paint-splattered jeans before, and she looked like a million golden drachmas.

 

"Oh, pull up right there!" she told me.

 

We parked on a ridge overlooking the Atlantic. The sea is always one of my

favorite places, but today it was especially nice — glittery green and smooth as

glass, as though my dad was keeping it calm just for us.

 

My dad, by the way, is Poseidon. He can do stuff like that.

 

"So." Rachel smiled at me. "About that invitation."

 

"Oh . . . right." I tried to sound excited. I mean, she'd asked me to her

family's vacation house on St.

 

Thomas for three days. I didn't get a lot of offers like that. My family's idea

of a fancy vacation was a weekend in a rundown cabin on Long Island with some

movie rentals and a couple of frozen pizzas, and here Rachel's folks were

willing to let me tag along to the Caribbean.

 

Besides, I seriously needed a vacation. This su mm er had been the hardest of my

life. The idea of taking a break even for a few days was really tempting.

 

Still, something big was supposed to go down any day now. I was "on call" for a

mission. Even worse, next week was my birthday. There was this prophecy that