Oh. My. Gods.
Authors: Tera Lynn Childs
Tags: #Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Europe, #Fantasy Fiction, #Supernatural, #Legends, #Myths, #Magic, #Fables, #& Fables - Greek & Roman, #Horror & Ghost Stories, #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic, #Greek & Roman, #Greek, #Mythology, #Humorous Stories, #Family, #People & Places, #Children: Young Adult (Gr. 7-9), #Greece, #Islands, #Schools, #School & Education, #Love & Romance, #Teenagers, #Remarriage, #Teenage Girls, #Children's 12-Up - Fiction - General, #High Schools, #Stepfamilies, #Stepfathers, #Private schools, #Blended families, #Cliques, #girl relations, #Running, #Fantasy/Young Adult, #Competition, #Dating (Social customs), #Teenage boy
Table of Contents
For Mom and Dad, because they got it right on the first try
Chapter 1
WHEN I’M RUNNING I can almost feel my dad at my side.
He’s been gone for nearly six years, but every time I lace up and slap sole to pavement I feel like he’s right there. I can feel him talking about my inner strength and how I will be a world-class athlete when I grow up. That’s part of why I love running—why I’m running right now, pushing myself a little harder than usual to win this race.
This isn’t just any race—it’s the final race of the USC cross-country summer camp. Every winner of this race for the last seven years has wound up with a full scholarship offer. Since USC is the only college I’ve ever considered attending, I plan on winning this race.
With the nearest runner almost fifty yards back, I’m not worried.
The finish line comes into sight. Dozens of people are waiting—coaches and trainers from the camp, campers who competed in the shorter races, parents, and friends. As I get closer I see Nola and Cesca—my two best friends—cheering like crazy. They’ve never missed one of my races.
I’m closing in on thirty yards.
Twenty yards.
Victory is guaranteed. I pull up a little bit, not really slowing down but relaxing enough to let my body begin its recovery.
That’s when I see Mom.
She’s standing with Nola and Cesca, smiling like I’ve never seen her smile—at least not in the last six years.
Why is she here?
It’s not that Mom doesn’t come to my races, but she wasn’t supposed to be at this race. She’s supposed to be in Greece, getting to know Dad’s extended family at a gigantic family reunion while I’m at cross-country camp. Trust me, the choice between running eight hours a day and spending a week with creepy cousin Bemus was not a hard decision. Meeting him once was more than enough.
I wonder why she’s home two days early.
Then, suddenly, I’m across the finish line and everyone surrounds me, cheering and congratulating me. Nola and Cesca push through the crowd and pull me into a group hug.
“You are such a superstar,” Cesca shouts.
Everyone is so loud I barely hear her.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” Nola asks. “You just beat the best in the country.”
“You are the best in the country!” Cesca adds.
I just smile. Could a girl ask for better best friends?
The next runner crosses the finish line, and some of the crowd goes to congratulate her. Now that I’m not fully surrounded I see Coach Jack waiting to talk to me. Since he’s my ticket to USC I pull out of our group hug.
“Hey, Coach,” I say, my breathing starting to return to normal.
“Congratulations, Phoebe,” he says in his gruff tone. “I’ve never seen anyone win so decisively. Or so easily.”
He shakes his head, like he can’t quite figure out how I did it.
“Thanks.”
My cheeks blush. Sure, I’ve been told my whole life that I have a special talent for running—from my dad, my mom, my friends—but it feels a lot more real coming from the head coach of the USC cross-country team. There’s a rumor that he’s going to coach the next Olympic team.
“I’m putting you at the top of the list for next year,” he says. “If you keep up with your classes and continue to perform well in races, the scholarship is yours.”
“Wow, I—” I shake my head, beyond excited to be within reach of everything I’ve ever wanted. “Thanks, Coach. I won’t let you down.”
Then he’s gone, off to talk to the other racers who are now piling across the finish line. Turning, I look for Mom. She’s right behind me, still smiling, and I dive into her arms.
“Mom,” I cry as she pulls me into a hug. “I thought you weren’t coming back until Tuesday.”
She squeezes me tight. “We decided to come back early.”
“We?” I ask, leaning back to look at her.
Mom blushes—actually blushes, with pink cheeks and everything—and releases me. She reaches out her hand to the side, like she’s grabbing for something.
I stare blankly as another, clearly male, hand meets hers.
“Phoebe,” she says, her voice full of girlish excitement, “there’s someone I want you to meet.”
My heart plummets. I suddenly have a very bad feeling about what she’s going to say. All the signs are there: blushes, smiles, and a male hand. But still, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I mean, Mom’s just not the type to date. She’s . . . Mom.
She spends her Friday nights either watching movies with me or poring over client files from her therapy practice. All she cares about are me and her work. In that order. She doesn’t have time for guys.
The guy connected to the male hand steps to Mom’s side.
“This is Damian.”
He’s not a bad looking guy, if you like the older type with dark hair that’s salt-and-peppering at the temples. His skin is tan, making his smile much brighter in contrast. In fact, he looks like a nice guy. So really, I would probably like him if not for the fact that he’s glued to my mom’s side.
“He and I are . . .” Mom giggles—actually giggles! “We’re going to be married.”
“What?” I demand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Phoebe,” Damian says with a subtle accent, releasing Mom’s hand and reaching out to shake mine.
I stare at his hand.
This can’t be happening. I mean, I want to see Mom happy and all, but how can she go off to Greece and come back six days later with a fiancé? How mature is that?
“You’re what?” I repeat.
When he sees I’m not about to shake hands, Damian puts his arm around Mom’s shoulder. She practically melts into his side.
“We’re getting married,” she says again, bubbling over with excitement. “The wedding will be in Greece in December, but we’re having a civil ceremony at City Hall next weekend so Aunt Megan and Yia Yia Minta can be there.”
“Next weekend?” I am so shocked I almost don’t realize the bigger implication. “Wait. How can you get married out of the country in December? I’ll be in school.”
Mom slips her arm around Damian’s waist, like she needs to get even closer to him. Next she’ll be sliding her hand into the back pocket of his pants. No girl should have to watch her mother revert to teenage behavior.
“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 PacificPark,” 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 fiancé—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 Granola, 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.
That makes a girl reevaluate her possessions.
The pink fur sticking out of Box Four catches my eye. I scowl at the offending pillows. Do I really want to waste space on pillows? Stalking back to the box, I jerk them out and fling them into the charity pile.
“Are you taking your curtains?” Cesca asks.
“Crap!” I swear, I’m going to forget something important—like those white gauzy panels covered with big, shiny sequins that reflect little dots of color all over my room when the sun hits them just right—and it’s not like I can buzz back home to pick up a few things.
