Not the kind of stuff the man my mom married fully believes in.

I look at Mom, ready to express my sympathies and assure her I am ready to head back to America and that we can sort the divorce out once we get there. But she’s not freaking out.

She’s nodding.

Sympathetically.

At me.

As if I’m the one who just found out my new husband is delusional.

That’s when I first know I’m in trouble. Mom is professionally trained in the art of delusional psychopaths. She told me once she never goes along with their fantasies-it only makes things worseand if she’s staying calm then that means she believes him. Which means she believes the Greek gods exist, too.

And while I might doubt her judgment when it comes to major life changes like marriage and moving out of the country, Mom is usually completely sane when it comes to discerning reality from fantasy.

As if she can sense my shock, she reaches out and places a hand on my knee. “I know this is difficult to digest-”

“Difficult?” I shout. “Difficult? Algebra is difficult. The Ironman is difficult. This is insane.”

“I thought so, too,” Mom says. “At first.”

“So you believe this?” What happened to rational Mom? “You believe him?”

She nods. “I’ve seen proof.”

“You’ve seen-” I shake my head. This is not happening. “What kind of proof?”

“It’s a little hard to explain,” she says, blushing. “He made roses… materialize.”

“Roses?” Ha! I’ve got him now. “He’s just a magician. He pulled them out of his sleeve.”

Mom blushes even more. “He wasn’t wearing sleeves at the time.”

Ewww! Therapy is definitely in my future.

All right, so the rational, that’s-not-really-possible approach isn’t working. I’ve got more tactics in my arsenal. I just need a minute to regroup. While I’m trying to come up with my next move I realize that, since I haven’t seen any roses around since we landed in Greece, Mom must have known before we took off from LAX.

Even if she’s being totally played, she should have said something.

She’s had plenty of opportunities, including fourteen hours in the confined space of an airplane cabin where I would have been a captive audience. And who knows how many times before the move“Wait a minute!” My voice rises to an accusatory scream. “How long have you known?”

At least she has the decency to look ashamed. “Since shortly after Damian and I met.” She glances at him and smiles. “As soon as we realized we were in love.”

What!? I cannot believe this. What has Mom married me into? “There’s something else…” Mom says.

Oh no. I can tell from the way she trailed off at the end that I am not going to like this.

She nudges Damian. “Go ahead. Tell her.”

He clears his throat before saying, “The students at the Academy are not your average schoolchildren.”

Like I couldn’t have guessed that. At least this isn’t more earthshattering news.

“We have an acceptance rate of less than one percent. Our admission standards are far more stringent than even the most elite universities,” he says, “and are extremely specific.”

Should I be overjoyed? I throw Mom a look that says I’m not thanking her for the favor. She knows I would rather be back in L.A. than accepted into some snotty school any day.

“Really,” he says, “we have only one criterion.”

Uber-popularity? Unfathomable wealth? Genius-level IQ? Great, I’m going to be a dunce at a school of Einsteins.

“All the students at the Academy…” He tugs at his navy bluetie-my first clue that he’s a little nervous about telling me this but it doesn’t really look tousled. “… Are, ah-hem, descendants of the gods.”

My world starts to go black around the edges as I stare at Damian’s negligibly loosened tie and hear Mom say, “Oh no, I think she’s fainting.”

The next thing I know, Damian is kneeling over me and Mom is frantically waving her purse over my face. I think she’s trying to fan me back to my senses, but all I can think is it would really hurt if she drops it on my nose. Her purse is like Mary Poppins’s bag-it holds way more than should be possible.

I hear Damian say, “She is regaining consciousness. Zenos, send out the gangplank and bring the gurney.”

Xena?

Mom’s purse comes darn close to clipping me on the cheek.

Wait. A gurney?

The last thing I need is to make my arrival strapped to a gurney pushed by a fictional warrior princess. That is not the way to make a good impression-if this stupid school is anything like Pacific Park, gossip makes the rounds faster than the flu.

Not that I have any hope of making a good impression. It must be pretty hard to impress someone who sits across the dinner table from Zeus.

Wait, what am I saying? I must be in shock. This is ridiculous.

Damian must be having some elaborate twisted joke on me. And on Mom.

But she says she’s seen proof.

