“That was certainly a chilly surprise,” Mom says. “It wasn’t dangerous, though. None of your . . . mishaps have caused lasting harm.”
“Not yet,” I agree. “But what about the next time? Or the time after that? Or the time after that? If I don’t get my powers under control, there’s always the chance someone might get hurt.”
And I might get smoted for it.
“If you think that’s what you need,” Mom says, though she still looks worried. “I don’t want you to spend the whole summer working. You need to have fun, too.”
“I will,” I promise. “I can focus on fun and the Pythian Games as soon as I pass the stupid test.”
“What test?” She looks at Damian. “What test?”
Jeez, didn’t Damian tell Mom anything about this? He can explain while I finish reading the flyer.
On the first day of camp we will meet in the Academy courtyard at 10 A.M. Camp will dismiss at 4 P.M. Lunch will be provided. Extra-camp tutorials will be scheduled at counselor discretion for campers needing additional or personalized help. Counselors will wait with campers needing to be picked up on the front steps.
Needing to be picked up? Some of the other campers must be pretty bad off if they can’t even go home without an escort. I must not be in as bad shape as I thought.
“The gods are concerned by Phoebe’s lack of control,” Damian says in his headmaster tone. “They have decided she must pass a test before she can continue her studies.”
“What kind of test?” Mom asks.
“I am not certain.” Damian clears his throat. “In my only prior experience with such a situation, the gods placed the student in a situation designed to push his restraint to the limit.”
“And what happens if she doesn’t pass this test?”
I look up when Mom asks this because I want to know the answer, too. Surely he won’t be quite as evasive with her.
He doesn’t get the chance.
“Evening, everyone,” Stella singsongs as she flounces into the room. She drops her giant pink purse—the Pepto color makes me want to retch—on the buffet table and slides into her seat across from me.
“You’re late,” Damian says, giving her a stern look. He’s good at stern looks, a talent I enjoy more when they’re directed at Stella than at me.
“Dara and I were going over a few last-minute details for tomorrow.” She flashes him her best I-can-do-no-wrong smile. “You wouldn’t want us to be unprepared, would you?”
Before he can answer—though I know he would totally say, “Of course not”—Hesper sweeps into the room with a tray full of food.
“Mmm, it smells wonderful,” Stella says. “Psaria plaki?”
Hesper just hums in agreement as she sets plates down for each of us. Arranged on the oval plate is a colorful bed of chopped vegetables—bright orange carrots, lime-green leeks, and warm yellow potatoes—under a whole fish. And by whole fish, I mean the who-o-ole fish. Eyes, gills, and tail included.
I suppress a shudder and wonder if moving the carrots and potatoes around on the plate will make it look like I ate the fish. From the skeptical look the fish is giving me, I doubt it.
As Hesper leaves with the empty tray, Damian asks, “I trust you girls will manage all right on your own while we are gone?”
We’ve been going over this in a dozen different ways ever since they booked the trip back in January. It’s not like Stella and I aren’t adults. Stella’s going to be at Oxford in the fall, and if I hadn’t decided to stick around for Level 13, I’d be halfway to USC. I can even vote in the next election by absentee ballot. Not that I can convince Mom and Damian. They seem to think we’re still in junior high and totally incapable of surviving sans chaperone without either killing ourselves or each other.
So little trust.
“Of course, Daddy. We’ll be fine.” Stella looks at me. “I’ll keep my eye on Phoebe.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, stabbing at a carrot.
Stella just smiles and shrugs.
I scowl.
This is how our uneasy truce works. She makes obnoxious remarks like that—it’s who she is. Queen of the cutting comments. Sometimes I let them slide. Sometimes I’m itching for a fight.
After the day I’ve had, my tolerance meter is on zero.
Focusing on one of the big fat kalamata olives on her plate, I picture a big ugly beetle. I know I can do this. I’m visualizing the olive turning into the beetle. I can see it. It’s going to—
The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
As I stare at the olive, suddenly little black legs that look like licorice laces pop out on each side and start to wiggle around. All right, so the legs aren’t even long enough to reach the plate. But still, it’s a success. I wanted the olive to become a beetle and it (kinda) did.
My powers control is definitely improving.
At least I didn’t conjure up real beetles or anything—
“Phoebe!” Damian roars.
I tear my eyes away from my success on Stella’s plate.
Crawling up Damian’s tie—and along his collar and out of his shirt pocket and over his cuff links—are real, live beetles.
“Good heavens,” Mom gasps.
Damian closes his eyes, his jaw clenched in clear loss of patience.
Not again. “Here, let me—”
“No,” Damian interrupts. “I’ll take care of them.”
He glows for a second and then the beetles are gone.
Why can’t I have that kind of easy control? I mean, I know he’s had a lifetime to learn, but just a little taste of containment would be nice.
“Damian, I’m sorry,” I say, giving him my best apologetic look. “I shouldn’t have tried to use my powers at the dinner table.”
“No, you should not have.” He releases a heavy sigh. When he opens his eyes, he smiles and picks up his fork. “Let’s continue our meal, shall we?”
I glare at Stella, as if this is all her fault.
