Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

“I don’t know,” Nola says. “A practically uninhabited Greek island
with nothing on it but a private school and a tiny village? Suspi-
cious, 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 nonvegetarian
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?”
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