Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp

  "Lis­ten to me," Grif­fin says aga­inst my ear. The­re is not­hing that says you ha­ve to re­ad the re­cord. Ever."

  Da­mi­an sa­id pretty much the sa­me thing. But I fed li­ke I sho­uld want to know. Li­ke it sho­uldn't mat­ter what I find. I sho­uld want the truth.

  "Part of me wants to know, eit­her way. Wha­te­ver the re­cord says, kno­wing is bet­ter than not kno­wing." My vo­ice is muf­fled aga­inst Grif­fin's chest. "But part of me is af­ra­id." I bi­te my lip. "Afra­id I'll lo­se the me­mory of him. That it will be fo­re­ver chan­ged be­ca­use I'll al­ways know that I-that I wasn't as im­por­tant to him as fo­ot­ball."

  "You know that isn't-"

  "No, I don't," I say, my vo­ice tin­ged with des­pe­ra­ti­on. "He might ha­ve ma­de a cons­ci­o­us de­ci­si­on to use his po­wers in fo­ot­ball-that wo­uld be bad eno­ugh. But what if he didn't kno­wingly use them? That wo­uld be a mil­li­on ti­mes wor­se."

  "I don't set why you-"

  "Be­ca­use that wo­uld me­an de­ep down in his so­ul, fo­ot­ball ca­me first."

  And what if, de­ep down in my so­ul, run­ning co­mes first? If my dad co­uldn't help bre­aking the ru­les to win, then I might do the sa­me thing. I might wind up with the sa­me fa­te.

  I can't say that out lo­ud. It's too… pos­sib­le.

  Grif­fin squ­e­ezes me tigh­ter, li­ke he can sen­se my tho­ughts. Or at le­ast my emo­ti­ons. Psychos­pec­ti­on is a wel­co­me po­wer at ti­mes li­ke this. I let my te­ars so­ak in­to his shirt. I think we both re­ali­ze that not­hing he co­uld say wo­uld ma­ke this any bet­ter.

  Be­ca­use all I can think is What if I ha­ve to spend the rest of my li­fe in fe­ar of cros­sing that in­vi­sib­le li­ne? That's the sca­ri­est thing of all.

  Chapter I2

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  COR­POP­RO­MO­TI­ON

  SO­UR­CE: HER­MES

  The abi­lity to use the body to its ful­lest ex­tent. This po­wer may ma­ni­fest as su­pe­ri­or sta­mi­na, ext­ra­or­di­nary he­aling abi­lity, and ath­le­tic ta­lent. Can., de­pen­ding on the he­mat­he­os he­ri­ta­ge, re­sult in su­pe­ri­or physi­cal gra­ce, rhythm, and af­fi­nity for dan­ce. Des­cen­dants of Hep­ha­es­tus lack this po­wer en­ti­rely.

  DYNA­MOT­HE­OS STUDY GU­IDE * Stel­la Pet­ro­las

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  "PHO­EBE, WA­KE UP." A vo­ice pe­net­ra­tes my dre­am. Then the ow­ner of the vo­ice sha­kes me awa­ke. "Dad and Va­le­rie will be ho­me in a few ho­urs and you're go­ing to be la­te for camp. Get up."

  I try bur­ro­wing un­der the com­for­ter, ho­ping Stel­la will ta­ke the hint and go away. Not that she's ever be­en one to ta­ke hints.

  "Don't ma­ke me get the ice wa­ter," she warns.

  I grunt in res­pon­se.

  I want to get back to my dre­am-in which I not only win the Pythi­an tri­als to­mor­row, but al­so the Pythi­an Ga­mes and the Olym­pics… but all whi­le run­ning un­der­wa­ter. I know, dre­ams ne­ver ma­ke sen­se.

  Be­si­des, Stel­la wo­uldn't re­al­ly-

  "I war­ned you," she says, a split se­e­ond be­fo­re my com­for­ter is jer­ked away and a splash of fre­ezing wa­ter hits my fo­re­he­ad.

  Bol­ting up, I sho­ut, "Are you in­sa­ne?" Wi­ping at the wa­ter be­fo­re it can trick­le down to my neck and ot­her sen­si­ti­ve are­as, I gi­ve her my best you'd-bet­ter-run gla­re. "You can gi­ve a per­son a he­art at­tack do­ing that."

  "Stop be­ing so dra­ma­tic." She holds the still-half-full glass over me. "Now get out of bed be­fo­re I dump the rest on you."

