MY FIRST THOUGHT IS, Damian is insane. Like crazy, nuts, messed-up-in-the-head insane. As if Greek gods really exist.
They are myth. Myth, as in the kind of stuff you read about in sophomore English with guys killing their dads and marrying their moms- ew, and I think my life is gross. As in, the kind of stuff you see Brad and Orlando duking it out over on the big screen-yum.
Not the kind of stuff the man my mom married fully believes in.
I look at Mom, ready to express my sympathies and assure her I am ready to head back to America and that we can sort the divorce out once we get there. But she’s not freaking out.
She’s nodding.
Sympathetically.
At me.
As if I’m the one who just found out my new husband is delusional.
That’s when I first know I’m in trouble. Mom is professionally trained in the art of delusional psychopaths. She told me once she never goes along with their fantasies-it only makes things worseand if she’s staying calm then that means she believes him. Which means she believes the Greek gods exist, too.
And while I might doubt her judgment when it comes to major life changes like marriage and moving out of the country, Mom is usually completely sane when it comes to discerning reality from fantasy.
As if she can sense my shock, she reaches out and places a hand on my knee. “I know this is difficult to digest-”
“Difficult?” I shout. “Difficult? Algebra is difficult. The Ironman is difficult. This is insane.”
“I thought so, too,” Mom says. “At first.”
“So you believe this?” What happened to rational Mom? “You believe him?”
She nods. “I’ve seen proof.”
“You’ve seen-” I shake my head. This is not happening. “What kind of proof?”
“It’s a little hard to explain,” she says, blushing. “He made roses… materialize.”
“Roses?” Ha! I’ve got him now. “He’s just a magician. He pulled them out of his sleeve.”
Mom blushes even more. “He wasn’t wearing sleeves at the time.”
Ewww! Therapy is definitely in my future.
All right, so the rational, that’s-not-really-possible approach isn’t working. I’ve got more tactics in my arsenal. I just need a minute to regroup. While I’m trying to come up with my next move I realize that, since I haven’t seen any roses around since we landed in Greece, Mom must have known before we took off from LAX.
Even if she’s being totally played, she should have said something.
She’s had plenty of opportunities, including fourteen hours in the confined space of an airplane cabin where I would have been a captive audience. And who knows how many times before the move“Wait a minute!” My voice rises to an accusatory scream. “How long have you known?”
At least she has the decency to look ashamed. “Since shortly after Damian and I met.” She glances at him and smiles. “As soon as we realized we were in love.”
What!? I cannot believe this. What has Mom married me into? “There’s something else…” Mom says.
Oh no. I can tell from the way she trailed off at the end that I am not going to like this.
She nudges Damian. “Go ahead. Tell her.”
He clears his throat before saying, “The students at the Academy are not your average schoolchildren.”
Like I couldn’t have guessed that. At least this isn’t more earthshattering news.
“We have an acceptance rate of less than one percent. Our admission standards are far more stringent than even the most elite universities,” he says, “and are extremely specific.”
Should I be overjoyed? I throw Mom a look that says I’m not thanking her for the favor. She knows I would rather be back in L.A. than accepted into some snotty school any day.
“Really,” he says, “we have only one criterion.”
Uber-popularity? Unfathomable wealth? Genius-level IQ? Great, I’m going to be a dunce at a school of Einsteins.
“All the students at the Academy…” He tugs at his navy bluetie-my first clue that he’s a little nervous about telling me this but it doesn’t really look tousled. “… Are, ah-hem, descendants of the gods.”
My world starts to go black around the edges as I stare at Damian’s negligibly loosened tie and hear Mom say, “Oh no, I think she’s fainting.”
The next thing I know, Damian is kneeling over me and Mom is frantically waving her purse over my face. I think she’s trying to fan me back to my senses, but all I can think is it would really hurt if she drops it on my nose. Her purse is like Mary Poppins’s bag-it holds way more than should be possible.
I hear Damian say, “She is regaining consciousness. Zenos, send out the gangplank and bring the gurney.”
Xena?
Mom’s purse comes darn close to clipping me on the cheek.
