Read Oh. My. Gods. for Free Online

actually eat at a dining table. In a dining room. Weird, huh?
    “There is a small village on the far side of the campus,” Damian explains while a servant—yes, an actual servant—serves the food. “It mainly consists of housing for Academy staff and faculty, but there are a few commercial establishments. There is a bookstore, a small grocery that sells locally produced fruits, vegetables, and dairy items, and, a favorite among the students, an ice-cream parlor.”
    That’s it? No CVS or Foot Locker? What if I need Band-Aids or new Nikes? “What about that other island?” I ask. “Where we caught the yacht.”
    “Unfortunately,” Damian says, “only Level 13s are permitted to visit Serifos during the semester.”
    I’m about to ask what a Level 13 is and why they’re so special, when Stella says, “I’m a Level 13.”
    Of course she is.
    “Yes,” Damian says. “Because she plans to attend university in England, Stella must study for an additional year beyond your American twelve.”
    Across the table—a massive piece of dark wood furniture worn so smooth it must date back to the original Academy—Stella smirks.
    “Yes,” she coos. “British academic standards are much higher.”
    “Yeah, well,” I say. It is on the tip of my tongue to say she must need remedial school only her dad’s too nice to say so, but Mom kicks me under the table. Ouch! Clutching my throbbing shin, I cover by saying, “I’m going to USC, so I don’t need another year.”
    “If you need anything at all,” Damian says, “please let me know and we will make arrangements. There is very little we cannot get here on Serfopoula.”
    Yeah, except TV.
    The servant, an older woman with wrinkled leather skin and a loose cotton dress decorated with embroidered blue flowers, sets a plate in front of me. There is some kind of salad, with recognizable cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, and stinky goat cheese that would be edible assuming I can pick around the onions. Next to the salad are two big slimy things that look like green sea slugs.
    Damian must be able to guess what I’m thinking because he says, “Those are dolmades, traditional grape leaves stuffed with a rice mixture.”
    Stella laughs at me and pops one in her mouth.
    “Yia Yia Minta makes these,” I say, poking at one with my fork. “They’re just not usually so . . . wet looking.”
    “Ah,” Damian says, smiling at the old servant woman. “That is part of Hesper’s secret recipe. She drizzles them with olive oil before serving.”
    “Shhh.” The old woman, Hesper, bats at him. “You talk too much.”
    “But, Hesper,” he replies, “they are family now.”
    The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. At first I think it’s because of Damian’s mushy comment—I don’t think one little City Hall marriage ceremony makes a whole new family—but then I catch Stella’s eye and she’s staring at my plate and looking, well, constipated.
    Light from somewhere reflects off my plate, shining up at me.
    I look down and—
    “Aaaack!”
    Jumping up, I knock over my chair, trip when my laces get caught on one of the legs, and wind up face-first on the floor.
    “Phoebe,” Mom cries. “What’s wrong?”
    She rushes to my side, but by then I’ve twisted around and leaped to my feet. I point at my plate—now looking like a completely normal dinner salad—and scream, “M-m-my food!” I glare at Stella, who is looking way too proud of herself. “It was alive!”
    Those green sea slug dolmades had come to life and were wriggling around in my salad with the olives and stinky goat cheese.
    Any other day in the history of my life I would have checked myself into the nuthouse for seeing things, but after seeing Stella shimmer onto the boat—and zap my backpack—and my plate glowing, I know I’m not crazy.
    So does Damian.
    “Stella Omega Petrolas!” he yells.
    Two throbbing veins pop out on his forehead and his face turns bright, bright red. Wow, he looks like