The black edges come back just as Mom finally swipes me across the nose. And ouch, does it hurt. That shakes me out of it and I bolt up, ignoring the tingling dizziness in my brain.

“I’m fine, really.” I bat away a few of the bright yellow bugs swarming around my head before I realize these are only in my mind. Knowing Mom and Damian and the gurney-pushing warrior princess would have a field day with this, I close my eyes and take three deep breaths before saying, “I don’t need a gurney, you can call Xena off.”

“Who?” Mom asks, clearly not up on her TV culture.

“Not Xena,” Damian explains. “Zenos. Our yacht captain.”

Somehow, it is only a minor relief to find out that he knows some fictional characters are actually not real.

“Sorry,” I say. “My bad.” For the time being, I think it’s better to just play along. I can talk some sense into Mom later-when we’re alone. “I’ve got it now.” I open my eyes, relatively certain I can maintain consciousness for the moment. “Xena, not real. Zeus, real.

Check.”

Mom and Damian exchange one of those I-don’t-think-the-poorchild-is-buying-it looks. They’re not far off. Who can blame me, what with the idea that the Greek gods really exist still ricocheting through my brain? I deserve at least a little wiggle room when it comes to confusing reality with fiction. Maybe if I approach it with a little scientific logic, Mom will see how crazy all of this is.

“So, what does this mean?” I ask, rubbing my temple to make it look like I’m really considering believing all this. “Are the students all immortal?”

“No, no, of course not. Immortality is reserved for the gods,” he says with a little laugh. As if that’s the most absurd idea floating around. “We descendants are more like the heroes of ancient legend. Like Achilles and Prometheus, we have some, ah-hem, supernatural-”

“Whoa,” I interrupt. “We?”

“Damian is a descendant, as well,” Mom says.

I close my eyes and take a deep, deep breath. This just keeps getting better. “All right.” I wave my hands at myself as if to say, Bring it on. “You’re like heroes…?”

“Yes,” he continues. “Like those you may have read about, we have varying degrees of supernatural powers. In most descendants the powers manifest pre-adolescence, though there are cases in which they remain dormant until after puberty.”

“It’s really quite amazing,” Mom says, bubbling with enthusiasm.

“There are apparently built-in controls to protect the rest of the world, with the gods monitoring all use of-”

I tune out. I mean, Mom seems honestly convinced and, until recently, I’ve always trusted her judgment, but this isn’t exactly the kind of thing that’s easy to accept. Like I can suddenly decide that everything I’ve ever learned about the Greek gods is not just some fluff story English teachers make you learn. No, it’ll take more than Damian’s say-so to move the Greek gods from the fairy-tale land of Santa Claus, werewolves, and Cinderella into everyday reality.

But even if I’m not a believer in “alternative realities,” as Nola calls them, I’m willing to keep an open mind. Sure, I’ll believe they’re real. Just as soon as I see one…

“Well, well,” the girl who just appeared next to Damian says. “I see the barbarians have arrived.” When I say appeared, I don’t mean she walked up and there she was by his side. No, she appeared. As inout of nowhere. As in she wasn’t there and then she was. She, like, shimmered into place.

That’s the kind of proof that’s hard to ignore.

“Stella,” Damian says, a serious hint of warning in his tone. “What have I told you about materializing?”

“Please, Daddy,” she coos. “I just had to see them for myself.

They’re like a new exhibit of rare animals at the zoo.”

Her voice is sickly sweet, like those sirens in The Odyssey who used their beautiful singing to attract men to their deaths. There isn’t a trace of sincerity in her. Not from the brown roots of her over highlighted hair to her bright red painted toes. And I don’t think it’s a simple case of overenthusiastic tweezing that makes her look like a bi’atch with a capital B-I-A-T-C-H.

“We will speak about this later,” Damian says. And he does not sound happy. “I apologize for my daughter’s… rude behavior.

Barbarian is a term applied to non-Greeks.” He shoots her a sharp look. “It is not meant in a derogatory manner. Not only is it misapplied, since Phoebe is half-Greek and Valerie is now Greek twice by marriages, but, as Plato once said, the term is absurd. Dividing the world into Greek and non-Greek tells us little about the first group and nothing about the second.”