The record has been sitting under my bed ever since I got home from meeting Damian in the courtyard that night. Every time I catch a glimpse, it’s like it’s taunting me. Tempting me to face my fears. But I’m far too chicken.
“First of all,” he says, “I never knew your dad, but I can’t imagine a parent that selfish could have raised such an amazingly compassionate daughter.”
I give him a half smile, because I think he’s definitely overstating my compassion. After the way I’ve treated him and overreacted in the past, I think I’m currently pretty low on the compassion scale.
“And second,” he says, oblivious to my unspoken self-deprecation. “I want you to consider this: Would you give up the people you love for a cross-country win?”
“Of course not!” How could he even think that? “I would never—”
Griffin holds up a hand to stop me. “That’s my point,” he says. “I’ve never known anyone who loved their sport as much as you. If you wouldn’t make that choice, I can’t imagine your father would.”
My rant deflates. He’s right. I love running more than almost anything. But only almost. I don’t love it more than Mom or Griffin—or, on a good day, Damian and Stella. Dad must have loved us more than football.
“You’re right,” I say slowly, smiling. “I don’t think he chose football over me and Mom consciously or otherwise.”
My insides are calm—maybe for the first time in a long time. When Dad died, I remember being so very angry. At him, at Mom, at whatever deity or act of nature had taken him from us. At myself, too, for the possibility that I’d taken him for granted while he was alive. Then, when I found out that he was hematheos, that he was smoted for that, the anger had returned. Maybe I didn’t even recognize it, but it was there. Bubbling under everything.
Griffin made me see what I couldn’t—that the anger had come from fear.
Now, even though nothing has changed except my perspective on the situation, the anger is gone.
Maybe I’ll even read the record—someday. It suddenly doesn’t seem like such an important decision. I know and love and trust my dad. I don’t need to read a trial transcript to know that.
“Good,” Griffin says, tugging me to his chest and slipping his arms around my waist. “Because you have a race to run, and you won’t win if you don’t focus. And if you don’t make the team, Coach Lenny will blame me. He’ll probably make me run to Beijing and back.”
I love that my overactive imagination is rubbing off on him.
“Racers to the starting block,” Coach Lenny’s voice booms through the megaphone, “for the women’s long-distance trial.”
Griffin gives me a squeeze and a shove in the direction of the race.
My heart rate quadruples. People in the nothos world may not have ever heard of the Pythian Games, but in this world they’re the equivalent of the Olympics. Making the Cycladian team, competing against the best hematheos racers in the islands, is not going to be a cakewalk.
When I step into the starting box, though, my anxiety disappears. This is my home turf—literally, since we’re racing on the Academy course, but also figuratively. Distance running is my world, hematheos or not.
Coach Lenny lifts the starting pistol into the air and fires.
I turn on the autopilot, taking off with the two dozen other women competing for the three precious spots on the team. They’re all strangers, mostly older than me and from other islands in the Cyclades. There was no planning and strategizing how to beat the other racers ahead of time. This is just me, running my race. Five laps around the five-mile white course plus one around the yellow.
Tuning out everything but my feet and the course ahead, I run.
By the time I finish the fifth white lap, I can’t feel my legs. My lungs burn fire with every breath. I don’t know how long I’ve been running, but it must be over two hours. The end of my pain is just a mile and a quarter away.
As I make the turn from the white course onto the yellow, I begin to take stock of my surroundings. Not the trees and bushes and woodland critters; the other racers. There aren’t any.
Although I can’t see them anymore, I know there are two racers ahead of me on the track. Through my pain, I’d absently taken note when the two blondes had pushed out from the lead group a couple miles back.
I risk a glance back over my shoulder. I don’t see any racers behind me, either, but I can hear their footbeats on the path.
The anticipation of victory eases my pain. Third place means a spot on the team, and right now that’s all that matters to me.
When I face back to the front, there is a racer on the course. Her long brown ponytail bounces with every step, obscuring the competitor number pinned to her shirt. I blink my eyes, certain that I’m seeing things. She wasn’t there a second ago. But, no matter how many times I squeeze my lids shut and reopen them, she’s still there.
