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hysterically. I am dripping green juice all over the floor. Magda is standing with her arms crossed, her pretty lips tightened into a defiant smirk.
    â€œThe wench has spirit,” says Shin.

 
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    T HE O CEAN WATCHED WITH BOTH PRIDE AND TREPIDATION AS THE H UMANS DAMMED STREAMS AND RIVERS, DUG CANALS, BUILT ARTIFICIAL LAKES, AND POURED CHEMICALS INTO THE CLOUDS TO FORCE THEM TO RAIN . T HE O CEAN WATCHED AS MOUNTAINS WERE LEVELED, AND SHAFTS WERE SUNK DEEP INTO THE E ARTH, AND THE LIQUEFIED REMAINS OF ANCIENT FLORA AND FAUNA WERE SUCKED FROM DEEP IN THE CRUST AND MADE TO POWER GREAT MACHINES .
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8
 
    Apparently, it is possible to absorb Brainblaster directly through the skin, because by the time I get home with my sodden pants my mind is churning like a jet turbine. I’ve got a skull full of ideas—so many ideas I don’t know which one to act on first. Here’s a partial list.
Start work on CTG organizational chart.
List commandments.
Figure out who Shin was channeling.
The High Priestess: Am I too big and fat for her?
Figure out how Henry climbed the tower.
CTG holy days: note on calendar.
Climb tower.
    And that’s just the beginning. With Magda Price as our High Priestess—she insisted on the title—we now have a total of four members. The CTG is growing by leaps and bounds. By summer’s end we might convert half of St. Andrew Valley. I could be like the guy that started the Mormon religion, or Scientology.
    As I walk into the house, my mother pops her head around the corner.
    â€œWhere have you … what on earth happened to your pants?” she asks.
    I
could
tell her that she is talking to the future religious leader of St. Andrew, but it’s not the right moment.
    â€œI spilled a drink on myself,” I say.
    â€œWell change into something nice … and dry, would you please? We have to leave in fifteen minutes.”
    â€œLeave for where?”
    â€œWhat on earth is wrong with you, Jason? Don’t you have a brain in your head? Are you feeling all right?”
    â€œI’m fine. Where are we going?”
    â€œI’m sure I told you. We’re invited to dinner at your uncle Jack’s.”
    â€œGod, no.”
    â€œYou keep a civil tongue in your head, young man. Now go get ready.”
    In the first place, Jack is not really my uncle, he’s my dad’s cousin. In the second place, he’s a jerk. In the third place, he is the father of the insufferable Jack Bock Junior.
    â€œHey kid,” Jack Bock Junior says to me. “How you doon?”
    Jack Junior is wearing his golf clothes. At least I think they’re golf clothes—yellow pants and a mint-green, short-sleeved shirt, tight across the chest. Where but on a golf course would you wear something like that? Jack Junior is a Serious Young Golfer.
    â€œI’m ‘doon’ good, Jack.”
    â€œAttaboy,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. Jack is just one year older than me, but he treats me like a kid. “Going out for football this fall? We could use a big guy like you. Get you in shape.” He jabs a forefinger into my belly. “Take off some a that mozzarella.” In addition to being a Serious Young Golfer, Jack is quarterback of the St. Andrew Valley Vikings.
    â€œI don’t think so, Jack.”
    â€œSuit yourself.”
    We stand there by the swimming pool in his backyard, staring past each other, both of us wishing we were elsewhere. My parents are on the patio swilling gin and tonics and admiring Jack Senior’s new $3,000 stainless-steel barbecue. Mrs. Jack is fussing over a plate of hors d’oeuvres.
    Jack Junior says, “I hear you’ve been going to the Teen Power meetings. Aren’t they great?” Jack Junior is Very Religious. He was an altar boy, too. He liked it a lot more than I did.
    I say, “You’re kidding me, right?”
    â€œYou don’t like the meetings?”
    â€œI’m not