Grab­bing the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor-do­or hand­le from her, I pull it wi­de open. When I le­an past her to grab a Ga­to­ra­de from the stock Hes­per ke­eps in the frid­ge for me, she says. "I wor­ked the­re Le­vels 10 and 11." She fills her glass with wa­ter. "I ne­eded so­me le­gi­ti­ma­te work ex­pe­ri­en­ce. I can't exactly put He­ra's Per­so­nal As­sis­tant on my re­su­me."

  I ig­no­re her awk­ward la­ugh.

  We fa­ce off, her le­aning aga­inst one co­un­ter sip­ping ice wa­ter, me le­aning aga­inst the op­po­si­te co­un­ter chug­ging my Ga­to­ra­de. We just watch each ot­her. I'm wa­iting for her to crack. Ze­us only knows what she's wa­iting for.

  As I dra­in the last drop of Ga­to­ra­de, I de­ci­de to bre­ak the si­len­ce.

  She be­ats me to it.

  "Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos cal­led me." Her French-ma­ni­cu­red fin­gers tigh­ten aro­und her glass. "She as­ked me abo­ut the sto­len re­cord."

  I toss my empty bot­tle in­to the recyc­ling bin un­der the sink.

  "And?"

  "And not­hing," she says, lo­oking aff­ron­ted. "I don't know anyt­hing abo­ut it. Why wo­uld I?"

  She lo­oks pretty in­no­cent, but then aga­in Stel­la's the qu­e­en of lo­oking in­no­cent. I can't co­unt the num­ber of ti­mes in the last ye­ar she's ska­ted on stuff she did. Me? I al­ways get ca­ught. (Not that I ever do anyt­hing, of co­ur­se.)

  "But you do know abo­ut the sec­ret arc­hi­ves." I don't ask it as a qu­es­ti­on. "You know how to ac­cess them."

  "Of co­ur­se," she says. She fi­nis­hes her wa­ter and sets the glass in the sink. "Ever­yo­ne knows abo­ut the "sec­ret" arc­hi­ves. Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos de­lu­des her­self in­to thin­king no one knows. It's the worst-kept sec­ret on the is­land."

  That's true. The­re's still a lot abo­ut this is­land-abo­ut this world-that I dun't know, and even I knew abo­ut them.

  "You co­uld ac­cess them," I re­pe­at. "If you wan­ted."

  "Of co­ur­se," she rep­li­es. At le­ast she didn't deny it. "If I wan­ted. I don't want, and I didn't ac­cess. An­yo­ne who's ever wor­ked in the lib­rary co­uld ac­cess if they wan­ted. Are you go­ing to ac­cu­se the en­ti­re for­mer pay­roll staff? Bet­ter start with Daddy, he was an aide back in the day. Why don't we gi­ve him a call? I'm su­re he and Va­le­rie won't mind the in­ter­rup­ti­on on the­ir ho­ney­mo­on."

  I roll my eyes at her me­lod­ra­ma.

  Tho­ugh I ha­ven't got the best re­cord for trus­ting pe­op­le, I be­li­eve her in­no­cen­ce. Be­si­des, if she'd do­ne it, she'd be glo­ating abo­ut it all over my fa­ce. She wo­uld still deny it to the aut­ho­ri­ti­es, but she'd be ta­un­ting me to the ends of the earth.

  Whe­re do­es that le­ave me? If Stel­la didn't ste­al the re­cord, then who?

  That brings me back to the list. As so­on as I'd se­en Stel­la's na­me, I'd fi­xa­ted on that. The rest of the list was pretty much a blur. I ne­ed to check out the ot­her na­mes.

  "I'll see you at din­ner,' I say, tur­ning to go to my ro­om and do a lit­tle re­se­arch in­to my fel­low stu­dents.

  "Pho­ebe." So­met­hing in her vo­ice-so­met­hing sad-stops me. "Not­hing in that re­cord will chan­ge what hap­pe­ned. No one can re­ver­se an Olym­pic dec­ree."

  "I know that." I ke­ep my back to her. She do­esn't ne­ed to see my te­ars. "But it might gi­ve me so­me ans­wers."

  I he­ar her sigh. "Then I ho­pe you find them. Ever­yo­ne de­ser­ves ans­wers."

