Tera Childs: Oh. My. Gods.

But even if I’m not a believer in “alternative realities,” as Nola calls them, I’m willing to keep an open mind. Sure, I’ll believe they’re real. Just as soon as I see one…

“Well, well,” the girl who just appeared next to Damian says. “I see the barbarians have arrived.” When I say appeared, I don’t mean she walked up and there she was by his side. No, she appeared. As inout of nowhere. As in she wasn’t there and then she was. She, like, shimmered into place.

That’s the kind of proof that’s hard to ignore.

“Stella,” Damian says, a serious hint of warning in his tone. “What have I told you about materializing?”

“Please, Daddy,” she coos. “I just had to see them for myself.

They’re like a new exhibit of rare animals at the zoo.”

Her voice is sickly sweet, like those sirens in The Odyssey who used their beautiful singing to attract men to their deaths. There isn’t a trace of sincerity in her. Not from the brown roots of her over highlighted hair to her bright red painted toes. And I don’t think it’s a simple case of overenthusiastic tweezing that makes her look like a bi’atch with a capital B-I-A-T-C-H.

“We will speak about this later,” Damian says. And he does not sound happy. “I apologize for my daughter’s… rude behavior.

Barbarian is a term applied to non-Greeks.” He shoots her a sharp look. “It is not meant in a derogatory manner. Not only is it misapplied, since Phoebe is half-Greek and Valerie is now Greek twice by marriages, but, as Plato once said, the term is absurd. Dividing the world into Greek and non-Greek tells us little about the first group and nothing about the second.”

Stella looks completely unfazed, like she pisses him off every day.

Why do I think she excels at getting herself out of trouble with her dad? I have a gut feeling that she’s going to enjoy making my life miserable-and probably won’t get in any trouble at all.

“I never thought of it that way,” Mom says, taking Damian’s hand, “but that’s also true in modern psychoanalytic theory. If onedefines their world in terms of ‘object’ and ‘other’ then one only knows what the object is and what the other is not.”

Stella rolls her eyes. Damian nods. I have learned-after many years of theoretical nonsense talk-to ignore the psychobabble. Trying to follow along only ends in headache.

“Besides,” Damian says, giving Stella one last disapproving look before smiling at me, “you are not the only non-Greek to attend the Academy. We are primarily a boarding school and many, if not most, of our students are from abroad. Our ancestors were not, shall we say, confined to a particular geographical area.”

Right. I remember all those stories about Zeus and Apollo and the other gods jumping around from one seduction to the next.

There are probably little mini-gods all over the world.

Stella smiles tightly, as if saying, Whatever.

“You must be Phoebe,” she says, stepping forward and offering me a hand. “I’m Stella… your new sister.”

Now, I’ve always wanted a sister, but not one like this. In my mind I picture a little girl with ringlets and dimples who follows me everywhere and copies my every move to the point of driving me crazy. Stella is not a follower. That much I can see in the icy gray shallows of her eyes. She crushes those foolish enough not to fall into place behind her. I am not that foolish.

“Yeah,” I say, taking her hand and letting her pull me up. I’m shocked when she doesn’t let go halfway and send me falling back on my butt. “Nice to meet you.” The words choke out around the gagging sensation in my throat.

Then she shocks the living crap out of me by pulling me into ahug. Over her shoulder I see Mom take Damian’s hand and look at me with pride, like they can already see us having sleepovers and sharing secrets and painting each other’s toenails. She thinks we’re halfway sisters already.

Only she doesn’t hear what Stella whispers in my ear.

“I hope you’re ready for a living nightmare, kako, because this school will chew you up, spit you out, and smite the tiny pieces of whatever’s left all the way to Hades.”

Mom smiles at me.

I whisper back, “I’ve survived beach bunny cheerleaders, a slut hunting ex-boyfriend, and five years of cross-country camp. I’m not afraid of some throwback to ancient myth with atrocious highlights and a Barbra Streisand nose.”

Catching Mom’s eye I smile big, even as Stella squeezes me way too tight around the ribs. One stomp on her pedicured toes and I’m free.

“All ready,” I say, snatching my backpack off the deck.

As I sling my pack onto my shoulder I see a spark out of the corner of my eye, just before the strap breaks, sending the bag flying right into Stella’s nose. Sure, it was an accident-you can’t exactly anticipate strap failure-but I couldn’t have aimed better if I tried.

Too bad, though. This is a brand-new backpack.

Hand cupped over her injured nose, Stella’s face turns bright red. She growls and lifts her other hand like she’s going to point at me-way rude, by the way.

“Stella,” Damian warns as he points a finger at my broken strap.

The torn fabric glows for a second before magically repairing itself.

I grab my backpack off the ground and check the strap. It’s perfect, like it never broke in the first place.

Stella jerks her hand back to her side before turning in a huff and stalking off the boat. I glance back and forth between Damian’s steaming look and Stella’s retreating back.

Wait a second… Did she do that to my strap? That must have been the flash of light. Serves her right getting bonked in the nose.

Next time she’ll think twice about zapping my stuff.

Dinner at the Petrolas house is unusual, to say the least.

Mom and I usually set up a pair of TV trays in the living room so we can watch the latest reality show while we eat. Not the best idea with some of the ubergross stunts they pull, but it was our nightly ritual.

Not only do we not even have TV on Serfopoula, but Damian and Stella actually eat at a dining table. In a dining room. Weird, huh? “There is a small village on the far side of the campus,” Damian explains while a servant-yes, an actual servant-serves the food. “It mainly consists of housing for Academy staff and faculty, but there are a few commercial establishments. There is a bookstore, a small grocery that sells locally produced fruits, vegetables, and dairy items, and, a favorite among the students, an ice-cream parlor.”

That’s it? No CVS or Foot Locker? What if I need Band-Aids or new Nikes? “What about that other island?” I ask. “Where we caught the yacht.”

“Unfortunately,” Damian says, “only Level 13s are permitted to visit Serifos during the semester.”

I’m about to ask what a Level 13 is and why they’re so special, when Stella says, “I’m a Level 13.”

Of course she is.

“Yes,” Damian says. “Because she plans to attend university in England, Stella must study for an additional year beyond your American twelve.”

Across the table-a massive piece of dark wood furniture worn so smooth it must date back to the original Academy-Stella smirks.

“Yes,” she coos. “British academic standards are much higher.”

“Yeah, well,” I say. It is on the tip of my tongue to say she must need remedial school only her dad’s too nice to say so, but Mom kicks me under the table. Ouch! Clutching my throbbing shin, I cover by saying, “I’m going to USC, so I don’t need another year.”

“If you need anything at all,” Damian says, “please let me know and we will make arrangements. There is very little we cannot get here on Serfopoula.”