Wait. A gurney?
The last thing I need is to make my arrival strapped to a gurney pushed by a fictional warrior princess. That is not the way to make a good impression-if this stupid school is anything like Pacific Park, gossip makes the rounds faster than the flu.
Not that I have any hope of making a good impression. It must be pretty hard to impress someone who sits across the dinner table from Zeus.
Wait, what am I saying? I must be in shock. This is ridiculous.
Damian must be having some elaborate twisted joke on me. And on Mom.
But she says she’s seen proof.
The black edges come back just as Mom finally swipes me across the nose. And ouch, does it hurt. That shakes me out of it and I bolt up, ignoring the tingling dizziness in my brain.
“I’m fine, really.” I bat away a few of the bright yellow bugs swarming around my head before I realize these are only in my mind. Knowing Mom and Damian and the gurney-pushing warrior princess would have a field day with this, I close my eyes and take three deep breaths before saying, “I don’t need a gurney, you can call Xena off.”
“Who?” Mom asks, clearly not up on her TV culture.
“Not Xena,” Damian explains. “Zenos. Our yacht captain.”
Somehow, it is only a minor relief to find out that he knows some fictional characters are actually not real.
“Sorry,” I say. “My bad.” For the time being, I think it’s better to just play along. I can talk some sense into Mom later-when we’re alone. “I’ve got it now.” I open my eyes, relatively certain I can maintain consciousness for the moment. “Xena, not real. Zeus, real.
Check.”
Mom and Damian exchange one of those I-don’t-think-the-poorchild-is-buying-it looks. They’re not far off. Who can blame me, what with the idea that the Greek gods really exist still ricocheting through my brain? I deserve at least a little wiggle room when it comes to confusing reality with fiction. Maybe if I approach it with a little scientific logic, Mom will see how crazy all of this is.
“So, what does this mean?” I ask, rubbing my temple to make it look like I’m really considering believing all this. “Are the students all immortal?”
“No, no, of course not. Immortality is reserved for the gods,” he says with a little laugh. As if that’s the most absurd idea floating around. “We descendants are more like the heroes of ancient legend. Like Achilles and Prometheus, we have some, ah-hem, supernatural-”
“Whoa,” I interrupt. “We?”
“Damian is a descendant, as well,” Mom says.
I close my eyes and take a deep, deep breath. This just keeps getting better. “All right.” I wave my hands at myself as if to say, Bring it on. “You’re like heroes…?”
“Yes,” he continues. “Like those you may have read about, we have varying degrees of supernatural powers. In most descendants the powers manifest pre-adolescence, though there are cases in which they remain dormant until after puberty.”
“It’s really quite amazing,” Mom says, bubbling with enthusiasm.
“There are apparently built-in controls to protect the rest of the world, with the gods monitoring all use of-”
I tune out. I mean, Mom seems honestly convinced and, until recently, I’ve always trusted her judgment, but this isn’t exactly the kind of thing that’s easy to accept. Like I can suddenly decide that everything I’ve ever learned about the Greek gods is not just some fluff story English teachers make you learn. No, it’ll take more than Damian’s say-so to move the Greek gods from the fairy-tale land of Santa Claus, werewolves, and Cinderella into everyday reality.
But even if I’m not a believer in “alternative realities,” as Nola calls them, I’m willing to keep an open mind. Sure, I’ll believe they’re real. Just as soon as I see one…
“Well, well,” the girl who just appeared next to Damian says. “I see the barbarians have arrived.” When I say appeared, I don’t mean she walked up and there she was by his side. No, she appeared. As inout of nowhere. As in she wasn’t there and then she was. She, like, shimmered into place.
That’s the kind of proof that’s hard to ignore.
“Stella,” Damian says, a serious hint of warning in his tone. “What have I told you about materializing?”
“Please, Daddy,” she coos. “I just had to see them for myself.
They’re like a new exhibit of rare animals at the zoo.”
