Oh. My. Gods. (8 page)

“Hi, Phoebola.” She smiles as I approach.

“Hi.” I smile back.

Somehow, this feels more like the old us. Maybe because no one else is home, but I feel like we’re back in L.A. and giggling over fashion magazines again.

Spurred by sentimentality, I slide into the chair next to her. “Whatcha looking at?”

She groans. “Bridesmaid dresses. There are so many styles and colors to choose from I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well,” I say, studying the pictures laid out in front of her of skinny models in brightly colored shiny gowns, “maybe you should pick your wedding colors first. Then you can just pick a style you like.”

“What an inspired idea.” She pulls out some papers with scraps of color stapled to them. “Here are some of my color choices. What do you think?”

She looks at me all serious. I know that in the great big scheme of things choosing wedding colors is not an awe-inspiring responsibility, but the fact that Mom is seriously asking my opinion makes me feel really important.

I think she has almost every color in the world on these sheets, but they are grouped into a few coordinating palettes. One has a horrid pea green that wouldn’t look good on anyone—not even Adara. I shove that one aside. Some have different shades of orange and yellow that seem more Halloween-y than wedding-y. I put those aside with the pea green. That leaves two choices: one with three shades of pink that my mom would never be caught within spitting distance of and one with three shades of blue and a teal green.

“This one,” I say, pointing to the blue and green palette. “Everyone looks good in light blue. And it goes with the whole Mediterranean setting.”

Mom studies the colors, like she’s picturing the whole wedding and adding touches of blue and teal everywhere.

“I like it,” Mom says, smiling and warming up to the choice. “And blue and white are the colors of Greece. It seems only fitting since I will soon become a Greek citizen.”

“What!” My jaw drops and I stare at her. “You’re becoming a Greek?”

“Of course,” she says with that happy-mushy smile on her face. “Damian cannot leave the Academy. His job and his life are here. And here he is protected. In America, he would always be vulnerable to discovery.”

“But you can’t just un-become American,” I insist.

Okay, so my problem isn’t really that she wants to renounce her American citizenship. If she becomes a citizen of Greece then that makes this whole thing so much more real. Like she can’t ever turn back. Like I can’t turn back.

“What about me?” I ask.

“Damian and I love each other. We are going to make a life together and that can only happen here.” She takes the discarded color schemes and drops them in the wastebasket in the kitchen. “That doesn’t mean that you’re not a major part of that life, even when you choose to return to the States. You are my daughter. My love. My everything. That will never change. But don’t you think I deserve a little happiness after all these years?”

We were happy. In California.

Mom had her practice and Aunt Megan and Yia Yia Minta.

I had Nola and Cesca and a track team full of friends.

Everything was great. So why did we have to move all the way around the world just for a guy?

“Besides,” she says, her voice all wistful. “I like Greece. It makes me feel closer to your father to be in his homeland.”

“Homeland?” I ask, shocked. “Dad was from Detroit. Motown is his homeland.”

“His family is Greek. In his heart he was always Greek.”

“That’s creepy.” I stand up and start pacing. “You marry this new guy and move to Greece to be closer to your dead husband?”

She gasps as I say it. I know that was pretty harsh, but it’s the truth.

“Phoebe,” she begins, and I know she’s serious because she uses my real name, “what your father and I had was very special. Nothing—not his death, not my remarriage—will ever change that. Damian understands.”

Well, I don’t understand. Mom may think it’s fine to snag a new husband, but I don’t need a new father. And being in Greece will never make me feel closer to the one I had.

Sure, I’ve been thinking more about Dad since we got to Serfopoula than I have in ages, but that’s because of the stepdad thing. Mom is probably going through the new husband thing. It’s displaced guilt or something because she feels bad for remarrying. That’s her baggage.

Dad was perfect and now he’s gone. I can’t get him back and don’t want to replace him.

“Fine.” I stalk into the kitchen, wiping at the tears I don’t want Mom to see, and refill my glass of water. “You stay here and become Greek. I’ll send you a postcard from USC when I graduate.”

With a satisfying slam, I shut myself in my bedroom and fling myself on the bed. I can picture Mom watching me storm away, shrugging at my infantile behavior, and going back to planning her wedding.

It’s like I don’t even matter anymore.

Rolling to the edge of the bed, I reach over to the desk to grab my Physics II book. If it’s like everything else at this school my eight homework problems are going to turn into a major scientific treatise.

When Mom knocks on my door to call me to dinner I ignore her. The last thing I want is to face another meal of goo-goo eyes and green sea slugs—even though Stella’s powers are grounded, I don’t put it past her to bring real ones this time. Besides, I still have half a book to read for Ms. T.

My door swings open. “Phoebe, dinner is—”

“Mom!” I shout, jumping off my bed. “You can’t just barge into my room. Don’t I get any privacy?”

“I’m sorry. When you didn’t answer I—”

“Look, I don’t want dinner. I’m not hungry.” Actually, I’m starving, but I would rather go hungry until lunch tomorrow than have a family dinner. “I have a lot of work to do, so just leave me alone.”

The hurt in her green eyes makes my heart ache. Not enough to take back what I said, though.

I’m surprised she’s not shouting right back at me.

“All right,” she says softly. “I understand your need for distance. I’ll ask Hesper to leave a plate of leftovers in the fridge.”

I shrug, like I’m not interested. Like I’m not already plotting to sneak out and consume that plate after everyone’s in bed. “Whatever.”

Her sad smile says she already knows what I’ll do.

Without another word, she turns and walks away.

Animal Farm in hand, I collapse on the bed.

All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

Sounds like my life.

Maybe this book won’t be so bad, after all.

