Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

out of nowhere. As in she wasn’t there and then she was. She, like,
shimmered into place.
That’s the kind of proof that’s hard to ignore.
“Stella,” Damian says, a serious hint of warning in his tone. “What
have I told you about materializing?”
“Please, Daddy,” she coos. “I just had to see them for myself.
They’re like a new exhibit of rare animals at the zoo.”
Her voice is sickly sweet, like those sirens in The Odyssey who
used their beautiful singing to attract men to their deaths. There
isn’t a trace of sincerity in her. Not from the brown roots of her
overhighlighted hair to her bright red painted toes. And I don’t
think it’s a simple case of overenthusiastic tweezing that makes her
look like a bi’atch with a capital B-I-A-T-C-H.
“We will speak about this later,” Damian says. And he does not
sound happy. “I apologize for my daughter’s . . . rude behavior.
Barbarian is a term applied to non-Greeks.” He shoots her a sharp
look. “It is not meant in a derogatory manner. Not only is it misapplied,
since Phoebe is half-Greek and Valerie is now Greek twice by
marriages, but, as Plato once said, the term is absurd. Dividing the
world into Greek and non-Greek tells us little about the first group
and nothing about the second.”
Stella looks completely unfazed, like she pisses him off every day.
Why do I think she excels at getting herself out of trouble with her
dad? I have a gut feeling that she’s going to enjoy making my life
miserable—and probably won’t get in any trouble at all.
“I never thought of it that way,” Mom says, taking Damian’s
hand, “but that’s also true in modern psychoanalytic theory. If one
34