Oh. My. Gods.
Page 53

“Oh.” That’s a little closer to home. “Well, I know it’s not Cesca, because she doesn’t have a blog. Besides, that’s a huge leap of imagination from supernatural powers to Greek mythology. Maybe this is completely unrelated to my slip-up.”
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 AngelesCounty
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?”