Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

She looks like she really wants to say something shrinklike, but
thinks better of it. Good thing, too. I grew up on her therapist
approach. It so doesn’t work on me anymore.
The computer—something from the dark ages of technology if
the dingy gray plastic is any sign—is in Damian’s office. You’d think
a guy with Greek gods on his PTA could afford to upgrade.
He is in his office when we get there, filling out some paperwork
at his desk. Looking up, he smiles and asks, “Are you here to use the
computer, Phoebe?”
I nod, thinking that’s enough of a response. Until Mom pokes
me in the ribs.
“Yeah. I want to e-mail my friends back home.”
“Oh.” His face falls and he looks to Mom for support.
Great. Another secret? Another reality-shattering headline?
“Honey,” she begins. Her voice is quiet and way too hesitant, but
it’s the hand on my shoulder that tips me off to the really bad news.
“We don’t want to say you can’t stay in touch with your friends, but—”
“What? I can’t even e-mail my two best friends?” I shake her hand
off my shoulder. “I thought being stuck on this stupid prison-of-anisland
was going to be bad, but I can’t believe this! Why don’t you
just put me in solitary and slide bread and water under my door
twice a day?”
“It’s not that,” she insists.
“Phoebe,” Damian says, using what I know must be his patient
principal voice, “you are entirely free to e-mail whomever you
choose. But we must ask you not to reveal the truth about Serfopoula
and the Academy. We trust you to act responsibly.”
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