  She di­sap­pe­ars be­fo­re I can even be­gin to think of ways to mur­der her and hi­de the body.

  Well, I'm fully awa­ke now-my dre­am is out of re­ach-so I swing myself out of bed. It wasn't the ice wa­ter that jol­ted me awa­ke so much as the re­min­der that Mom and Da­mi­an are get­ting ho­me to­day.

  Tho­ugh I co­uld be re­li­eved that Da­mi­an is abo­ut to be ho­me and can help me tra­in, I'm ter­ri­fi­ed, even tho­ugh he sa­id it co­uld hap­pen at any ti­me. I felt pretty cer­ta­in the gods wo­uldn't spring the test on me whi­le Da­mi­an was off the is­land. With his re­turn co­mes the lo­oming re­min­der that I'm go­ing to be tes­ted, and so­on. Sum­mer sols­ti­ce is only days away.

  As I splash wa­ter on my fa­ce, my sto­mach is full of but­terf­li­es. What kind of test will it be? Will I be ab­le to fi­gu­re out it's the test be­fo­re I fa­il mi­se­rably? And what re­al­ly will hap­pen if I fa­il? I'm pic­tu­ring me cha­ined to a bo­ul­der whi­le a gi­ant eag­le pecks out my li­ver when Stel­la opens the bath­ro­om do­or.

  "You're not even dres­sed," she po­ints out.

  Not wil­ling to dig­nify her sta­te­ment by tur­ning aro­und, I gi­ve her ref­lec­ti­on a lo­ok that says, Duh.

  "Hurry up al­re­ady," she says, gi­ving me the spe­ed-it-up ges­tu­re. "I don't want to be la­te to­day."

  Rat­her than po­int out that she do­esn't ha­ve to be la­te, even if I am-sin­ce when do­es she wa­it for me?-I ask, "What's the rush? Why are you so ex­ci­ted abo­ut to­day?"

  "No re­ason," she says. But I see the twink­le in her eye.

  She's up to so­met­hing.

  "Be on the front porch in fi­ve," she says. "Or I'm zap­ping you to camp, dres­sed or not."

  As if the but­terf­li­es in my sto­mach we­ren't bad eno­ugh, now they're swir­ling up a storm at the tho­ught of what she has co­oked up for to­day. I can only ima­gi­ne it will end in my to­tal em­bar­ras­sment-as al­ways.

  But, sin­ce my get­ting zap­ped in­to the mid­dle of camp in my smi­ley-fa­ce bo­xers wo­uld me­an cer­ta­in hu­mi­li­ati­on, I spe­ed up my ro­uti­ne and be­at Stel­la to the front porch by a go­od thirty se­conds.

  "Are you go­ing to tell me what's go­ing on?" I ask as we des­cend the steps and he­ad to­ward scho­ol.

  "I don't think so," she says. "I li­ke ke­eping you on yo­ur to­es."

  When we pass by the turn for the front ent­ran­ce, I ask, "I tho­ught we we­re me­eting in the co­urt­yard to­day?"

  "We we­re." She smi­les crypti­cal­ly. "Plans chan­ge."

  We ro­und the back of the scho­ol, whe­re Ada­ra and Xan­der are wa­iting. Ada­ra lo­oks an­no­yed. Xan­der lo­oks… well, al­so an­no­yed, but that's how he al­ways lo­oks.

  The­re are no lit­tle cam­pers aro­und.

  "What's go­ing on?" I ask ner­vo­usly. One or two of the ten-ye­ar-olds are al­ways early. "Whe­re is ever­yo­ne el­se?"

  "They'll be he­re la­ter," Stel­la exp­la­ins. "At ten."

  "At ten?" I lo­ok for my watch, only to find my wrist empty. "I tho­ught it was ten."

  "It's eight," Ada­ra says, cros­sing her arms ac­ross her chest.

  Spin­ning on Stel­la, I ask, "Why am I he­re two ho­urs early?"

  Xan­der, si­lent un­til now,. steps for­ward. "This is my idea."

  "We think this might help you ta­ke yo­ur po­wers cont­rol to the next le­vel." Stel­la exp­la­ins.

  They are be­ing in­ten­ti­onal­ly va­gue and eva­si­ve. I'm im­me­di­ately on gu­ard. If this we­re so­me simp­le exer­ci­se, they'd just tell me wit­ho­ut all the dra­ma­tic sus­pen­se. "What is 'this' exactly?"

  No one ans­wers.

