Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

I click send and log off. Bed is calling me. After all, it is ten hours
later in Serfopoula and that means I haven’t slept in, like, thirty-six
hours. And I have to go to the Academy with Damian at seven-thirty
to fill out paperwork and finalize my class schedule.
The only good thing about this whole catastrophe so far is
Damian says the track coach is world class and so is the team. And
tryouts are tomorrow after school. At least I’ll get a good year of
training in to prep me for the USC team.
Barely dragging up the energy to change out of my traveling
clothes, I pull on a clean T-shirt and a pair of smiley face boxers and
collapse onto my bed. At least the bed is comfy—all white and just
soft enough. Still, I think I’m going to dream about green sea slugs
and shimmering stepsisters tonight.
When my alarm clock goes off at six I’m tempted to fling it against
the wall. I’m suffering serious jet lag in the form of whole-body
muscle weakness and a headache that makes brain freeze feel like
a pinprick. Tugging the white fluffy comforter up over my head to
muffle the deafening alarm, I consider my two options.
Either I stay in bed, shut out the outside world, and hope that by
the time seven-thirty rolls around—when I have to meet Damian—
all my pain has faded away.
Or . . . I can toss off the covers, pull on my sneakers, and go for
a good long run that might not erase the jet lag, but will at least
replace this sluggish feeling with familiar physical exhaustion.
47