Mom stands up and smacks her hand on the desk. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

Damian raises his brows at me-a clear indication that I should be the one to tell her. Taking a deep breath, I explain, “I let half a detail slip in an IM chat with Cesca last week.” Turning to Damian, I add, “Not enough for her to jump to this conclusion. Besides, Cesca wouldn’t do this. She couldn’t. Her computer literacy does not extend far beyond turning it on and opening IM.”

“The fact remains,” he says, “that someone is looking into the island and that is jeopardizing our security.”

Mom gasps. “Are the children in danger?”

“Not yet,” he assures her. “But if the perpetrator outwits our web scanners, they could be. We all could be.”

“Well,” I insist, “it’s not Cesca.”

“I know that.” Damian unfolds a piece of paper from his pocket.

“The author of the blog is using the name JAM Freak. ”

Oh no! I gasp and both Mom and Damian turn to look at me.

“Do you know who that is?” he asks.

My mind racing, I can only nod.

“Who is it?” Mom asks.

I shake my head, not believing it.

He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Damian hands me the paper.


Blog entry: Secrets of Serfopoula

Results: suppress

Location: Los Angeles County

Author: JAM Freak


He did.

Crumpling up the paper, I drop it on Damian’s desk. I can feel my ears overheating and I see red all around the edges of my vision.

“If we know who the author is,” I ask, “can we, like, erase his memory, or something?”

“His?” Mom parrots.

Damian takes a step closer. “Yes.”

My lips spread into a Stella-worthy evil grin. This boy is going to regret ever messing with me, my family, and this stupid island. I feel excitement bubbling up inside. I’ve been waiting two years to say, Payback ain’t pretty. “Justin Mars.”

Damian writes down Justin’s name on a sticky note.

“I’ll dispatch someone immediately to shroud his memory of the island and anything peripherally related.” He looks at me, questioning. “He might forget you, as well, Phoebe.”

I smile bigger. “Good.”

That dark stain on my dating record is going to pay for trying to harass me from two thousand miles away.

The only question is: How did he find out about my IM slip-up?

Remembering some of the strange phrasing in Cesca’s last e-mail, I’m afraid I know the answer.

“Mom,” I say, “I need to make a phone call.”

She looks confused, but nods. “All right.”

When she and Damian make no move to leave, I add, “In private.”

Damian seems to understand what I’m about to do. He takes Mom by the shoulders and leads her out. “Come, Valerie. Let’s leave Phoebe to her phone call.”

He waggles his eyebrows at her. She giggles in return and they hurry out of the office-headed for their bedroom, no doubt.

I wait until my gag reflex relaxes before dialing Cesca’s number-burned into my memory since she got her private line in sixth grade-careful to add the international dialing code first.

She answers on the third ring.

“Hi, Cesca.”

“Phoebe?” She sounds shocked. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Mom felt sorry for me,” I say. “She approved an international phone call for therapy purposes.”

Which would be partly true, if I had asked for a therapy call.

The other part is my having to find out if my suspicions of who she told about my “immortal powers” comment are right. And if my suspicions about why are way off base-which I hope they are.

“What’s wrong?” Now she sounds more nervous than shocked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say. “I just wanted to talk to you. To ask you a question.”

“Oh.” Nervous, nervous, nervous. “What’s that?”

I take a deep breath, hoping I’m wrong. “Who did you tell what I said about immortal powers?”

Silence from the other end.

Then, “I thought you couldn’t talk about that.”

“I’m talking about it now.”

“Oh.” More silence.

“Cesca?”

“No one,” she whispers into the phone. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

Now, I can tell when Cesca’s lying-not that she does it very often-and she isn’t lying to me now. She honestly didn’t tell anyone about my comment.

“Are you sure?” I ask, just in case I missed something.

“Yes,” she whispers.

Why is she whispering, I wonder“Who you talking to?” a male voice asks in the background.

A male voice I recognize.

“Just, um…” Cesca’s voice is muffled, like she’s holding her hand over the receiver. “… a friend.”

“Who?” he repeats.

“A fr-”

“He’s there,” I demand, “isn’t he?”

“What?” She’s talking to me again. “Who?”

Now she’s lying. To me. Her best friend.