  Ada­ra steps for­ward, car­rying a black sash. "Trust me?"

  It's only half a qu­es­ti­on. As­king me and tel­ling me to trust her at the sa­me ti­me. A we­ek ago, I wo­uld ha­ve sho­uted, "No way!" But ever sin­ce she sha­red her dar­kest sec­ret, we've had a kind of un­ders­tan­ding. She hasn't on­ce thre­ate­ned to smo­te me.

  I turn m
y back, let­ting her se­cu­re the sash over my eyes.

  "What am I sup­po­sed to do?" I ask. "Gu­ess how many fin­gers you're hol­ding up?"

  "Not exactly," Xan­der says, mo­ving clo­ser and ta­king my el­bow. He le­ads me… so­mew­he­re. All my sen­ses are on high alert be­ca­use I can't see my sur­ro­un­dings. I can he­ar the crunch of our fo­ots­teps on the gra­vel path.

  "So…" I say as the scent of pi­ne fills my nost­rils. "Are you go­ing to tell me what's go­ing on?"

  "You're go­ing to comp­le­te an obs­tac­le co­ur­se."

  "Blind­fol­ded?" I stop in my tracks, only slightly ple­ased to fe­el Xan­der jerk to a stop next to me. "Are you crazy?"

  I re­ach up to rip off the blind­fold, but Xan­der's hands clamp aro­und my wrists.

  "Lis­ten to me," he says, his vo­ice low and clo­se. "In or­der to tap in­to yo­ur po­wers, so­me­ti­mes you ha­ve to stop rel­ying on yo­ur sen­ses. You don't ne­ed to see the obs­tac­les to over­co­me them."

  "But what if I get hurt?" An ima­ge of me sit­ting in the ble­ac­hers at the Pythi­an Ga­mes, my leg en­ca­sed in a mas­si­ve cast, sends a shi­ver thro­ugh me. The tri­als are to­mor­row and I ne­ed to be in pe­ak con­di­ti­on."

  "I pla­ced a pro­tec­ti­on on you," Stel­la says. "Not­hing will hap­pen to you whi­le you're on the co­ur­se."

  I re­lax a lit­tle.

  Until Ada­ra adds. "But if you use the pro­tec­ti­on, you'll fa­il that obs­tac­le."

  "Fa­il?" My he­art thumps. "Is this my test?"

  "No, " Xan­der ans­wers. "But tre­at it as if it we­re."

  I start to ask mo­re qu­es­ti­ons, but he cuts me off. "Re­mem­ber when I sa­id I ho­ped you ne­ver fo­und out the con­se­qu­en­ces of fa­iling the test?" he asks, li­ke I co­uld for­get. I've be­en stres­sing abo­ut it ever sin­ce. He con­ti­nu­es, "Well, that's not exactly the truth. What I me­ant was I knew you wo­uld ne­ver find out."

  "You knew?" That ma­kes no sen­se. "What do you-"

  "No one at scho­ol knows my he­ri­ta­ge," he says, his vo­ice low and right next to my ear so the girls can't he­ar. "Only He­ad­mas­ter Pet­ro­las knows I'm a des­cen­dant of Nar­cis­sus." He pa­uses, and then adds, "His son."

  Whoa. That me­ans he's even fart­her up the tree than I am. He ma­kes my three deg­re­es of se­pa­ra­ti­on se­em li­ke a se­venth co­usin thri­ce re­mo­ved.

  I re­mem­ber the myth abo­ut Nar­cis­sus. He was comp­le­tely in­fa­tu­ated with his own ref­lec­ti­on, in lo­ve with his own per­fec­ti­on to the exc­lu­si­on of everyt­hing el­se. I'm surp­ri­sed Xan­der con­fi­ded in me, but now his fe­elings abo­ut su­per­fi­ci­ality ma­ke a lot mo­re sen­se.

  "Be­li­eving he had le­ar­ned his les­son on self-absorp­ti­on, the gods pa­ro­led him with a grant of tem­po­rary im­mor­ta­lity," Xan­der's vo­ice wa­vers a lit­tle. "He met my mot­her. And qu­ickly pro­ved he had le­ar­ned not­hing."

  For a jaded re­bel boy, he su­re is sha­ring a lot of very per­so­nal in­fo. He must ha­ve a re­ason. I ask, "What do­es that ha­ve to do with me?"