Her voice is sickly sweet, like those sirens in The Odyssey who used their beautiful singing to attract men to their deaths. There isn’t a trace of sincerity in her. Not from the brown roots of her over highlighted hair to her bright red painted toes. And I don’t think it’s a simple case of overenthusiastic tweezing that makes her look like a bi’atch with a capital B-I-A-T-C-H.
“We will speak about this later,” Damian says. And he does not sound happy. “I apologize for my daughter’s… rude behavior.
Barbarian is a term applied to non-Greeks.” He shoots her a sharp look. “It is not meant in a derogatory manner. Not only is it misapplied, since Phoebe is half-Greek and Valerie is now Greek twice by marriages, but, as Plato once said, the term is absurd. Dividing the world into Greek and non-Greek tells us little about the first group and nothing about the second.”
Stella looks completely unfazed, like she pisses him off every day.
Why do I think she excels at getting herself out of trouble with her dad? I have a gut feeling that she’s going to enjoy making my life miserable-and probably won’t get in any trouble at all.
“I never thought of it that way,” Mom says, taking Damian’s hand, “but that’s also true in modern psychoanalytic theory. If onedefines their world in terms of ‘object’ and ‘other’ then one only knows what the object is and what the other is not.”
Stella rolls her eyes. Damian nods. I have learned-after many years of theoretical nonsense talk-to ignore the psychobabble. Trying to follow along only ends in headache.
“Besides,” Damian says, giving Stella one last disapproving look before smiling at me, “you are not the only non-Greek to attend the Academy. We are primarily a boarding school and many, if not most, of our students are from abroad. Our ancestors were not, shall we say, confined to a particular geographical area.”
Right. I remember all those stories about Zeus and Apollo and the other gods jumping around from one seduction to the next.
There are probably little mini-gods all over the world.
Stella smiles tightly, as if saying, Whatever.
“You must be Phoebe,” she says, stepping forward and offering me a hand. “I’m Stella… your new sister.”
Now, I’ve always wanted a sister, but not one like this. In my mind I picture a little girl with ringlets and dimples who follows me everywhere and copies my every move to the point of driving me crazy. Stella is not a follower. That much I can see in the icy gray shallows of her eyes. She crushes those foolish enough not to fall into place behind her. I am not that foolish.
“Yeah,” I say, taking her hand and letting her pull me up. I’m shocked when she doesn’t let go halfway and send me falling back on my butt. “Nice to meet you.” The words choke out around the gagging sensation in my throat.
Then she shocks the living crap out of me by pulling me into ahug. Over her shoulder I see Mom take Damian’s hand and look at me with pride, like they can already see us having sleepovers and sharing secrets and painting each other’s toenails. She thinks we’re halfway sisters already.
Only she doesn’t hear what Stella whispers in my ear.
“I hope you’re ready for a living nightmare, kako, because this school will chew you up, spit you out, and smite the tiny pieces of whatever’s left all the way to Hades.”
Mom smiles at me.
I whisper back, “I’ve survived beach bunny cheerleaders, a slut hunting ex-boyfriend, and five years of cross-country camp. I’m not afraid of some throwback to ancient myth with atrocious highlights and a Barbra Streisand nose.”
Catching Mom’s eye I smile big, even as Stella squeezes me way too tight around the ribs. One stomp on her pedicured toes and I’m free.
“All ready,” I say, snatching my backpack off the deck.
As I sling my pack onto my shoulder I see a spark out of the corner of my eye, just before the strap breaks, sending the bag flying right into Stella’s nose. Sure, it was an accident-you can’t exactly anticipate strap failure-but I couldn’t have aimed better if I tried.
Too bad, though. This is a brand-new backpack.
Hand cupped over her injured nose, Stella’s face turns bright red. She growls and lifts her other hand like she’s going to point at me-way rude, by the way.
“Stella,” Damian warns as he points a finger at my broken strap.
The torn fabric glows for a second before magically repairing itself.
I grab my backpack off the ground and check the strap. It’s perfect, like it never broke in the first place.
Stella jerks her hand back to her side before turning in a huff and stalking off the boat. I glance back and forth between Damian’s steaming look and Stella’s retreating back.
