Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

I grab my backpack off the ground and check the strap. It’s per-
fect, 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.”
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