  "To ma­ke up for ha­ving to be his des­cen­dant," Xan­der exp­la­ins, "and to pro­tect me from suc­cum­bing to the sa­me fa­tal flaw, the gods gran­ted me the abi­lity to see be­ne­ath the sur­fa­ce in ot­hers. I can see in­to a per­son's de­epest cen­ter. Do you know what I see in you?"

  I sha­ke my he­ad.

  "A gre­at and po­wer­ful he­mat­he­os," he whis­pers, "with a pu­re he­art."

  That he­art be­ats a lit­tle fas­ter.

  "You will suc­ce­ed, Pho­ebe."

  Then he turns me, gi­ves me a lit­tle push, and I know he's go­ne. I fe­el comp­le­tely alo­ne. Part of me is temp­ted to ta­ke off the blind­fold and go ho­me-I'm too old for ga­mes li­ke this. But the rest of me knows that I ha­ve to do this. Sols­ti­ce is days away, and af­ter that lit­tle auto­por­ting stunt I pul­led in our tra­ining run, I know I ne­ed to get my po­wers un­der cont­rol on­ce and for all.

  Be­fo­re so­met­hing ir­re­ver­sib­le hap­pens.

  As wor­ri­ed as I am abo­ut the tri­als to­mor­row, I won't be run­ning any ra­ces if I'm smo­ted to Ha­des. This is mo­re im­por­tant than a sing­le com­pe­ti­ti­on.

  I fo­cus my energy on my sur­ro­un­dings, trying to get a sen­se of what I ha­ve to do. I ta­ke three steps for­ward, then stop. An ima­ge of a fal­len tree pops in­to my mind. I see it bloc­king the path, its tang­led branc­hes da­ring me to try clim­bing over. Ca­re­ful­ly-li­ke I'm fe­eling for the last step in the dark-I ta­ke a step for­ward.

  Ben­ding down, I fe­el aro­und for what I sen­se is the­re. When my hand hits the ro­ugh bark of a pi­ne trunk, I shri­ek, "It's re­al­ly a fal­len tree!"

  No one res­ponds, but I know they're watc­hing.

  Te­le­ki­ne­sis flas­hes in my mind li­ke a ne­on sign.

  Gre­at, if this obs­tac­le tests a sing­le po­wer, I bet the rest of the obs­tac­les test the rest of the po­wers. Thank the gods I fi­nal­ly stu­di­ed Stel­la's gu­ide.

  I fo­cus on mo­ving the tree out of the path, on the tree al­re­ady be­ing out of the path. Two se­conds la­ter, I sen­se that it's go­ne.

  For­cing myself to trust my ins­tinct, I ta­ke a step for­ward. Then anot­her. And anot­her. Un­til I'm well past the spot whe­re the fal­len tree had bloc­ked my path.

  "How was that for per­fect?" I sho­ut to the co­ur­se.

  Exci­ted by my suc­cess, I turn and mo­ve on to the next obs­tac­le. Twenty pa­ces in­to the wo­ods, I fe­el a spray of wa­ter ac­ross my fa­ce. An ima­ge of flo­od-ma­king he­avy ra­in ap­pe­ars.

  "You've got to be kid­ding," I mut­ter. When Ada­ra ti­ed the blind­fold over my eyes fi­ve mi­nu­tes ago, the sky was clo­ud­less cle­ar blue. Now it's po­uring?

  Must be obs­tac­le num­ber two.

  Stay dry, I he­ar in my mind.

  Okay. I hold out my hand, which promptly gets so­aked in the de­lu­ge two fe­et in front of me. Hydro­ki­ne­sis, I think. Cont­rol and mo­ve­ment of wa­ter. As I ta­ke a step for­ward, I fo­cus on the wa­ter not hit­ting me. I'm sta­ying dry, I think, Not a mo­le­cu­le is go­ing to hit me.

  Even as I mo­ve fully un­der the down­po­ur, I can't fe­el a sing­le drop on my skin or clot­hes. I hurry thro­ugh the ra­iny sec­ti­on-it's li­ke I can fe­el the ra­in sli­ding aro­und me, over me, but not on me- and emer­ge on the far end comp­le­tely dry.

  "Woo-hoo," I sho­ut to myself.

  May­be this co­ur­se isn't go­ing to be as to­ugh as I tho­ught.

  Three steps la­ter, the ima­ge of a she­er drop-off bla­res red in my mind. I pull up just inc­hes be­fo­re the ed­ge.

  "What the-?"

