Tera Childs - Oh. My. Gods.

“That’s the most exciting part,” Mom says, her voice edging on near-hysteria with excitement. I know instantly that I’m not going to like what she says. “We’re moving to Greece.”

“Be reasonable, Phoebola,” Mom says-like using my nickname will make me suddenly okay with all of this. “This isn’t the end of the world.”

“Isn’t it?” I ask, shoving the contents of my dresser drawer into my duffel bag.

Mom sits on the twin bed in the dorm room that has been my home for the last seven days. Twenty minutes ago my life was perfect… right on track.

Now I’m just supposed to pack up my life and move halfway around the world so Mom can shack up with some guy she’s only known for a week?

Sounds like the end of the world to me.

“I know you were looking forward to spending your senior year at Pacific Park,” she says, entering therapist mode. “But I think that the move will be good for you. Broaden your horizons.”

“I don’t need broader horizons,” I say, grabbing the pillow off my bed and tugging at my striped pillowcase.

“Honey, you’ve never lived anywhere but Southern California.

You’ve gone to school with the same kids your entire life.” She places her hand on my shoulder when I lean past her to grab my blanket. “I worry that when you go off to USC next year you’ll be in for a shock.”

“I won’t,” I insist. “Nola and Cesca will be there.”

“So will thousands of other students from across the country.

From around the world.”

“That doesn’t mean I need to be from around the world, too.”

Turning away from Mom, I quickly fold my blanket and drop it on top of my duffel. All my things are packed, but I’m not ready to go yet. Not when I know he’s out there somewhere. Not when my whole world is being pulled out from under me.

“Come,” she says quietly. “Sit down.”

I look over my shoulder to see her patting the bed.

I tell myself to remain calm. This is still Mom, after all. She’s usually very reasonable… maybe she’ll listen to my argument. Prepared to discuss this like adults, I plop down next to her.

“Mom,” I say, trying to sound as mature as possible, “there has to be some other way. Can’t he move here?”

“No,” she says with a sad laugh, “he definitely cannot.”

“Why not?” I ask. “Is he wanted by the law or something?”

Mom gives me an of-course-not look. “His work demands he remain in Greece.”

Work! There’s something I can use.

“What about your work? Your practice?” I inch closer. “Won’t you miss your daily dose of crazies?” Not a PC term, I know, but I’m operating in desperation mode.

“Yes. I will.”

“Then why are you-”

She looks me straight in the eyes and says, “Because I love him.”

For what feels like forever, we just stare at each other.

“Well I don’t see why I have to go,” I say. “I could stay with Yia Yia Minta and finish off my year-”

“Absolutely not,” Mom interrupts. “I love your grandmother like my own mother, but she is in no position to care for you for an entire year. She’s nearly eighty. Besides,”-she nudges me in the ribs-“you hate goat cheese.”

“I know, but-”

“You’re my baby girl.” Her voice is determined. “I refuse to lose you a year early.”

Great, Mom has separation anxiety, so I have to leave the hemisphere.

“Are you trying to ruin my life?” I demand, jumping up and pacing back and forth on the bare linoleum floor. “What, was everything going too smoothly? Worried that I didn’t have enough teen angst to work with? That I wouldn’t need therapy when I hit thirty?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Me? I’m not the one who flew off to a family reunion and came back with a fiance-wait, he’s not family is he? That would be beyond ew , Mom.”

“Phoebe.” Her voice is laced with warning, but I’m building up steam.

“I’ve heard about these spur-of-the-moment European marriages.

Are you sure he’s not just using you to get his green card?”

“Enough!” she shouts.

I stop cold and stare at her. Therapist Mom does not shout. I’m in serious trouble.

“Damian and I love each other.” She stands up, tucks my blanket under her arm, and hangs the strap on my duffel over my shoulder.

“We will be married next weekend. He will return to Greece. At the end of the month you and I will move to Serfopoula.”

“Who’s ever even heard of Serfopoula anyway?” I ask as I pace back and forth at the foot of my bed where my bright yellow rug used to be.

“Just think, Phoebe,” Cesca says. “You’ll be basking on the pristine white shores of the turquoise Aegean.”

Okay, she has me there. Beach runs are kind of my weakness, but that is so not enough to make moving worthwhile. There are plenty of beaches in California.

Cesca gazes dreamily up at my cloud-painted ceiling, like she’s picturing frilly umbrella drinks and hot cabana boys. Her sigh is positively envious. Fine. She can take my seat on the flight to Athens tomorrow.

“I don’t know,” Nola says. “A practically uninhabited Greek island with nothing on it but a private school and a tiny village? Suspicious, Phoebe.”

Nola-short for Gra nola, if you can believe it-is our resident conspiracy theorist. Her parents are hippies. Not were hippies… are hippies. As in they believe in free love, protest our school’s non vegetarian lunches, and think the Cubans, the Mafia, and the CIA all conspired to kill Kennedy.

“Sounds like that tiny island in the Caribbean where the navy was bombing goats.” She flops onto my bed-sending three furry pillows bouncing to the floor-and folds herself into a yoga position. “Or maybe that was the island off the coast of California.”

“Either way,”-I snatch the pillows off the floor and stuff them into the nearest box-“tomorrow I’m going to be on a plane flying halfway around the world to live with a guy I barely met and now I’m supposed to call him Dad and pretend like we’re a big happy family.”

I realize I’m shoving the pillows so hard into Box Four of Six that I’m crushing the cardboard. Not smart, considering I don’t have any more boxes. Better that I take my frustrations out somewhere else than end up with one less box of necessities.

I stalk over to the desk and carve 3 Furry Pillows-Pink onto the contents list. It’s no fun having to account for everything I’m packing. Not when I can picture grimy customs officers pawing through my belongings to compare the list to the stuff in the box.

Cesca spins in my hot pink desk chair, her mind still on the turquoise Aegean fantasy. “I wonder if it’s near where they filmed Troy .

Do you know which part of the Aegean Snarfopoly is in?”

“Serfopoula,” I correct, because Mom has drilled it into me. “And I don’t care how close it is to anything. It’s miles and miles away from here. A world away from you guys.”

My two best friends in the whole world-since the first day of kindergarten when Nola gave Cesca and me hemp friendship bracelets and Cesca taught me how to tie my shoes the cool way. We’ve been inseparable for the last twelve years and now there’s going to be an entire ocean and most of two continents between us.

How can I make it through my senior year without them?

Okay, now I’m close to tears. We’ve been locked in my room all afternoon, packing the last of my possessions into the six boxes I’m allowed to take. Six! Can you believe it? How am I supposed to condense a lifetime of living in the same house into just six boxes?

I understand leaving my furniture-my canopy bed, my dresser covered in bumper stickers, my antique desk with “I luv JM” carved into the bottom drawer and then scratched out-but six boxes will only hold about one-quarter of everything else. That means that for every one thing I put in a box, three get given to charity.