Wait a second… Did she do that to my strap? That must have been the flash of light. Serves her right getting bonked in the nose.
Next time she’ll think twice about zapping my stuff.
Dinner at the Petrolas house is unusual, to say the least.
Mom and I usually set up a pair of TV trays in the living room so we can watch the latest reality show while we eat. Not the best idea with some of the ubergross stunts they pull, but it was our nightly ritual.
Not only do we not even have TV on Serfopoula, but Damian and Stella actually eat at a dining table. In a dining room. Weird, huh? “There is a small village on the far side of the campus,” Damian explains while a servant-yes, an actual servant-serves the food. “It mainly consists of housing for Academy staff and faculty, but there are a few commercial establishments. There is a bookstore, a small grocery that sells locally produced fruits, vegetables, and dairy items, and, a favorite among the students, an ice-cream parlor.”
That’s it? No CVS or Foot Locker? What if I need Band-Aids or new Nikes? “What about that other island?” I ask. “Where we caught the yacht.”
“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: [email protected],
From: [email protected]
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 in 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.
As the sand squishes beneath my Nikes, I lose myself in the memory of our early-morning training runs. When Dad was training in the off-season we would run almost every morning. Almost always on Santa Monica beach. We would park near the pier, run the three miles down to Marina del Rey, and then race back to the pier for ice cream. If I beat him, I got a double scoop.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until I taste my tears. Not slowing my pace, I wipe at my eyes. Why was I even thinking about Dad?
Usually I don’t think about anything when I run. I’m too focused on the sensation of running.
Clearing my mind, I notice the burning in my quads. How long have I been running? The world around me is no longer bathed in pink. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms my suspicion. The dock is nowhere in sight and the sun has cleared the horizon.
I need to get back.
Dropping to a walk, I’m about to turn around and head back when I notice another person running on the beach. He’s less than two hundred yards away from me, close enough for me to appreciate the loose, easy movement of his gait. I can tell his body is made for running, and somehow I know that his soul lives for it. I guess I recognize a kindred spirit.
Before I know it-because I’m mesmerized by watching him run-he’s jogging to a stop right in front of me. I practically melt into a puddle of girl drool.
He looks around my age and he is beyond beautiful. It isn’t just his hypnotic blue eyes or his perfect, sloped nose, or his sculpted high cheekbones. His lips are full and soft and yummily pink. The kind that just make you want to grab him by the hair with both hands-even though I can’t see his hair under the blue bandannaand make out until you can’t think anymore.
“Hi,” he says, his voice just low enough and smooth enough to send shivers down my spine.
“Hi,” I say back.
Brilliant. Normally, speaking is not a problem for me, but I’m hypnotized.
His mouth lifts up at one side, like he finds it funny that I’m staring and incapable of speech. “Where did you run from?”
“Um,” I say, continuing my display of brilliance. A large portion of my brain is distracted by the faint accent that makes his question sound like a melody. I manage to gesture vaguely over my shoulder.
“The dock.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s nearly eight kilometers.”
“What?” That’s like five miles. I’ve been running for over half an hour. Even if I keep my same pace the whole way back I won’t have time to shower before meeting Damian. And the way my thighs feel, I’m definitely going back at a slower rate.
Great, I’m going to show up for my first day of school sticky and smelling like sweat.
“There’s a shortcut,” Mr. Beautiful offers. Pointing to the rocks at the edge of the beach, he explains, “That path will get you home in half the time.”
I squint at the rocks, trying to find a path. All I see are big, beige rocks and short, shrubby bushes that look like they might like to scrape the crap out of my legs.
“It’s there,” he says with a laugh. “It starts out steep, but you’ll be on the flat after the first half kilometer.”
Finally spying the narrow path, I turn back and say, “Thank-”
But he’s already gone, running back the way he came.
I didn’t even get to ask his name.
“Thanks!” I shout after him.
Without turning or slowing he waves over his shoulder. I allow myself a few seconds of appreciation-watching him from behind is even more mesmerizing. Then, shaking myself out of that detour into fantasy, I turn and head up the path.