  Men­tal­ly, I try to see over the ed­ge. May­be it's just a short drop and I can climb down. But I can't see anyt­hing. It's li­ke a fog is obs­cu­ring my men­tal vi­ew of the bot­tom.

  Okay, so cle­arly I ne­ed to get down the­re, whe­re­ver that is, but how? Auto­por­ting is out, sin­ce I don't know whe­re I'm go­ing-I don't re­al­ly want to end up at the co­re of a bo­ul­der or so­met­hing. What am I sup­po­sed to do, fly?

  Then I re­mem­ber Ni­co­le as­king me if I flew the day I ear­ned my aero­ki­ne­sis me­rit bad­ge. That must be the way down.

  Step­ping for­ward un­til the to­es of my Ni­kes hang over the ed­ge, I try to call up the air. My track pants whip back in the wind. It fe­els li­ke a mi­ni-hur­ri­ca­ne is swir­ling aro­und me.

  I he­si­ta­te.

  Afra­id you can't do it? Ada­ra's ta­un­ting vo­ice ec­ho­es in my mind.

  "Of co­ur­se I can do it," I sho­ut back abo­ve the wind. I fe­el li­ke an idi­ot get­ting all de­fen­si­ve with a di­sem­bo­di­ed vo­ice. Then I mut­ter even qu­i­eter, "I ho­pe." r />
  Ta­king the big­gest le­ap of fa­ith in my li­fe-I know Stel­la's pro­tec­ti­on won't let me get hurt, but it's hard to ma­ke my bra­in fully be­li­eve-I step over the ed­ge. Rat­her than plum­met to the un­se­en depths be­low, I bob li­ke a be­ach ball in the oce­an, bu­oyed by a strong co­lumn of wind.

  Slowly, I des­cend.

  Half­way down I fre­ak out. I me­an, I'm flo­ating on fre­akin' air. Li­te­ral­ly. What if this isn't what I'm sup­po­sed to do? What if I'm re­al­ly des­cen­ding in­to a fi­ery pit or the jaws of a sea mons­ter?

  I stop des­cen­ding. The air is hol­ding me ste­ady, not mo­ving up or down. I'm abo­ut to send myself back up to the sa­fety of the cliff abo­ve when I re­ali­ze that my fe­ar is the only thing hol­ding me back. If I be­li­eve in my po­wers-and I've ex­pe­ri­en­ced them eno­ugh at this po­int to know that they're re­al-then I ha­ve to trust them.

  Ti­me to go for the gold. Ta­king one de­ep bre­ath, I re­lax and let myself des­cend wit­ho­ut he­si­ta­ti­on. For three se­conds, I drop thro­ugh the empty air. My sto­mach fli­es up in­to my thro­at. My he­art ra­ces as an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on po­unds thro­ugh me.

  Then I land.

  Both fe­et to­uch down in per­fect align­ment. Sand squ­is­hes be­ne­ath my sne­akers.

  A be­ach.

  I fe­el in­vin­cib­le.

  Wit­ho­ut pa­using to glo­at or gawk, I con­ti­nue down the co­ur­se un­til I sen­se the ima­ge of anot­her cliff fa­ce. Ap­pa­rently this isn't a be­ach, it's a gor­ge. And now I ha­ve to get back up the ot­her si­de.

  Be­fo­re I can call up anot­her wind, I he­ar Xan­der say, Com­p­le­te the puz­zle.

  Puz­zle? What puz­zle?

  The­re is a stack of wo­oden planks, each abo­ut two fe­et long, and a pa­ir of long pi­eces of lum­ber with fun­ny-sha­ped ho­les cut in­to them at re­gu­lar in­ter­vals. I pick up one of the planks, fe­eling for any clu­es, and find that the ends of that plank are the sa­me sha­pe as one of the ho­les in eit­her long pi­ece. La­ying the two long pi­eces out two fe­et apart, I fit the ends of the plank in­to the cor­res­pon­ding ho­le. When I pick up the next plank, it has a dif­fe­rent sha­pe at the ends, which matc­hes up to anot­her pa­ir of ho­les in the long pi­eces. I click that plank in­to pla­ce and re­ali­ze I must be bu­il­ding a lad­der. I qu­ickly grab the rest of the planks, loc­king them in­to the­ir cor­res­pon­ding ho­les. When I'm do­ne, the­re is only one set of ho­les left in the two long pi­eces, the up­rights. I do­ub­le-check that the­re isn't anot­her plank lying aro­und. No­pe, I've used them all.