My hand freezes inches from the doorknob.
“I know you’re counting the days until you can leave, until you can go away to college.” She walks up behind me and whispers in my ear. “Dad thinks that’s a bad idea. He thinks you should stay on through Level 13 and attend university in Britain.”
“Absolutely not—”
“I heard him talking with your mom about it.” Her smile is wicked. “She agreed.”
“She would never—”
“She would and she did.”
“Stop interrupting me!” I shout, but I’m more mad about the whole college thing.
Her face changes and suddenly she looks like the dutiful student body president, which she is. “I think you’re right, Dad,” she says in the singsong voice of a butt-kissing tattletale. “Phoebe confided in me that she has been struggling with her classes. She’s afraid that the rigors of collegiate academics will be too much for her.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I warn.
“Oh, I would.” She fake-smiles. “Of course, I could just as easily be swayed to testify to the opposite.”
Suspicious, I ask, “How could I be sure you’d help me?”
She shrugs. “I’m going to Oxford. The last thing I want is to spend more time trapped on an island with you. I’d rather have an ocean between us.”
At least she is being honest.
I weigh my options. I can tell Stella to go take a flying leap, leaving me struggling through Modern Greek and maybe stuck on this island for an entire extra year. Or I can accept her terms, get an A in the class, jet off to USC after this one wretched year, and probably get cursed into oblivion by Adara.
Of course, with the second option there is a potential added bonus. In wrenching Griffin away from Adara, I could conceivably end up keeping him for myself—which means I would get to see Stella lose out on something she really wants. A rare occurrence, I think.
Win-win.
“All right,” I finally say. “You help me, I’ll help you.”
She actually smiles, a genuine, nonthreatening smile.
That won’t last.
“But I can’t make any guarantees,” I add. “How am I supposed to break up the golden couple? What if I can’t split them up?”
“You’ll find a way.” She turns to walk away. “I hear cross-country teammates grow very close. Steal him, dump him, and I’ll clean up the pieces.”
She opens the door and starts to leave.
“Hey,” I cry. “What about my homework?”
She looks back over her shoulder. Her smile is sinister. “As soon as you meet your end of the bargain, I’ll fulfill mine.”
Then she walks out of the room, slamming the door.
I send my Modern Greek textbook flying after her.
“Phoebe?” a muffled voice calls to me. Then louder, clearer, “Phoebe?”
“Mmnff,” I grumble and settle back into my dreamland.
“Phoebe!”
I shoot up in my chair. “Wha—what’s going on?”
“Phoebe, honey,” Mom says, laying a hand on my shoulder, “you
fell asleep over your homework.”
A quick glance at my desk reveals some sleep-crumpled papers and, thankfully, no drool puddle. Peeling a sheet of notebook paper off my cheek, I check and see that I had finished my Art History questionnaire before dozing off.
“Thanks,” I say, smoothing out the paper and slipping it into my
binder. “I guess practice wore me out.” “Did you want to check e-mail before Damian and I go to bed?” Ew. I shudder at the thought of Mom and Damian going to bed
together. I mean, I know this isn’t our first night here, but I don’t
need the reminder of where my mother sleeps. “Sure,” I say before she can elaborate. “I’ll go do that right now.” She stops me before I hurry out of the room. “Is everything all
right, Phoebola?” “Sure,” I say again. “Why wouldn’t it be?” “You seem a little . . .” She gives me a sad look. “. . . withdrawn.” “There’s a lot going on,” I explain. “Are you having trouble with your classes?” “No,” I assure her. “I mean, sure it’s loads more work than we
ever had at Pacific Park, but I’m making it through.” “Then it’s your classmates.” She frowns like she’s thinking hard about something. “I thought you said you’d made new friends?” “Yeah.” And a few enemies. Not that I’d tell her that—it would be like tattling to the principal. “Nicole and Troy are great.”
“What about your track teammates?”
I can’t help rolling my eyes. “I don’t have to like them to run with them.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I’m tempted. I mean, I haven’t spoken to anyone but descendants since we got here. And she’s the only non-descendant I’m allowed to talk to about everything that’s going on. Besides, before the stepdad entered the picture we were like best friends. We talked about everything. I could talk to her about things I couldn’t even talk about with Nola and Cesca. I cried on her shoulder when jerky Justin dumped me and she didn’t even try to shrink me.
But I can’t forget what Stella said about Mom agreeing that I should stay here—or the fact that it’s Mom’s fault I’m in this mess in the first place.