I’m back at the house in under twenty minutes, with just enough time to shower and dry my hair before I have to meet Damian.
Following Damian up the broad front steps of the Academy, I feel my jaw drop at the gorgeous building that is my new school.
Clearly very old-ancient even-the whole stone front is lined with columns that stretch all the way to the roof. Above the columns is a triangle filled with carvings of men and women doing all different things-standing, sitting, lying down while eating grapes. It looks like a drawing I saw once of what the Parthenon might have looked like when it was new. Nothing like the single story, boring to the point of hospital decor building that houses Pacific Park.
“This building dates to the relocation of the Academy in the sixth century,” Damian explains. He pushes open the massive golden front door and gestures for me to go in. “The only changes since that time have been technological modernizations. We have one of the most advanced computer labs in the world.”
“Good to know some things on this island have reached the twenty-first century,” I say, thinking back to the ancient computer at his house.
Then I step into the expansive front hall and all thought flees.
In front of me, directly across the stone tiled floor from the main door, is the biggest trophy case I have ever seen. And it is jampacked with shining gold trophies.
“Wow,” I whisper, unable to hide my awe.
“The Academy has an illustrious history,” he says, walking up behind me when I zombie-walk to the glass case, spellbound by all the glitter.
“Are all these for sports?” I ask. Front and center is a big gold trophy that makes the Stanley Cup look like a wineglass. That must be for some major competition.
“Hardly,” Damain says with a half-laugh. “The sports trophies are nearer to the end of the cabinet.”
I follow the direction of his gesture with my eyes. I have to squint to see the section he’s pointing to because it’s halfway down the never-ending hall.
The hall is like twenty feet wide and just as tall, all shiny-smooth stone. Marble, probably. Clearly it runs the entire length of the building-all several hundred feet. Now I notice that there are windows in the wall behind the columns, letting in bright stripes of morning sunlight across the marble floor and reflecting off the glass-fronted cases. The whole space glows with the same soft amber color as the marble.
Every last inch of the interior wall is a trophy display.
“Then what-”
“Many of these are for academic competitions,” he explains, answering my question before I finish. “But we also hold many historical artifacts on display. Artifacts too valuable to display in a museum. Our security is impenetrable.”
“Artifacts?”
“This,” he says, pointing to a no-larger-than-life-size apple that looks like it’s been dipped in gold, “is the Apple of Discord, the cause of the Trojan War.”
I lean in for a closer look. Other than being gold, it doesn’t look any different than a regular apple. Then the letters of a Greek word carved on its side start to glow, like it knows someone’s watching.
“Be careful.” Damian pulls me back. “The Apple is tremendously powerful and dangerous. Do not get too close.”
“Oh,” I say casually, trying not to look impressed. “What else do you have?”
“There is one display I think you will especially enjoy.” He strides off down the hall toward the sports section. When he stops in front of an almost empty case I nearly run into him.
All that’s in the case is a little wreath of dried-up twigs. Not very impressive. Damian must think I’m easily amused.
Then I read the plaque.
Laurel presented to the first Olympic champion, Nikomedes, 919 BC.
Oh. My. God.
I blink up at Damian, disbelieving.
He smiles, a broad, self-satisfied smile that tells me he knows he impressed me and he isn’t going to let me forget it. I don’t care.
Reaching up, I finger the glass in front of the wreath, marveling at the thought that it had once crowned the very first Olympic champion ever. Kinda makes our medals seem like Happy Meal prizes.
“Come, Phoebe,” Damian says, “we must discuss your schedule.”
“B-but-”
He gently presses a hand to my back and leads me away. “There will be plenty of time for worshipping the athletic artifacts,” he says. “You will be here for one year, at least.”
Yes, yes, one year.
“Next time,”-he stops in front of a door and, unlocking it, ushers me inside-“I will show you the actual Sandals of Pheidippides.”
It’s a good thing Damian points me to the chair in front of his desk because I am on the verge of expiring from excitement.
Suddenly, hurrying back to Athens to see the subway display-on my way back to civilization or not-seems like a really unnecessary expedition.
Who needs a replica when you can see the real deal?