Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

tie—my first clue that he’s a little nervous about telling me this—
but it doesn’t really look tousled. “. . . Are, ah-hem, descendants of
the gods.”
My world starts to go black around the edges as I stare at Damian’s
negligibly loosened tie and hear Mom say, “Oh no, I think she’s
fainting.”
The next thing I know, Damian is kneeling over me and Mom is
frantically waving her purse over my face. I think she’s trying to fan
me back to my senses, but all I can think is it would really hurt if
she drops it on my nose. Her purse is like Mary Poppins’s bag—it
holds way more than should be possible.
I hear Damian say, “She is regaining consciousness. Zenos, send
out the gangplank and bring the gurney.”
Xena?
Mom’s purse comes darn close to clipping me on the cheek.
Wait. A gurney?
The last thing I need is to make my arrival strapped to a gurney
pushed by a fictional warrior princess. That is not the way to make a
good impression—if this stupid school is anything like Pacific Park,
gossip makes the rounds faster than the flu.
Not that I have any hope of making a good impression. It must
be pretty hard to impress someone who sits across the dinner table
from Zeus.
Wait, what am I saying? I must be in shock. This is ridiculous.
Damian must be having some elaborate twisted joke on me. And
on Mom.
But she says she’s seen proof.
The black edges come back just as Mom finally swipes me across
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