  Her vo­ice wa­vers with sympathy, li­ke she un­ders­tands whe­re I'm co­ming from. Wha­te­ver. She has no idea what I'm go­ing thro­ugh.

  Wit­ho­ut res­pon­ding, I rush to my ro­om. I ha­te it when she acts li­ke a hu­man-it's so much easi­er to think of her as a vi­ci­o­us harpy.

  At my desk, I pull the fol­ded prin­to­ut from my back poc­ket and smo­oth it out over my clo­sed lap­top. I scan the na­mes on the list. Be­si­des Stel­la, I only re­cog­ni­ze three of them.

  Ka­ta­ra, Xan­der

  Ro­ukas, Zoe

  Mar­tin, Chris­top­her

  I can't ima­gi­ne why any of the three wo­uld do this to me. Su­re, the­re are still so­me-a lot of-lin­ge­ring ill fe­elings abo­ut me be­ing at the Aca­demy. Stu­dents who don't ca­re that I'm one of them now, who ha­te out­si­ders or run­ners or Ca­li­for­ni­ans or wha­te­ver. Or that are re­sent­ful be­ca­use I went from be­ing not­hos to be­ing a third-ge­ne­ra­ti­on he­mat­he­os and the­re­fo­re pretty po­wer­ful and ap­pa­rently en­vi­ab­le.

  But this se­ems kind of ext­re­me, i me­an, it's not li­ke who­ever it is won't get in tro­ub­le for ste­aling the re­cord. Da­mi­an wo­uld pro­bably put them in de­ten­ti­on for a ye­ar.

  Be­si­des, no one on the list se­ems a li­kely can­di­da­te.

  Xan­der didn't know I exis­ted un­til camp star­ted, so I do­ubt he's mas­ter­min­ding the wild-go­ose cha­se. Zoe and Chris­top­her are both on the track te­am. Chris­top­her is one of the ni­cest guys in scho­ol- be­fo­re I fo­und out abo­ut my Ni­ke he­ri­ta­ge, he was the only one who wo­uld wil­lingly pa­ir up with me in prac­ti­ces. He wo­uld ne­ver do this. Zoe is one of Ada­ra's mi­ni­ons-trans­la­ti­on: she ha­tes me- but she's off the is­land for the sum­mer, vi­si­ting her fa­mily in Swe­den or Swit­zer­land or so­met­hing.

  I sigh, fol­ding the list back up and slip­ping it in­to my desk dra­wer. No use be­ating my bra­in up aga­inst a brick wall. I'll ha­ve to do so­me in­ves­ti­ga­ting. May­be Troy and Ni­co­le know so­met­hing abo­ut the ot­her kids on the list. I can ask to­mor­row. For to­night I'll do a qu­ick se­arch on the Aca­demy Web si­te.

  I po­wer up my lap­top and de­ci­de to check e-ma­il first.

  Twel­ve new mes­sa­ges. And not one of them is spam. May­be the gods fi­nal­ly de­ve­lo­ped a func­ti­oning spam bloc­ker for the Aca­demy e-ma­il system.

  I qu­ickly skim thro­ugh my in-box.

  To: los­t­p­ho­[email protected]­aca­demy.gr

  From: gbla­[email protected]­aca­demy.gr

  Su­bj­ect: Tra­ining To­mor­row

  Pho­ebes.

  Can we run in the mor­ning aga­in to­mor­row?

  Griff

  No exp­la­na­ti­on. No apo­lo­gi­es. No con­fes­si­on that he spent the af­ter­no­on at the bo­oks­to­re with his ex. I ta­ke a de­ep bre­ath. Be­ne­fit of the do­ubt, I tell myself. Be­ne­fit of the do­ubt. I sho­ot back a qu­ick mes­sa­ge sa­ying I'll me­et him in the sta­di­um at eight in the mor­ning. I'm su­re the­re is a per­fectly ra­ti­onal re­ason. I click to the next mes­sa­ge.

  To: los­t­p­ho­[email protected]­aca­demy.gr

  From: gra­no­lag­r­[email protected]­ci­fic­park.us

  Su­bj­ect: Go­od News

  The grant com­mit­tee re­con­ve­ned early. No de­ci­si­on yet, but I'll find out so­oner rat­her than la­ter whet­her I get it.

