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-anisland 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 PacificPark 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],
[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!