She also isn’t one of the two blondes who’d pulled into the lead. That means I’m in fourth place. There are no prizes for fourth.
“Impossible,” I mutter between gasping breaths.
Then, realizing the futility of denial, I turn off my shock. She is only about ten paces ahead of me. I can catch up with her on this final lap—maybe not easily, with my legs feeling al dente, but I can do it. When it comes to running, I can do anything.
Drawing on every last ounce of my energy, I increase my pace.
She must sense my acceleration, because she speeds up identically and keeps her solid lead.
I try again.
She matches me again.
Three times I speed up, only to watch her lead stay constant.
Finally, when I know I have next to nothing left to give, she starts pulling away. I’m getting left behind and there’s nothing I can do. Tears of frustration sting my eyes. I was so close—so close—to making the team, but my body just doesn’t have the juice to catch her.
We round the final bend in the yellow course, onto the straight-away to the finish line, and I watch her twelve-pace lead extend to thirteen. Fourteen.
“Aaargh!” I scream at myself. “Do something!”
My body responds by sending a shooting pain up my spine.
It’s so unfair. I owned this race. I deserve a place on the team.
But even as I rant in my mind, I know the truth. No one deserves to win. You have to earn the honor. And clearly the racer in front of me earned that honor today.
I focus my gaze on the finish line, intent on finishing this race with the pride that a fourth-place finish deserves. Maybe I can learn from this racer, from this loss. I’ll become a better athlete—
“What the—?”
In an instant, the girl with the long brown ponytail disappears. Not she-crossed-the-finish-line-and-disappeared-from-sight. Just . . . vanished. She glanced back over her shoulder, gave me what looked like a wink, and then evaporated. In a puff of smoke. Well, that was different.
Seconds later, I’m across the finish line. Coach Lenny is the first to rush me, grabbing me around the waist and lifting my dying body into the air.
“I knew you’d make the team, Castro,” he screams. Then, to the crowd, “This is my girl!”
“But . . . but . . .” I’m too exhausted to form the simple, burning question.
Coach Lenny drops me, nearly sending me to my knees, to record the time of the next racers to cross the finish line.
“Congratulations, Phoebola,” Mom says, hurrying to my side and placing supportive hands on my hips.
Doubled over in utter exhaustion, I manage to twist my head enough to glance up. Griffin is there, beaming at my victory. And Damian looks like he just won the lottery.
“Yes, congratulations,” he says, unable to hide a grin beneath his stuffy exterior. “You just passed your test.”
“What?” I gasp.
“That was your test,” he says.
“My what?” I manage to pull myself vertical. “My test? You mean that racer . . .”
> “She was no competitor. Actually,” he says, clearing his throat. Leaning close, he whispers in my ear, “that was Nike.”
My jaw drops and I am incapable of speech.
“Despite your drive to win,” Damian explains, “you did not use your powers.”
“So that was it?” I ask. “Not cheating was my test?”
“No,” he says. “Proving that you and not your emotions master your powers was the test. It was not about honor—even the gods cannot regulate a person’s honor—but about mastery. You did not want to cheat even more than you did want to win.”
I can’t believe it. I passed my test! Even as Griffin steps past Mom to wrap me in his arms, whispering congratulations in my ear, I can’t believe I just passed the test . . . by losing to Nike!
“Racers to the starting block,” Coach Lenny calls out again, “for the men’s long-distance trial.”
I release Griffin and shove him toward the box, like he’d done for me.
While he’s jockeying for position with the other racers, I take my place in front of the spectator section, prepared to cheer him on at every lap.
“He’s going to win, you know,” Adara says as she slides up next to me.
“For once,” I reply, giving her a grin and a sideways glance, “I think I’m actually going to agree with you.”
“Someone call the Chronicle.” She stifles a fake yawn. “This is headline news.”
Coach Lenny fires the starter pistol into the air. As the guys take off to follow the same course I’ve just run, I break out in a grin. Next to me, Adara eyes me warily, as if I might seek revenge for her months of torture, now that I’ve got my powers under control.
Now that I trust myself to control them.