  Pe­ace and lo­ve,

  No­la

  Cros­sing my fin­gers and to­es, I send a si­lent plea that the grant com­mit­tee gi­ves No­la her re­se­arch grant. Just the tho­ught of han­ging out for a co­up­le of we­eks-inste­ad of the co­up­le of days we've spent to­get­her sin­ce I left LA.-ma­kes me for­get all the cra­zi­ness of the day.

  If No­la co­mes to vi­sit, then all will be right with the world.

  Or half right any­way. If she and Ces­ca both co­me it will be per­fect.

  To: los­t­p­ho­[email protected]­aca­demy.gr

  From: prin­ces­sces­[email protected]­cin­c­park.us

  Su­bj­ect: Pa­ris Is Cal­ling

  Hey hot stuff. Just a qu­ick e-ma­il to up­da­te my sched. I've got to be in Pa­ris, li­ke, yes­ter­day. I'm on a pla­ne to­mor­row and ha­ve to re­port to work at six the next day-that's six in the *mo­ro­ing*! Ugh. I'm busy pac­king. Don't know when I'll be ab
­le to e-ma­il, but I'll get in to­uch as so­on as I can. Want anyt­hing from the city of lights?

  XO­XO Ces­ca

  Ces­ca is even less of a mor­ning per­son than I am, but I know that she'll do anyt­hing to spend the sum­mer tra­ip­sing aro­und af­ter fas­hi­on de­sig­ners in her per­so­nal holy city. One day her de­signs will gra­ce the co­vers of every ma­j­or fas­hi­on ma­ga­zi­ne.

  To: lo­sip­ho­[email protected]­aca­demy.gr

  From: va­le­ri­epet­ro­[email protected]­ma­il.com

  Su­bj­ect: We've Got Ma­il

  Pho­ebo­la,

  Sorry we ha­ven't cal­led, In­ter­na­ti­onal ra­tes from Bang­kok are phe­no­me­nal­ly ex­pen­si­ve. But e-ma­il is not. They ha­ve a bu­si­ness cen­ter in the ho­tel lobby, so he­re I am. We ar­ri­ved sa­fely and will stay in Bang­kok for two mo­re days be­fo­re set­ting out on the gu­ided to­ur of the rest of the co­untry. We're ac­tu­al­ly go­ing to be in Phu­ket for the­ir in­ter­na­ti­onal ma­rat­hon. We'll get you a so­uve­nir t-shirt.

  Is everyt­hing go­ing al­right at ho­me? You and Stel­la ha­ven't strang­led each ot­her, ha­ve you? How we­re yo­ur first days of bo­ot camp? Ma­ke any new fri­ends?

  I know that cont­rol­ling yo­ur po­wers is an un­fa­mi­li­ar chal­len­ge, but you are the stron­gest, most de­di­ca­ted, strong-wil­led yo­ung wo­man I've ever known.You ha­ve yo­ur fat­hers dri­ve to suc­ce­ed, and that mo­re than anyt­hing el­se will see you thro­ugh this tri­al. I ha­ve ab­so­lu­te fa­ith in you.

  Da­mi­an and I are on our way to a tra­di­ti­onal Thai dan­ce per­for­man­ce, a style cal­led khon. I will wri­te mo­re when I can. Call if you ne­ed anyt­hing.

  Ha­ve fun and don't mur­der yo­ur step­sis­ter.

  Lo­ve,

  Mom

  That's pretty co­ol that they'll get to see an in­ter­na­ti­onal ma­rat­hon. I wish I co­uld go. Be­fo­re we mo­ved to Ser­fo­po­ula, I ne­ver had a bur­ning de­si­re to be anyw­he­re but So­ut­hern Ca­li­for­nia. Now I wish I co­uld go everyw­he­re. It's li­ke if be­ing in Gre­ece chan­ged my pers­pec­ti­ve on the world so much-for the bet­ter-then I can only ima­gi­ne how dif­fe­rent I wo­uld be if I saw even mo­re of it.

  I send Mom a qu­ick reply-ma­inly be­ca­use I think she'll bra­ve the cost of a pho­ne call if I don't. My mind is such a mess right now I know she'd pick up on it and the last thing I ne­ed is her tur­ning in­to the­ra­pist Mom from tho­usands of mi­les away.

