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,
“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?”
