LostPhoebe: when do you find out?

GranolaGrrl: who knows?

GranolaGrrl: whenever the grant committee comes back from summer hiatus

LostPhoebe: you guys do not know how much you just made my day

GranolaGrrl: something wrong?

LostPhoebe: no, just a tough day

LostPhoebe: so much better now

GranolaGrrl: gotta go

GranolaGrrl: mom calling

PrincessCesca: me too

PrincessCesca: tons of packing to do

LostPhoebe: night girls

LostPhoebe: so glad you’re heading my way

When I sign off my computer I feel a million times better. It’s amazing what a difference a little chat can make.

As I fall into bed, I’m not even thinking about tomorrow. Or about Griffin and Adara. Or the stupid test. Or Dad. Or accidental smoting. In my mind it’s already weeks from now and my two best friends are here.

Now, if only actual time would fly that fast.

“Rise and shine, camper.”

Through the fog of sleep I hear a disgustingly cheerful voice. Stella’s disgustingly cheerful voice. I must be having a nightmare. In real life Stella is never cheerful. Condescending? Yes. Obnoxious? Absolutely. Just. Not. Cheerful.

“Come on, Phoebekins,” the voice says. “You need to get up and see Dad and Valerie off. And you don’t want to be late for camp.”

I’m blinded as my comforter is jerked away and my eyes are exposed to the morning sunlight streaming in my window. Squinting, I force one eye open.

“What are you doing in my room?” I grumble.

“Waking you up, silly.” She takes me by the wrist and pulls me into a sitting position. “They’re leaving in ten minutes.”

The instant she releases my wrist I fall back into my fluffy white bed.

But my eyes are open.

As she walks away I eye her warily. It’s not like Stella to be so sickeningly enthusiastic. She’s more the scowl-of-superiority type. But today, everything about her screams joyfulness. From her sunny yellow twinset to her bright white Keds.

Wait. Stella doesn’t wear sneakers. Not even the casual preppy kind.

Something is definitely suspicious.

“Are you up, Phoebola?” Mom asks, poking her head in my door. “You know we’re leaving in—”

“I’m up already,” I say, flinging my comforter to the side.

“Is Phoebe awake?” Damian asks, walking up next to Mom. When he sees me climbing out of bed, he adds, “Good. Your mother and I are about to depart.”

“I know.” I rub the sleep out of my eyes as I stumble across the room. “Just give me two minutes in the bathroom.”

I squeeze around Mom and Damian and then past Stella, who is waiting in the hall. When did my room become Union Station? Thankfully I sleep in a modest T-shirt and smiley-face boxers.

In the bathroom I quickly splash cold water on my face and run a hairbrush through my hair. I don’t have the energy to pull it into a ponytail, so I just leave it hanging over my shoulders. I can always secure it later.

When I open the bathroom door, all three of them are standing there waiting for me.

“For the love of Nike,” I say, exasperated. “Would you two bon voyage already so I can go back to waking up in peace?”

Mom gives me a ha-ha-very-funny look. What were they thinking leaving at eight in the morning, anyway? Thailand will still be there in the afternoon.

I shuffle into my room, closing the door before any of them can follow me. Thirty seconds later I’ve traded my boxers for sweats and have pulled on my All Stars so I can see them off.

In a bizarre little parade, we all traipse down to the dock. Zenos, the yacht captain, is carrying two of Mom’s megasuitcases and Damian is carrying the other. I’m struggling with Mom’s carry-on—which I suspect has at least a week’s worth of clothes. Mom is walking hand in hand with Hesper, who is way more like family than staff. Stella is carrying—yep, you guessed it—nothing. How does she always manage to get out of these things? She’s like the Houdini of grunt work. Makes Tom Sawyer look like an amateur slacker.

As Damian and Zenos load the suitcases, Mom faces me and Stella.

“Now you’re sure you girls will be all right?” she asks, again.

I’m tempted to employ sarcasm, but the fear that she might actually take it seriously makes me say, “Of course, Mom.”

“Really, Valerie,” Stella adds. “I have everything under control.”

I drop Mom’s carry-on on Stella’s Keds-clad foot.

“Because we can cancel the trip,” Mom says. And I know from the supersad look in her eyes, she’d do it, too. She wouldn’t want to—she’s been dreaming of this trip for months—but she would.

I scoot the carry-on off of Stella’s foot.

“Seriously, we’ll be fine,” I say, giving her my best I’ll-behave-like-an-adult sincerity. “Stella and I can get along for a few days.” I don’t look at Stella because I don’t think I can hold a straight face. “I’ll be busy training and going to camp.”

“If you’re sure . . .” Mom’s eyes get all watery.

“Besides, we’re on an island protected by the gods,” I say, throwing my arms out wide. “What could possibly go wrong?”

I know, I know. Whenever someone says that in movies, something goes terribly wrong. But seriously, this is the island of the gods—they even have the souvenir T-shirts to prove it. There are supernatural safeguards.