  I don't want to open the next e-ma­il, but know I sho­uld.

  To: los­t­p­ho­[email protected]­aca­demy.gr

  From: che­er­[email protected]­aca­demy.gr

  Su­bj­ect: Bo­ot Camp Up­da­te

  Gre­etings Cam­pers

  PRO­PER CAMP AT­TI­RE: Ple­ase we­ar clo­sed-toe sho­es and long pants every day. NO SHORTS or SAN­DALS!!! This is for yo­ur own pro­tec­ti­on.

  To­mor­rows bo­ot camp will be so­met­hing SPE­CI­AL! Me­et in front of the ma­in­te­nan­ce shed at the north end of the qu­ad at 10 A.M.! La­te­co­mers will be left be­hind and this is a day you will not want to miss!

  -Ada­ra-

  I roll my eyes. Be­si­des her ove­ru­se of exc­la­ma­ti­on po­ints and her ten­dency to yell, the idea that we're do­ing "so­met­hing spe­ci­al" in camp to­mor­row is not ex­ci­ting. It's ter­rif­ying.

  Next is an ad­mi­nist­ra­ti­ve mes­sa­ge from Ms. T, the Le­vel 13 co­or­di­na­tor.

  To: Le­vel 13 Stu­dents

  From: tyro­vo­[email protected]­aca­demy.gr

  Su­bj­ect: Up­co­ming Scho­ol Ye­ar

  Atten­ti­on all re­tur­ning Le­vel 13 stu­dents:

  Sum­mer is not too early to be­gin plan­ning yo­ur aca­de­mic fu­tu­re. You will me­et in in­di­vi­du­al ses­si­ons with yo­ur as­sig­ned ad­vi­ser at the end of August, but I en­co­ura­ge you to re­vi­ew the co­ur­se ca­ta­log and ma­ke a list of tho­se you wo­uld li­ke to sche­du­le. Be­ca­use many Le­vel 13 clas­ses ha­ve rest­ric­ted en­rol­lment, you sho­uld al­so list se­cond and third cho­ices for every pe­ri­od. Any ad­van­ce pre­pa­ra­ti­on will ma­ke yo­ur ad­vi­sing ses­si­on go far smo­ot­her.

  I ap­pre­ci­ate yo­ur ef­forts in this en­de­avor.

  Tan­ya Tyro­vo­las

  Le­vel 13 Co­or­di­na­tor

  Pro­fes­sor of Li­te­ra­tu­re

  The Aca­demy

  Ser­fo­po­ula. Gre­ece

  Ms. T is a bit of a nut­ca­se. She we­ars to­gas to scho­ol and I think she's a strong ad­vo­ca­te of re­ins­ta­ting tri­al by com­bat-as in gla­di­ato­ri­al com­bat, which was ban­ned in the sixth cen­tury. I ma­ke a re­min­der in my Aca­demy ca­len­dar to lo­ok at the co­ur­se ca­ta­log be­fo­re August. The last thing I want is to spend my (se­cond) se­ni­or ye­ar en­rol­led in clas­ses I ha­te.

  I skim thro­ugh the next few mes­sa­ges.

  An auto­ma­ted system mes­sa­ge re­min­ding stu­dents that Aca­demy e-ma­il is ri­go­ro­usly scan­ned and vi­ola­tors of the terms of use will be re­qu­ired to ta­ke a forty-ho­ur 'Res­pon­sib­le Elect­ro­nic Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons" co­ur­se.

  Three e-ma­ils from scho­ol clubs, en­co­ura­ging new mem­bers to jo­in now to be­at the fall rush-ye­ah, li­ke Mock Go­vern­ment is go­ing to be tur­ning them away at the do­or.

  An e-ma­il from the ma­in­te­nan­ce staff, as­king stu­dents to re­mo­ve per­so­nal items from loc­kers be­fo­re the bu­il­ding­wi­de cle­an-out next we­ek.

  The last e-ma­il-with no sen­der and no su­bj­ect-pi­qu­es my cu­ri­osity.