“Justin.” I had so hoped it wasn’t true. “Why is he in your room?”

“He, uh…” She sounds resigned. “Phoebe, I wanted to tell you.

Really I did.”

“But?” I ask.

“There just never seemed a good time.”

“For what, Cesca?”

“To tell you that Justin and I have been seeing each other.”

My last hope that this was all some big misunderstanding-that I was totally wrong-vanishes. My best friend and my worst ex are dating.

“You’re right,” I say. “There is no good time to tell me that.”

“Phoebe, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” I say, stunned. “I’m sorry you didn’t learn from my mistake. You’re too good for him, Cesca.”

“I…” Her voices drops to a whisper again. “… I know. I just don’t know how to end it.”

“If it’s already over for you why did you tell him what I said?”

“I didn’t.”

“He found out somehow,” I explain. “He tried to post about it in his blog.”

“Well, I didn’t-” She gasps, then shouts-thankfully not at me“Why you rotten, sneaky bast-”

“What?” I interrupt.

“Hold on,” she says into the phone. Then I hear the click of the receiver being set down on her desk. “How dare you read my private IM chat? You went on my computer and read my personal files, didn’t you?”

“I, uh,” Justin stammers in the background. “No?”

Bad move, Justin. If you’re going to lie, at least do it with conviction.

“Get your privacy-invading stinky ass out of my room.” Cesca is screaming so loud it sounds like she is talking directly into the receiver. “I never want to see you again. When you see me walking down the hall you’d better step out of my way!”

Two seconds later a loud thwack echoes through the phone.

That, I think, is the sound of Cesca slamming the door after kicking Justin out of her room.

“You still there, Phoebe?”

“I’m here.” I’m relieved she sounds back to normal. “You all right?”

“Ugh, yes.” She sighs into the phone. “Can you believe how stupid I was? It’s not like I thought he would change. Can you still be friends with someone so stupid?”

“Hey,” I say, trying to rally her spirits, “you forget you’re talking to the girl who went out with him first. I think I get the stupidity crown.”

We laugh and I’m just thankful that our friendship is back on track. I don’t know what I’d do without Cesca to go to when I have a problem. I can always count on Cesca to set me straight. I mean, I love Nola, but she’s not the most grounded cookie in the jar.

“So,” she says hesitantly, “did he cause major problems for you?”

“No, not major.”

“Oh.”

“Look, Cesca. I really, really, really wish I could tell you what this is all about, but-”

“I understand. Just like I wouldn’t expect you to break my confidence if I had a secret, so I wouldn’t ask you to break someone else’s, either.”

Huge sigh of relief. It’s so much better to talk through things like this on the phone. E-mail is so impersonal-and so open to interpretation. We chat awhile longer-not too long because I know international calls can be astronomically expensive-before hanging up, promising to e-mail at least every other day. And to not keep any more secrets unless they’re somebody else’s.

Mom is waiting for me when I emerge.

“Is everything all right?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “We just had some stuff to talk through.”

“I know how much you miss your friends.” She wraps an arm around my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll see them again soon.”

Not soon enough.

“At least they’re flying out for the wedding,” she adds.

I force a grin. “Only three months away.”

“Don’t worry.” She gives me a good squeeze before releasing me.

“Your friendships will survive the hurdles of time and space.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, not meaning it.

Three months and seven thousand miles is more than I’m willing to put between my friendships.


“Nervous?” Nicole asks as she slides in next to me at our lunch table. “The big race is only days away.”

“Nah.” I shrug.

On the inside, I’m boiling with nerves at the mere mention of the race. Sure, I’ve competed in dozens, maybe hundreds of races in my lifetime. This one is different.

There is more riding on the outcome. I’m used to racing for myself, trying to beat my time or beat my opponent. This time I’m racing for my racing future. Not just my slot on the team is at stake. If I don’t race well this year then no scholarship. No scholarship, no USC.

Talk about pressure.

But there’s more to this race than staying on the team. In all my years of running I’ve had a pretty easy time. Make a little effort andwin the race. This time I’m going to have to exert myself-run allout. I’m racing against some of the best high school athletes in the world, grounded powers or not. This is my first real opportunity to see what I’m made of on the racecourse.