“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.”

Yeah, except TV.

The servant, an older woman with wrinkled leather skin and a loose cotton dress decorated with embroidered blue flowers, sets a plate in front of me. There is some kind of salad, with recognizable cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, and stinky goat cheese that would be edible assuming I can pick around the onions. Next to the salad are two big slimy things that look like green sea slugs.

Damian must be able to guess what I’m thinking because he says, “Those are dolmades, traditional grape leaves stuffed with a rice mixture.”

Stella laughs at me and pops one in her mouth.

“Yia Yia Minta makes these,” I say, poking at one with my fork. “They’re just not usually so . . . wet looking.”

“Ah,” Damian says, smiling at the old servant woman. “That is part of Hesper’s secret recipe. She drizzles them with olive oil before serving.”

“Shhh.” The old woman, Hesper, bats at him. “You talk too much.”

“But, Hesper,” he replies, “they are family now.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. At first I think it’s because of Damian’s mushy comment—I don’t think one little City Hall marriage ceremony makes a whole new family—but then I catch Stella’s eye and she’s staring at my plate and looking, well, constipated.

Light from somewhere reflects off my plate, shining up at me.

I look down and—

“Aaaack!”

Jumping up, I knock over my chair, trip when my laces get caught on one of the legs, and wind up face-first on the floor.

“Phoebe,” Mom cries. “What’s wrong?”

She rushes to my side, but by then I’ve twisted around and leaped to my feet. I point at my plate—now looking like a completely normal dinner salad—and scream, “M-m-my food!” I glare at Stella, who is looking way too proud of herself. “It was alive!”