Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

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 blue
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