  To: los­t­p­ho­[email protected]­aca­demy.gr

  From: [Bloc­ked]

  Su­bj­ect: [Ho Su­bj­ect]

  Cu­ri­o­us abo­ut the con­tents of the mis­sing Olym­pic re­cord?

  Be in the co­urt­yard at mid­night on Tu­es­day.

  Co­me alo­ne.

  My he­art starts ra­cing. My mind starts ra­cing. So who­ever sent me the no­te al­re­ady knew the re­cord was mis­sing? Then why did they send the no­te? Is this the sa­me per­son who sto­le it? Or do they know who did?

  What if they are just trying to mess with me? Or hurt me? It wo­uldn't be the first ti­me so­me­one at the Aca­demy went out of the­ir way to ma­ke me lo­ok and fe­el li­ke an idi­ot. Wo­uld I be to­tal­ly stu­pid to ag­ree to this me­eting?

  And if I don't, will I ever find out what re­al­ly hap­pe­ned to Dad?

  Chapter 7

  __________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  VI­SI­OCRYP­TI­ON

  SO­UR­CE: HA­DES

  The abi­lity to hi­de, mask, or clo­ak an obj­ect. Du­ra­ti­on of ef­fect and si­ze of obj­ect af­fec­ted va­ri­es de­pen­ding on strength of powcr. Ef­fect is tem­po­rary and do­es not af­fect the physi­cal cha­rac­te­ris­tics of the obj­ect. (See vi­si­omu­ta­ti­on for per­ma­nent chan­ges of ap­pe­aran­ce.)

  DYNA­MOT­HE­OS STUDY GU­IDE * Stel­la Pet­ro­las

  __________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  WHEN I WALK THRO­UGH THE TUN­NEL and out on­to the sta­di­um fi­eld the next mor­ning, Grif­fin is wa­iting for mc next to the soc­cer go­al-su­re, in Gre­ece they call it fo­ot­ball, but my dad pla­yed fo­ot­ball. The sport with a ro­und, black-and-whi­te ball will al­ways be soc­cer to me. Griff smi­les that he­art-mel­ting smi­le, gi­ves me a qu­ick kiss, and says, "I mis­sed you, kar­dia tis kar­di­as mou."

  Until that mo­ment I ha­ve every in­ten­ti­on of let­ting the who­le Grif­fin-and-Ada­ra-in-thc-bo­oks­to­re thing go. Not every guy is a che­ating jerk li­ke Jus­tin.

  But when he says he mis­sed me, I won­der, Did he re­al­ly?

  I can't stop myself from as­king, "How was th
e trip to Se­ri­fos?"

  "Oh," he says. "We had to resc­he­du­le. The fre­ezer mal­func­ti­oned and flo­oded the cel­lar. Aunt Lil­li and I spent the mor­ning re­ar­ran­ging the stock­ro­om."

  So he hadn't left the is­land yes­ter­day. "Is that why we're run­ning in the mor­ning aga­in?"

  "Didn't I say that?" He bends over, re­ac­hing for his to­es.

  No, he didn't say that.

  Jo­ining him in the stretch, I ask, "What did you do in the af­ter­no­on?"

  I fe­el I li­ke the In­qu­isi­ti­on.

  He's not avo­iding eye con­tact, I tell myself. He can't exactly lo­ok me in the eye when he's han­ging up­si­de down and pul­ling him­self in­to de­eper ex­ten­si­on.

  "I stop­ped by the bo­oks­to­re." He spre­ads his fe­et and twists to re­ach for one ank­le. "Wan­ted to see if they had anyt­hing on en­du­ran­ce con­di­ti­oning and nut­ri­ti­on."

  Of co­ur­se it was so­met­hing in­no­cent-he was re­se­arc­hing our tra­ining.

  I smi­le as I mi­mic his stretc­hing, men­tal­ly whip­ping myself. Cle­arly, I ne­ed to get a hand­le on that je­alo­usy mons­ter-which Ni­co­le in­sists has red eyes, not gre­en. So­me­ti­mes I won­der how she knows so much abo­ut mytho­lo­gi­cal be­asts. Ot­her ti­mes I don't want to know.

  "Did they?" I lift my fo­ot be­hind me and grab my ank­le, stretc­hing my qu­ads.

  "No." He smi­les and says, "But Iona sa­id they wo­uld or­der so­me for us."