Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

“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.”
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