On the outside, she’s all composure and highlights and happy, preppy chic. But her gray eyes are full of smug. Like my reaction—my botched powers usage—is exactly what she wanted. I think she enjoys our not-quite-sisterly sparring sessions as much as I do. Sometimes I think it’s more habit with us than actual dislike. Secretly—and I would never admit this under torture or threats of smoting or promises of ice cream—I actually kind of admire her. She never pretends to be anything but herself. Can’t say that about most people.
She grabs an olive—the legs now hanging limp—and says, “I think it’s lucky for all of us that you’re going to boot camp. Meal-time will be safe again.”
She pops the olive in her mouth and I’m only partly satisfied by the disgusted look on her face. The rest of me is still disappointed that my success turned to failure so quickly.
As much as Stella’s snarky comment about boot camp bugs me, I know that controlling my powers is really important.
I’m tired of being a supernatural hazard.
After dinner, I retreat to my room and my laptop. I call up my IM chat and am relieved to find Nola and Cesca online. If anyone can cheer me up it’s my two best friends.
LostPhoebe: hi girls!
PrincessCesca: Phoebe!
GranolaGrrl: we’ve been waiting for you forever
LostPhoebe: what’s up?
PrincessCesca: we have exciting news
PrincessCesca: I got a summer internship with A La Mode magazine
PrincessCesca: in PARIS!!!
LostPhoebe: omg Paris?!? awesome
PrincessCesca: tell me about it
LostPhoebe: when does it start?
PrincessCesca: the end of the month
LostPhoebe: maybe I can visit you
Paris is only a three-and-a-half hour flight from Athens, and Athens is only a three-hour ferry ride from Serifos—the next island over. I bet once I pass the test I can sneak away for a quick visit. Of course that implies that I pass the test and
don’t end up hanging from some medieval torture device in the dungeon. With all my other distractions, that’s nowhere near a sure thing.
For now, though, I’m just excited for Cesca. I know how much she loves Paris and fashion. This is perfect for her.
LostPhoebe: that’s so awesome C!
PrincessCesca: thanks
PrincessCesca: I’m beyond excited
LostPhoebe: what’s your news N?
GranolaGrrl: I might get a summer research grant from Berkeley
LostPhoebe: cool. what are you going to research?
GranolaGrrl: native cycladian flora
LostPhoebe: English please?
GranolaGrrl: the flowers of Serfopoula
LostPhoebe: OMG! does that mean you’d be coming here?
GranolaGrrl: yes!
GranolaGrrl: *if* I get the grant
I haven’t seen Nola and Cesca since Mom and Damian’s wedding last December. There was talk of me spending part of the summer with Yia Yia Minta in L.A. or maybe visiting Aunt Megan in San Francisco, but when the Pythian Games trials came up, those plans got put on hold. If Griffin and I make the team, then we’ll be training all summer for the games in late August. This is a once-every-four-years opportunity, so I can’t just toss it aside.
But if Cesca is as close as Paris and Nola comes to Serfopoula itself, then it won’t matter if I can’t get to Cali.
LostPhoebe: when do you find out?
GranolaGrrl: who knows?
GranolaGrrl: whenever the grant committee comes back from summer hiatus
LostPhoebe: you guys do not know how much you just made my day
GranolaGrrl: something wrong?
LostPhoebe: no, just a tough day
LostPhoebe: so much better now
GranolaGrrl: gotta go
GranolaGrrl: mom calling
PrincessCesca: me too
PrincessCesca: tons of packing to do
LostPhoebe: night girls
LostPhoebe: so glad you’re heading my way
When I sign off my computer I feel a million times better. It’s amazing what a difference a little chat can make.
As I fall into bed, I’m not even thinking about tomorrow. Or about Griffin and Adara. Or the stupid test. Or Dad. Or accidental smoting. In my mind it’s already weeks from now and my two best friends are here.
Now, if only actual time would fly that fast.
“Rise and shine, camper.”
Through the fog of sleep I hear a disgustingly cheerful voice. Stella’s disgustingly cheerful voice. I must be having a nightmare. In real life Stella is never cheerful. Condescending? Yes. Obnoxious? Absolutely. Just. Not. Cheerful.
“Come on, Phoebekins,” the voice says. “You need to get up and see Dad and Valerie off. And you don’t want to be late for camp.”
I’m blinded as my comforter is jerked away and my eyes are exposed to the morning sunlight streaming in my window. Squinting, I force one eye open.
“What are you doing in my room?” I grumble.
“Waking you up, silly.” She takes me by the wrist and pulls me into a sitting position. “They’re leaving in ten minutes.”
The instant she releases my wrist I fall back into my fluffy white bed.
But my eyes are open.
As she walks away I eye her warily. It’s not like Stella to be so sickeningly enthusiastic. She’s more the scowl-of-superiority type. But today, everything about her screams joyfulness. From her sunny yellow twinset to her bright white Keds.
Wait. Stella doesn’t wear sneakers. Not even the casual preppy kind.
Something is definitely suspicious.
“Are you up, Phoebola?” Mom asks, poking her head in my door. “You know we’re leaving in—”
“I’m up already,” I say, flinging my comforter to the side.
