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-an-island 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 Pacific Park 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: granolagrrl@pacificpark.us,

princesscesca@pacificpark.us

From: lostphoebe@theacademy.gr

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!

Love,

Phoebe


I click send and log off. Bed is calling me. After all, it is ten hours later in Serfopoula and that means I haven’t slept in, like, thirty-six hours. And I have to go to the Academy with Damian at seven-thirty to fill out paperwork and finalize my class schedule.

The only good thing about this whole catastrophe so far is Damian says the track coach is world class and so is the team. And tryouts are tomorrow after school. At least I’ll get a good year of training in to prep me for the USC team.

Barely dragging up the energy to change out of my traveling clothes, I pull on a clean T-shirt and a pair of smiley face boxers and collapse onto my bed. At least the bed is comfy-all white and just soft enough. Still, I think I’m going to dream about green sea slugs and shimmering stepsisters tonight.


When my alarm clock goes off at six I’m tempted to fling it against the wall. I’m suffering serious jet lag in the form of whole-body muscle weakness and a headache that makes brain freeze feel like a pinprick. Tugging the white fluffy comforter up over my head to muffle the deafening alarm, I consider my two options.

Either I stay in bed, shut out the outside world, and hope that by the time seven-thirty rolls around-when I have to meet Damianall my pain has faded away.

Or… I can toss off the covers, pull on my sneakers, and go for a good long run that might not erase the jet lag, but will at least replace this sluggish feeling with familiar physical exhaustion.

To snooze or not to snooze?

From beneath the covers I hear my room door burst open and smack against the wall.

“Turn that awful thing off!” Stella shouts.

Flopping a corner of the comforter back, I force one eye open and squint at her. I don’t say anything at first-partly because I’m surprised that she could hear my alarm all the way down in the slimy dungeon I’ve pictured her sleeping in and partly because I’m trying not to laugh. She looks like a pint of mint chocolate chip exploded on her face.

“Did you fall asleep in a bowl of pistachio pudding?”

She scowls and jabs her finger at the still-blaring clock.

Nothing happens.

“Aargh!”

I smile. Maybe I can get Stella grounded for the entire year-at least then I’d be safe.

If her face weren’t covered in green I know she would be turning red.

When she stomps in my direction, I fling my arm out and smack the top of the clock. I don’t want her getting any of the green goop on my fluffy white comforter. “Forget it,” I say, sitting up and swinging my legs out of bed. “I’m getting up anyway.”

For a moment she looks like she wants to continue her attack, but then turns and stomps back to her room.

My brain is waking up-no turning back now.

I grab a pair of track pants, a T-shirt, and a pair of white socks out of the dresser, pull them on in a matter of seconds, splash somewater on my face in the bathroom, lace up my sneakers, and am heading out the door when the snoozing alarm clock starts blaring again. Smiling at the thought of Stella having to hunt it out from under my bed, I start down the path to the dock where we arrived last night. Where there’s water there must be a beach.

The dock is in a little lagoon, nicely protected from the open sea, with rocky cliffs on one side and a narrow strip of sand on the other. Even though I’m not going to push my worn-out body too hard, I sit on the dock and do ten minutes of stretches. Pulling a hamstring is the last thing I need.

The sun is just starting to rise and casts a pale pink over everything. I take deep, filling breaths as I reach for my toes, taking in the salty clean smell of the sea. A different smell from the California beaches I’m used to. Purer, maybe.

I twist my upper body to the one side, going for that extra oblique stretch, and notice a cluster of little white buildings on top of the cliffs. Bathed in the early morning twilight, it looks just as pink as the rest of the island. That must be the village. It seems so strange that there are people that live up there in that little village, a world away from L.A., with whole lives that go on whether I’m here to see them or not. I guess that’s true of everywhere-the cars you pass on the freeway, the towns you fly over at thirty thousand feet, and those little white buildings. Suddenly, L.A. feels even farther away.

Surrounded by pink and silence, except for gently lapping waves, I embrace the inner and outer peace. Leaving the dock for the thin strip of sand, I kick into a moderate run. If my entire year here were just like this moment then things might not be so bad. But I knowthat this feeling only exists when I run. It’s why I run. That, and to feel closer to Dad.

As the sand squishes beneath my Nikes, I lose myself in the memory of our early-morning training runs. When Dad was training in the off-season we would run almost every morning. Almost always on Santa Monica beach. We would park near the pier, run the three miles down to Marina del Rey, and then race back to the pier for ice cream. If I beat him, I got a double scoop.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until I taste my tears. Not slowing my pace, I wipe at my eyes. Why was I even thinking about Dad?

Usually I don’t think about anything when I run. I’m too focused on the sensation of running.

Clearing my mind, I notice the burning in my quads. How long have I been running? The world around me is no longer bathed in pink. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms my suspicion. The dock is nowhere in sight and the sun has cleared the horizon.

I need to get back.

Dropping to a walk, I’m about to turn around and head back when I notice another person running on the beach. He’s less than two hundred yards away from me, close enough for me to appreciate the loose, easy movement of his gait. I can tell his body is made for running, and somehow I know that his soul lives for it. I guess I recognize a kindred spirit.

Before I know it-because I’m mesmerized by watching him run-he’s jogging to a stop right in front of me. I practically melt into a puddle of girl drool.

He looks around my age and he is beyond beautiful. It isn’t just his hypnotic blue eyes or his perfect, sloped nose, or his sculpted high cheekbones. His lips are full and soft and yummily pink. The kind that just make you want to grab him by the hair with both hands-even though I can’t see his hair under the blue bandannaand make out until you can’t think anymore.

“Hi,” he says, his voice just low enough and smooth enough to send shivers down my spine.

“Hi,” I say back.

Brilliant. Normally, speaking is not a problem for me, but I’m hypnotized.

His mouth lifts up at one side, like he finds it funny that I’m staring and incapable of speech. “Where did you run from?”

“Um,” I say, continuing my display of brilliance. A large portion of my brain is distracted by the faint accent that makes his question sound like a melody. I manage to gesture vaguely over my shoulder.

“The dock.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s nearly eight kilometers.”

“What?” That’s like five miles. I’ve been running for over half an hour. Even if I keep my same pace the whole way back I won’t have time to shower before meeting Damian. And the way my thighs feel, I’m definitely going back at a slower rate.

Great, I’m going to show up for my first day of school sticky and smelling like sweat.

“There’s a shortcut,” Mr. Beautiful offers. Pointing to the rocks at the edge of the beach, he explains, “That path will get you home in half the time.”

I squint at the rocks, trying to find a path. All I see are big, beige rocks and short, shrubby bushes that look like they might like to scrape the crap out of my legs.

“It’s there,” he says with a laugh. “It starts out steep, but you’ll be on the flat after the first half kilometer.”

Finally spying the narrow path, I turn back and say, “Thank-”

But he’s already gone, running back the way he came.

I didn’t even get to ask his name.

“Thanks!” I shout after him.

Without turning or slowing he waves over his shoulder. I allow myself a few seconds of appreciation-watching him from behind is even more mesmerizing. Then, shaking myself out of that detour into fantasy, I turn and head up the path.

I’m back at the house in under twenty minutes, with just enough time to shower and dry my hair before I have to meet Damian.