Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

“You will if you want to get back to America next year.”
My hand freezes inches from the doorknob.
“I know you’re counting the days until you can leave, until you
can go away to college.” She walks up behind me and whispers in
my ear. “Dad thinks that’s a bad idea. He thinks you should stay on
through Level 13 and attend university in Britain.”
“Absolutely not—”
“I heard him talking with your mom about it.” Her smile is
wicked. “She agreed.”
“She would never—”
“She would and she did.”
“Stop interrupting me!” I shout, but I’m more mad about the
whole college thing.
Her face changes and suddenly she looks like the dutiful student
body president, which she is. “I think you’re right, Dad,” she says in
the singsong voice of a butt-kissing tattletale. “Phoebe confided in
me that she has been struggling with her classes. She’s afraid that
the rigors of collegiate academics will be too much for her.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I warn.
“Oh, I would.” She fake-smiles. “Of course, I could just as easily
be swayed to testify to the opposite.”
Suspicious, I ask, “How could I be sure you’d help me?”
She shrugs. “I’m going to Oxford. The last thing I want is to
spend more time trapped on an island with you. I’d rather have an
ocean between us.”
At least she is being honest.
I weigh my options. I can tell Stella to go take a flying leap, leaving
me struggling through Modern Greek and maybe stuck on this
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