“Is Phoebe awake?” Damian asks, walking up next to Mom. When he sees me climbing out of bed, he adds, “Good. Your mother and I are about to depart.”
“I know.” I rub the sleep out of my eyes as I stumble across the room. “Just give me two minutes in the bathroom.”
I squeeze around Mom and Damian and then past Stella, who is waiting in the hall. When did my room become Union Station? Thankfully I sleep in a modest T-shirt and smiley-face boxers.
In the bathroom I quickly splash cold water on my face and run a hairbrush through my hair. I don’t have the energy to pull it into a ponytail, so I just leave it hanging over my shoulders. I can always secure it later.
When I open the bathroom door, all three of them are standing there waiting for me.
“For the love of Nike,” I say, exasperated. “Would you two bon voyage already so I can go back to waking up in peace?”
Mom gives me a ha-ha-very-funny look. What were they thinking leaving at eight in the morning, anyway? Thailand will still be there in the afternoon.
I shuffle into my room, closing the door before any of them can follow me. Thirty seconds later I’ve traded my boxers for sweats and have pulled on my All Stars so I can see them off.
In a bizarre little parade, we all traipse down to the dock. Zenos, the yacht captain, is carrying two of Mom’s megasuitcases and Damian is carrying the other. I’m struggling with Mom’s carry-on—which I suspect has at least a week’s worth of clothes. Mom is walking hand in hand with Hesper, who is way more like family than staff. Stella is carrying—yep, you guessed it—nothing. How does she always manage to get out of these things? She’s like the Houdini of grunt work. Makes Tom Sawyer look like an amateur slacker.
As Damian and Zenos load the suitcases, Mom faces me and Stella.
“Now you’re sure you girls will be all right?” she asks, again.
I’m tempted to employ sarcasm, but the fear that she might actually take it seriously makes me say, “Of course, Mom.”
“Really, Valerie,” Stella adds. “I have everything under control.”
I drop Mom’s carry-on on Stella’s Keds-clad foot.
“Because we can cancel the trip,” Mom says. And I know from the supersad look in her eyes, she’d do it, too. She wouldn’t want to—she’s been dreaming of this trip for months—but she would.
I scoot the carry-on off of Stella’s foot.
“Seriously, we’ll be fine,” I say, giving her my best I’ll-behave-like-an-adult sincerity. “Stella and I can get along for a few days.” I don’t look at Stella because I don’t think I can hold a straight face. “I’ll be busy training and going to camp.”
“If you’re sure . . .” Mom’s eyes get all watery.
“Besides, we’re on an island protected by the gods,” I say, throwing my arms out wide. “What could possibly go wrong?”
I know, I know. Whenever someone says that in movies, something goes terribly wrong. But seriously, this is the island of the gods—they even have the souvenir T-shirts to prove it. There are supernatural safeguards.
“Don’t work too hard,” she insists, pulling me into a hug.
“I won’t.”
“Don’t spend all your time worrying about the test.”
“I won’t.”
“I wish this was something I could help you with.” She sniffs. “I feel so powerless and—”
“I know, Mom.” I lean back and give her my best seriously-I’man-adult-and-I’m-totally-fine look. “Really. I have to figure it out on my own.”
Hopefully with a little help from Goddess Boot Camp.
“The yacht is ready, Valerie,” Damian says. “We must depart or we will miss the ferry in Serifos.”
Mom’s tears start to fall. “I’ll call you every day,” she says, squeezing me one last time.
“You will not,” I insist. “This is your honeymoon. Enjoy it. Don’t spend all your time worrying about me.”
When she releases me, she quickly wipes away her tears. Stella steps forward and gives her a quick hug.
“I’ll take care of your girl, Valerie,” she promises.
Okay, I am seriously getting ti
red of Stella’s patronizing comments. Like I’m some kind of little kid who needs to be watched over. She’s months—not years—older. But I am not about to try for revenge with Mom and Damian standing right there. If I mess up—or maybe I should say when I mess up—they’ll cancel their trip in a second. And then I’d feel really, really guilty.
“Go,” I say, shooing Mom toward the boat.
With one last little hug, she hurries to join Damian. Zenos unties the yacht from the dock and takes his place at the wheel. As they pull away, Stella and I stand there waving—perfectly fake smiles pasted on both our faces. Hesper steps to the end of the dock, pulls a white handkerchief from her dress, and starts waving it at the retreating yacht.
“Don’t worry,” I shout as they escape hearing distance. “If I have to kill Stella, I’ll bury her body in the rose garden.”
Not that we have a rose garden.
I brace myself for Stella to zap me into the water. When she doesn’t, I sneak a peek from the corner of my eye. She’s still smiling and waving.
There is definitely something wrong with her.
“Are you feeling all right?” I ask nervously.
“Wonderful,” she says, never taking her eyes off the yacht.
“Why are you being so—”
“You’d better hurry,” she interrupts, turning abruptly to give me a brilliant smile. “Wouldn’t want to be late for the first day of camp.”
She turns and walks away and I’m left staring after her, totally confused.