Two hours and forty-seven pages later I’m still twenty pages from being done with my reading assignment.

I can’t face another page of Animal Farm without a break, so I head to Damian’s office to check e-mail. He’s there, bent over a stack of papers. It’s a really big stack and I wonder if he has to get through the whole thing tonight.

He sure seems to be busy all the time.

I’m not sure if I should interrupt, so I hover in the doorway. He looks up and smiles.

“Good evening, Phoebe.” He pushes his papers aside and smiles at me. “How is the homework coming?”

“All done,” I say cheerfully.

Okay, so I still need to read another twenty pages of Animal Farm and choose a painting from the Art History book to study for the semester, but everything else is finished.

“Please,” he says, gesturing to the computer, “feel free to check your e-mail. But be sure and leave enough time to finish your reading.”

How did he know? Either I’m that transparent or he can read minds.

“I don’t read minds so much as I read emotion,” he says. “I sensed your guilt over lying to me.”

“I wasn’t ly—”

“You were stretching the truth.” He gave me a disapproving principal look.

“Fine,” I relent. “I’m almost done.”

He points to the chair in front of his desk. “Please, take a seat.”

Nervous about his “discussion” tone of voice, I sink into the chair with a sense of despair. I’m about to be lectured, I just know it.

“Don’t worry,” he says, again reading my mind—or emotions, or whatever. “I know this is a difficult transition for you. There are many changes occurring simultaneously. Whatever your opinion of me and my relationship with your mother, I would like you to trust me. No matter what problem you are having you can discuss it with me and I will advise you as best I can. In the strictest confidence.”

I nod, knowing this is a really kind offer. There is still some part of me that won’t just open up and accept his help. Not out loud anyway. But it’s good to know it’s there. If I need it.

“You should know,” he adds, pulling his pile of papers back over and starting to look through them again. “Ms. Tyrovolas frequently gives a detailed quiz over reading assignments.”

“Oh.” Cool. Insider information. I’m beginning to see how having Damian as an ally could be really useful. “I’ll just check my e-mail real quick, then.”

He nods and keeps reading his papers.

Anxious to see if Cesca and Nola e-mailed me and get back to finishing the Animal Farm pages, I jump into the chair in front of the computer and log on to my account.

I have two messages.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Training Meeting

Phoebe,

As you overheard, your place on the team is conditional on your placing in the first meet. That is in three weeks. Come by my office after school so we can talk about your training schedule.

Coach Lenny

I send him a response saying I’ll be there as soon as I get out of Philosophy. Then I save his message in my Running folder and move on to the second message. It’s not from California.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: No Subject

Making the team was the easy part.

G

Teeth grinding, I click the delete button. That message disappears. . . . but another pops up in its place. I hit delete again. Another message pops up. Delete. Pop-up. Delete. Pop-up, pop-up, pop-up. Delete, delete, del—

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: No Subject

You can’t get rid of me with the delete key.

Remember who has powers.

G

“Son of a—”

“Something wrong?” Damian looks up from his papers.

“Um, no,” I mumble.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Balance of Power

Remember who can tell Coach Lenny about zapped shoe

laces.

P

I send the message and Griffin’s annoying pop-ups disappear. Very satisfied, I am about to close out of e-mail when the instant messenger opens.

TrojanTiger: Phoebe? you there?

Who is that? Maybe it’s Griffin trying to get at me another way— that guy spends way too much time devising ways to torment me. And all I’ve done is dare to go to his school. Can’t he tell I don’t want to be here any more than he wants me here?

Besides, isn’t a Trojan-something a really bad virus? Maybe he’s trying to trash my computer. I almost think about letting him, because he’d really be destroying Damian’s computer and that would get him in a lot of trouble.

But I decide it’s not worth it. I need to get back to my reading. My cursor is over the close button when another message comes through.

TrojanTiger: it’s me Troy.

LostPhoebe: Troy! I thought you were someone else.

TrojanTiger: disappointed?

LostPhoebe: no!!!

LostPhoebe: relieved

TrojanTiger: how were tryouts?

LostPhoebe: made the team

TrojanTiger: knew you would

LostPhoebe: that makes one of us

TrojanTiger: ha ha

The cursor blinks at me. I don’t know what else to say. I mean, Troy is being super nice to me, but why? And do I want a guy to be super nice to me? Sure, he’s cute and sweet and everything I should want in a guy, but do I? When do girls ever like the guy they should?

Besides, it doesn’t look like he knows what else to say, either. Blink, blink, blink.

TrojanTiger: still there?

LostPhoebe: yeah

LostPhoebe: you?

TrojanTiger: yeah

LostPhoebe: okay

Blink, blink, blink.

TrojanTiger: well TrojanTiger: just wanted to check in

LostPhoebe: thanks

TrojanTiger: better go finish my homework

LostPhoebe: me too

LostPhoebe: more reading for lit

TrojanTiger: finish!

TrojanTiger: tyrant quizzes

I glance at Damian. He’s focused on his stack of papers and doesn’t notice me watching. I’ll give him one point on the plus side for cluing me in about the quiz.

LostPhoebe: heard about that

LostPhoebe: almost done

TrojanTiger: okay see you tomorrow?

LostPhoebe: of course!

TrojanTiger: save me a seat at lunch

TrojanTiger: unless you sit with Ares now

LostPhoebe: as if!

LostPhoebe: they wouldn’t have me even if I wanted to

LostPhoebe: and I so don’t want to!

TrojanTiger: good

LostPhoebe: night

TrojanTiger: night

The message window closed.

I sigh. Animal Farm is calling.

Sliding the keyboard tray back under the desk, I stand and head for the door.