Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

Clearly, Stella is not high on her list of favorite people, either.
I am still laughing when the teacher, Ms. Tyrovolas—I can already
see myself in detention for repeated mispronunciation, so I should
probably just go with Ms. T—walks in. High school teachers at
Pacific Park do not look like this: almost six feet tall, light brown
hair curled and pinned up all around her head like a crown, and
wearing something that looks like a cross between a sheet and an
evening gown.
Staring is horribly rude, but I can’t help it. I’ve never seen anyone
who looked like that—not even in Los Angeles, where weirdos come
out to play.
Without looking at me, Ms. Tyrovolas says, “I see you are unfamiliar
with the costume of ancient Greece, Miss Castro.”
I blink, not really knowing how to respond. She did catch me
staring, after all, even if she had her back to me at the time.
The entire class turns to stare at me.
Trying to act cool, I swipe a hand over my head to make sure I
haven’t sprouted horns or anything. Haven’t they ever had a new
student in class before?
“Um, not really, Ms. Tra— um, Tivo— Tul—”
Nicole whispers, “Tyrovolas.”
“Turvolis,” I say, my voice catching. Why didn’t I just go with
Ms. T?
Ms. T turns around and everyone is instantly focused on their
desks.
I try to smile, but I think it comes across more as a grimace.
“The tradition has been passed down since the founding of the
Academy,” she explains, “and I choose not to disregard our history.”
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