  “We don’t want to say you can’t stay in touch with your friends, but-”

  “What? I can’t even e-mail my two best friends?” I shake her hand off my shoulder. “I thought being stuck on this stupid prison-of-an-island was going to be bad, but I can’t believe this! Why don’t you just put me in solitary and slide bread and water under my door twice a day?”

  “It’s not that,” she insists.

  “Phoebe,” Damian says, using what I know must be his patient principal voice, “you are entirely free to e-mail whomever you choose. But we must ask you not to reveal the truth about Serfopoula and the Academy. We trust you to act responsibly.”

  Is that all? “Fine,” I say, sounding like it’s a major concession when I’m actually thinking, As if they’d believe me.I mean, Nola and Cesca are my best friends and all, but there are limits to every trust. Their faith in me would be seriously depleted if I drop an e-mail saying, Safe in Serfopoula. It’s hot, the evil stepsister has already struck, and, oh yeah, my new school is run by Greek gods. Not in this lifetime.

  “If you click on the envelope icon at the top of the screen it will lead you through the setup process for your Academy e-mail. I suggest using that program since messages sent from outside e-mail addresses are delayed through our screening software.” Damian looks pleased when I nod. “Well, then we will leave you to your e-mail in private.”

  Good. I was afraid they’d stay and watch over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t slip up. Mom doesn’t look as pacified as Damian, but she lets him take her hand and lead her out the door anyway. As soon as they’re gone I slip into the chair in front of the computer and log on to create my new Academy e-mail.

  After entering my entire life history, the program finally prompts me to select my alias. I stare at it for a while before I realize it means I get to choose my own screen name. Nice.

  Normally I use PhoebeRuns. That’s what I had at Pacific Park and on IM.

  Here, though, that seems too much like home. And this is definitely not home. This is more like a detour. Like I got lost on my way to USC.

  That’s it! I quickly type LostPhoebe for my alias.

  Finally, I am in the actual e-mail program and click on compose.

  To: granolagrrl@pacificpark.us,

  princesscesca@pacificpark.us

  From: lostphoebe@theacademy.gr

  Subject: On the Island of Dr. Demento

  Hi Girls,

  Mom and I got here. Finally.You would not believe what we had to go through just to get to this stupid island. Planes, trains, hydrofoil ferries.You name it, we were on it. And the stepdad was there to meet us at the airport. I seriously considered losing myself in Athens. Really, what could they do if I just disappeared?

  Then as soon as we got to the island the evil stepsister showed up. Boy is she a trip. She could give Mitzi Busch a run for her attitude. How am I going to make it through an entire year without you guys?

  I start school first thing tomorrow, without even a getused-to-the-time-change day off. Apparently this school is uber-exclusive. I bet it’s full of snobs and rich brats who think their parents’ money gives them the right to act all superior. Don’t you wish you were me?

  E-mail me soon!

  Love,

  Phoebe

  I click send and log off. Bed is calling me. After all, it is ten hours later in Serfopoula and that means I haven’t slept in, like, thirty-six hours. And I have to go to the Academy with Damian at seven-thirty to fill out paperwork and finalize my class schedule.

  The only good thing about this whole catastrophe so far is Damian says the track coach is world class and so is the team. And tryouts are tomorrow after school. At least I’ll get a good year of training in to prep me for the USC team.

  Barely dragging up the energy to change out of my traveling clothes, I pull on a clean T-shirt and a pair of smiley face boxers and collapse onto my bed. At least the bed is comfy-all white and just soft enough. Still, I think I’m going to dream about green sea slugs and shimmering stepsisters tonight.

  When my alarm clock goes off at six I’m tempted to fling it against the wall. I’m suffering serious jet lag in the form of whole-body muscle weakness and a headache that makes brain freeze feel like a pinprick. Tugging the white fluffy comforter up over my head to muffle the deafening alarm, I consider my two options.

  Either I stay in bed, shut out the outside world, and hope that by the time seven-thirty rolls around-when I have to meet Damianall my pain has faded away.

  Or… I can toss off the covers, pull on my sneakers, and go for a good long run that might not erase the jet lag, but will at least replace this sluggish feeling with familiar physical exhaustion.

  To snooze or not to snooze?

  From beneath the covers I hear my room door burst open and smack against the wall.

  “Turn that awful thing off!” Stella shouts.

  Flopping a corner of the comforter back, I force one eye open and squint at her. I don’t say anything at first-partly because I’m surprised that she could hear my alarm all the way down in the slimy dungeon I’ve pictured her sleeping in and partly because I’m trying not to laugh. She looks like a pint of mint chocolate chip exploded on her face.

  “Did you fall asleep in a bowl of pistachio pudding?”

  She scowls and jabs her finger at the still-blaring clock.

  Nothing happens.

  “Aargh!”

  I smile. Maybe I can get Stella grounded for the entire year-at least then I’d be safe.

  If her face weren’t covered i
n green I know she would be turning red.

  When she stomps in my direction, I fling my arm out and smack the top of the clock. I don’t want her getting any of the green goop on my fluffy white comforter. “Forget it,” I say, sitting up and swinging my legs out of bed. “I’m getting up anyway.”

  For a moment she looks like she wants to continue her attack, but then turns and stomps back to her room.

  My brain is waking up-no turning back now.

  I grab a pair of track pants, a T-shirt, and a pair of white socks out of the dresser, pull them on in a matter of seconds, splash somewater on my face in the bathroom, lace up my sneakers, and am heading out the door when the snoozing alarm clock starts blaring again. Smiling at the thought of Stella having to hunt it out from under my bed, I start down the path to the dock where we arrived last night. Where there’s water there must be a beach.

  The dock is in a little lagoon, nicely protected from the open sea, with rocky cliffs on one side and a narrow strip of sand on the other. Even though I’m not going to push my worn-out body too hard, I sit on the dock and do ten minutes of stretches. Pulling a hamstring is the last thing I need.

  The sun is just starting to rise and casts a pale pink over everything. I take deep, filling breaths as I reach for my toes, taking in the salty clean smell of the sea. A different smell from the California beaches I’m used to. Purer, maybe.

  I twist my upper body to the one side, going for that extra oblique stretch, and notice a cluster of little white buildings on top of the cliffs. Bathed in the early morning twilight, it looks just as pink as the rest of the island. That must be the village. It seems so strange that there are people that live up there in that little village, a world away from L.A., with whole lives that go on whether I’m here to see them or not. I guess that’s true of everywhere-the cars you pass on the freeway, the towns you fly over at thirty thousand feet, and those little white buildings. Suddenly, L.A. feels even farther away.

  Surrounded by pink and silence, except for gently lapping waves, I embrace the inner and outer peace. Leaving the dock for the thin strip of sand, I kick into a moderate run. If my entire year here were just like this moment then things might not be so bad. But I knowthat this feeling only exists when I run. It’s why I run. That, and to feel closer to Dad.