With all the people I care most about in the world—yes, even Stella (who is here with Xander!)—gathered around to cheer my victory, and Nola and Cesca just an e-mail away, I can’t help thinking I’m a pretty lucky girl. I’ve got my powers under control. I’m going to be racing in the Pythian Games. I just ran on the same course as my goddess ancestor. And—although I could never prove it and I’d deny the insane idea if anyone suggested it—I have a feeling that Dad was right there by my side with every step.
Out of all the moments in my life, this is the most perfect.
I sling an arm around Adara, ignoring how she cringes away. She has nothing to worry about from me. We goddesses have to stick together, you know.
EPILOGUE
“ARE YOU READY?”
I look up at Griffin standing in the doorway to my room. He looks so yummy in his tracksuit—turquoise blue with baby-blue stripes, the colors of the Cycladian team—with his sunglasses perched on his head. The Pythian Games racecourse at Delphi isn’t wooded like the Academy course, so we’re definitely going to need the shades.
“Almost,” I say, grabbing my Nikes from under my desk and dropping onto my bed to pull them on. “I just need to lace up.”
“Your mom and Headmaster Petrolas are waiting at the dock.” He walks over to my desk and picks up the framed picture of us running on the beach. He’s smiling when he says, “I think they’re more nervous than either of us.”
I finish lacing one Nike and move onto the other. “Well, it’s not every day their daughter and her boyfriend get to race in ancient mythological games that used to be as big as the Olympics.”
As I finish my bow, I catch sight of the leather-bound book under my bed. For luck, I run my fingertips along the smooth spine. Over the gilded letters of my dad’s name.
“Have you read it yet?” Griffin asks, his voice a soft whisper.
“Not yet,” I say, sitting up and snatching my turquoise duffel off the floor. “Let’s go.”
Griffin offers me his hand and I take it, loving the way his palm feels hot against mine. I also love that he doesn’t press me about the record. It’s not that I’m afraid to read it—we got past that weeks ago. I’m not sure how to explain it except that I haven’t needed to read it yet. Someday I will, I know. One day something will happen or I’ll just wake up knowing that the time has come to find out the whole truth.
But for now, I’m pretty content as is.
“So after we win the Pythian Games,” Griffin asks as we head to my door, “what next? The Athens marathon? The Olympics? The Oxford cross-country team?”
As I turn to pull my bedroom door shut, I see the record poking out from beneath my bed.
“Yes. Yes. And—” I point at the record. It glows for a second and then slides out of view. “Yes.”
Griffin laughs out loud. Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, he says, “That’s what I love most about you. You always set attainable goals.”
I know he’s teasing. Because if I’ve learned one thing in the last year, it’s that anything is attainable.
After all, I am a goddess.
SOME MYTHS ABOUT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
1. Don’t thank the same people twice. So not true. Thank you again . . . Sarah Shumway, for editing this book through tough times on both our sides—and for only sending one revision letter this time, even if it was longer. . . . Jenny Bent, for your unaplogetic honesty—I appreciate it, really I do—and for the good news phone calls, even if you never let me share the news. . . . Sharie Kohler, for being my cheerleader, sounding board, and coconspirator—and for making me a part of your family, even if I’m never sure whether that’s a blessing or a curse. (Just kidding. It’s a blessing. Always.)
2. Only thank friends you see on a regular basis. If that were true, I couldn’t thank Kay Cassidy (for agreeing to read the rough draft—even though it spoiled the ending of Oh. My. Gods. for her) and Stephanie Hale (for being my online snark sister—even though I’m secretly afraid of being the object of said snark) because I don’t want to live where they live.
3. Don’t thank fans. Whatever. Why else do I write these books? Thank you everyone who read and loved Oh. My. Gods., and took the time to let me know—especially Kirsty, since you’ll always be my very first fan.
4. Thanking bookstores is kissing up. It probably is. I don’t care. I have to thank the amazing ladies of Blue Willow Bookshop for the most amazing debut party in literary history—or at least in my literary history.
5. Only total dorks thank their parents. Okay, that one is true. But I’m going to do it anyway. Thank you, Mom and Dad. For everything.
Tera Lynn Childs, Goddess Boot Camp
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends