Page 3 of Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp

  And just li­ke that, with one lit­tle pro­mi­se, I fe­el a mil­li­on ti­mes bet­ter. Kno­wing he's the­re for me ma­kes the fe­ars fa­de in­to the backg­ro­und. Even if it's only for a lit­tle whi­le.

  Thanks. I don't ha­ve to say the words out lo­ud for him to know.

  "So," he says, in a che­er­ful let's-get-past-this-dark-mo­ment to­ne. "Tell me mo­re abo­ut our tra­ining sche­du­le."

  I flash him a qu­ick smi­le, thank­ful for the dist­rac­ti­on. Kno­wing my luck, the mo­re I worry abo­ut the who­le smo­ting thing, the mo­re li­kely I am to ac­ci­den­tal­ly smo­te myself.

  "It's a ti­ered prog­ram." I exp­la­in, la­unc­hing in­to the mo­re com­for­tab­le to­pic. "We bu­ild up our men­tal and physi­cal sta­mi­na on an ac­ce­le­ra­ted sche­du­le, inc­re­asing the wor­ko­ut a lit­tle each day. By the ti­me ra­ce day is he­re, 26.2 mi­les will fe­el li­ke no big thing."

  Be­ca­use the long-dis­tan­ce ra­ce in the Pythi­an Ga­mes is ma­rat­hon length-and the tri­als are just two we­eks away-we ha­ve to tra­in hard and bu­ild our en­du­ran­ce qu­ickly. Grif­fin has ne­ver run anyt­hing lon­ger than a cross-co­untry ra­ce, and even tho­ugh I've run in ma­rat­hons be­fo­re, I've ne­ver ra­ced a ma­rat­hon. Run­ning to fi­nish and run­ning to win are two to­tal­ly dif­fe­rent things.

  Per Pythi­an Ga­mes ru­les, Co­ach Lenny can't ac­tu­al­ly tra­in us un­til af­ter the tri­als, but he hel­ped me de­ve­lop this tra­ining stra­tegy. If we don't ma­ke the cut, he's pro­mi­sed to ma­ke our li­ves mi­se­rab­le when cross-co­untry se­ason starts up in the fall.

  "So­unds go­od."

  I'm glad Grif­fin and I are go­ing thro­ugh this to­get­her. Even tho­ugh I've be­en run­ning all my li­fe, the idea of ac­tu­al­ly ra­cing tho­se 26.2 mi­les is a lit­tle scary. That's li­ke run­ning a ra­ce from down­town LA. to Ma­li­bu. It fe­els less in­ti­mi­da­ting kno­wing he's by my si­de.

  "Wan­na stop by the ba­kery on our way back?" he asks. "Aunt Li­li ma­de so­me lo­uko­uma­des she wants you to try."

  "Mmm" I say, my mo­uth wa­te­ring at the tho­ught of the de­ca­dent lit­tle do­ugh­nut balls. "I think yo­ur aunt is trying to fat­ten me up."

  Grif­fin's aunt is a des­cen­dant of Hes­tia and, true to her god­dess-of-the-he­arth he­ri­ta­ge, ope­ra­tes an ama­zing ba­kery in the vil­la­ge. She ma­kes mo­re va­ri­eti­es of bre­ad every day than most pe­op­le ha­ve ever even he­ard of. Wal­king in­to the sto­re is li­ke wal­king in­to a fresh-ba­ked dre­am.

  La­tely I've be­en her fa­vo­ri­te tas­te tes­ter.

  "She's just re­li­eved that you eat." he exp­la­ins. "Ada­ra wo­uldn't even go ne­ar the ba­kery in ca­se the carbs co­uld se­ep in­to her body by os­mo­sis or so­met­hing."

  1 fall si­lent

  Ada­ra is still a dan­ge­ro­us su­bj­ect. Not only has she not for­gi­ven me for "ste­aling" her boyf­ri­end-go fi­gu­re-but Grif­fin is still fri­ends with her. I'm not je­alo­us or anyt­hing, I just don't un­ders­tand how he can ac­tu­al­ly li­ke her. She's ne­ver be­en anyt­hing but an evil harpy to me.

  Grif­fin, cle­arly una­wa­re of my mo­od swing, says. "Aunt Li­li is ex­ci­ted that our nut­ri­ti­on plan re­qu­ires lots of carbs. She thinks that me­ans we'll be in the­re to tas­te-test every day."

  "Hmm," I grunt non­com­mit­tal­ly.

  "I didn't ha­ve the he­art to tell her we ne­ed com­p­lex carbs, li­ke pas­ta and po­ta­to­es." He so­unds comp­le­tely un­con­cer­ned by my si­len­ce. "Bre­ads, may­be. If she uses who­le gra­ins. But su­gars and swe­ets are not exactly ide­al tra­ining fu­el."

  When Co­ach Lenny as­ked us to try out for the Pythi­an Ga­mes, we ag­re­ed to di­vi­de up the tra­ining prep work. I'm in char­ge of physi­cal tra­ining ses­si­ons-run­ning, we­ight tra­ining, stuff li­ke that. Grif­fin is in char­ge of our nut­ri­ti­onal prog­ram. Which is pro­bably a go­od thing, be­ca­use I ha­ve a ma­j­or we­ak­ness for things li­ke Aunt Li­li's tre­ats, the oc­ca­si­onal Twin­kie sha­red with Ni­co­le, and-the worst we­ak­ness of all-ice cre­am. I'd eat ice cre­am at every me­al if I co­uld.

  It's de­fi­ni­tely a go­od thing Grif­fin's the di­et dic­ta­tor.

  Mo­re si­len­ce as we both fall in­to a con­ten­ted run.

  My mind drifts back to the Ada­ra com­ment. I re­ali­ze I'm be­ing hyper­sen­si­ti­ve abo­ut the who­le ex-girlf­ri­end thing. I me­an, I'm not je­alo­us. Re­al­ly. He's to­tal­ly, one hund­red per­cent in­to me. And the fact that he's still fri­ends with his on-aga­in-off-aga­in girlf­ri­end of li­ke fi­ve ye­ars is not comp­le­tely surp­ri­sing. They ha­ve a his­tory.

  That do­esn't me­an I ha­ve to li­ke it.

  "You'll pass the test," Grif­fin says as we get wit­hin sight of the vil­la­ge.

  I sigh. It's bet­ter to let him think I'm stres­sing abo­ut the test than con­fess that I'm re­al­ly dwel­ling on his re­la­ti­ons­hip with his ex.

  "I know," I say, trying to so­und con­vin­cing.

  "I me­an it." he says, slo­wing our pa­ce to a light jog. "If an­yo­ne can le­arn to cont­rol in­sa­nely strong po­wers in the next two we­eks, you can. You can do anyt­hing."

  I lo­ve that he's my stron­gest sup­por­ter, my own per­so­nal Pho­ebe che­er­le­ader. He so­unds to­tal­ly cer­ta­in that I'll suc­ce­ed… but I'm not.

  "Lis­ten," he says, pul­ling me to a stop as we re­ach the outer ed­ge of the vil­la­ge. "Think abo­ut how much you've ac­comp­lis­hed in the last few months. A we­aker girl wo­uld ha­ve col­lap­sed un­der the pres­su­re of star­ting over at a new scho­ol po­pu­la­ted with des­cen­dants of the gods. Not you. You thri­ved and pro­ved to every last one of us that you de­ser­ve to be he­re. And you do."

  His blue eyes are prac­ti­cal­ly glo­wing with sin­ce­rity. My own fe­el a lit­tle damp. My only pre-Grif­fin ex­pe­ri­en­ce with a boyf­ri­end was jerky Jus­tin Mars-a to­tal sle­aze who tre­ated me li­ke dirt and dum­ped me for an easy squ­e­eze when I wo­uldn't put out. Ha­ving a boyf­ri­end so fully and to­tal­ly sup­por­ti­ve is an ex­pe­ri­en­ce I'm still get­ting used to.

  "All you ha­ve to do is ta­ke all the energy you fo­cu­sed on win­ning that ra­ce last fall"-he re­ac­hes up and wi­pes at the te­ar that es­ca­ped down my che­ek-"and fo­cus it on cont­rol­ling yo­ur po­wers. No prob­lem."

  I gi­ve him a wa­tery smi­le. I am so not a girl who cri­es. And it's not what he's sa­ying that ma­kes me we­epy, but the way he's sa­ying it. Li­ke he be­li­eves I'm ca­pab­le of con­qu­ering the world. He be­li­eves in me. Un­con­di­ti­onal­ly.

  My he­art thuds. I've ne­ver felt mo­re sup­por­ted, mo­re con­fi­dent, mo­re-his eves glan­ce over my sho­ul­der and fo­cus on so­met­hing be­hind me-for­got­ten?

  "Hey, Ada­ra," he says, smi­ling. "We we­re just he­ading for the ba­kery. Wan­na co­me?"

  I turn just in ti­me to see her scoff.

  "No. Thanks." Her va­pid blue eyes ra­ke over me in an es­pe­ci­al­ly-not-if-she's-he­re way. "I'm me­eting Stel­la at the bo­oks­to­re. We ha­ve plans to dis­cuss."

  "No prob­lem," Grif­fin says.

  As much as I can't stand Ada­ra, I can't stand the way she just shot Grif­fin down even mo­re. He's not­hing but ni­ce to her and do­es not de­ser­ve to be dis­mis­sed li­ke that.

  Still, I'm go­ing to let it go. She's not­hing to me-as in­con­se­qu­en­ti­al as air. Ex­cept for the oc­ca­si­onal run-in li­ke this, I won't ha­ve to see her all sum­mer.

  But then, as I step aro­und her to pass by, she whis­pers. 'You don't de­ser­ve him, ka­ko."

  Oh. No. She. Didn't.

  I whip back aro­und.

  "Too bad you can't jo­in us," I say, in a to­tal­ly fa­ke vo­ice. "Want us to sa­ve yo
u so­me lo­uko­uma­des?" I glan­ce po­in­tedly at her hips with a pse­udo-sympat­he­tic lo­ok. "Bet­ter not."

  I gi­ve her an equ­al­ly fa­ke smi­le and then sa­un­ter off down the stre­et, ta­king Grif­fin by the hand and pul­ling him with me.

  "You didn't ha­ve to do that, Pho­ebe."

  "Do what?" I sho­uld fe­el bet­ter for put­ting her in her pla­ce-after all, she's the one who dis­mis­sed Griff and cal­led me "bad blo­od." But ins­te­ad I just fe­el… wrong.

  "Be so me­an to her." He lo­oks di­sap­po­in­ted.

  "Why not?" I snap, ta­king my hand away from his. His di­sap­po­int­ment only re­in­for­ces the empty fe­eling in my gut. "She's al­ways me­an to me."

  "Be­ca­use it's be­ne­ath you, and…" His vo­ice ta­kes on that se­ri­o­us, des­cen­dant-of-Her­cu­les he­ro to­ne. For a se­cond, it se­ems li­ke he's go­ing to tell me so­met­hing earth-shat­te­ring. Then he says. "You ne­ed to lo­ok be­ne­ath the sur­fa­ce."

  That cle­ars everyt­hing up. I know exactly what li­es be­ne­ath Ada­ra's shal­low, su­per­fi­ci­al sur­fa­ce-a shal­low, su­per­fi­ci­al in­si­de. I'm still stan­ding the­re, con­fu­sed, as he he­ads off in­to the vil­la­ge.

  I de­fi­ni­tely ha­ve the fe­eling that I just fa­iled so­me kind of test.

  Gre­at, anot­her test I didn't know I was ta­king.

  Chapter 2

  ___________________________________________________________________________________________

  NE­OFAC­TI­ON

  SO­UR­CE: HEP­HA­ES­TUS

  The abi­lity to cre­ate an obj­ect out of not­hing. Know­led­ge and un­ders­tan­ding of the ma­ke­up of de­si­red obj­ect is ne­ces­sary for an ac­cu­ra­te ma­ni­fes­ta­ti­on. At­tempts to cre­ate new or unk­nown obj­ects may yi­eld surp­ri­sing and/or dan­ge­ro­us re­sults.

  DYNA­MOT­HE­OS STUDY GU­IDE * Stel­la Pet­ro­las

  ___________________________________________________________________________________________

  "AUNT LI­LI SENT THE­SE for you." I show Mom the bag from the ba­kery.

  Mom is stan­ding at the fo­ot of her bed, sta­ring at the three open-and be­yond full-su­it­ca­ses and tic­king things off on her fin­gers. She lo­oks to­tal­ly zo­ned out. She's a bit of an ob­ses­si­ve-com­pul­si­ve when it co­mes to pac­king-which is exactly why I was ho­ping she'd be do­ne when I got ho­me.

  "1 don't think I ha­ve eno­ugh bras." she says, gi­ving one of the su­it­ca­ses a des­pa­iring lo­ok.

  Sin­ce they're go­ing to be go­ne for un­der two we­eks, I'm gu­es­sing she has… twel­ve. And will end up pac­king fif­te­en. Just in ca­se.

  "One mo­re," she says. As she digs a bra out of her dres­ser-I turn away bce­a­use I don't want to see anyt­hing lacy or se­qu­in-y or fe­at­hery-she adds, "Ten sho­uld be just eno­ugh."

  "I'm imp­res­sed," I say, ma­king my way to the he­ad of the bed and ca­re­ful­ly avo­iding the su­it­ca­ses as I flop back ac­ross the pil­lows. "I ex­pec­ted you to ta­ke a do­zen."

  She spins qu­ickly to­ward me. "Do you think I ne­ed mo­re?"

  "No!" I back­pe­dal. "Of co­ur­se n-"

  "You're right." She he­ads back to the dres­ser. "Two mo­re. Just in ca­se."

  I co­uld gro­an in frust­ra­ti­on, but: (a) I've be­en thro­ugh this who­le pac­king en­terp­ri­se do­zens of ti­mes be­fo­re: (b) I'm too ex­ha­us­ted from the tra­ining run: and (c) I'm still dwel­ling on Grif­fin. I me­an, how can he not see that pal­ling aro­und with his ex-gir­l­f­ri­end might be un­de­si­rab­le to his cur­rent gir­l­f­ri­end?

  "What is that?" Mom asks, po­in­ting at the brown pa­per bag sit­ting on my sto­mach. "Do I ne­ed to pack it? Whe­re will it go?"

  "Re­lax, Mom," I say, han­ding her the bag wit­ho­ut sit­ting up. I knew she hadn't he­ard me. "It's go­odi­es from the ba­kery. You and Da­mi­an can eat them to­night. Or in the mor­ning." I clo­se my eyes and sigh. "Or ne­ver."

  The bed shifts as Mom sits next to my he­ad.

  "What's wrong. Pho­ebo­la?"

  Her hand smo­ot­hes a stray lock of ha­ir ac­ross my fo­re­he­ad and be­hind my ear. Eyes firmly shut, I slowly sha­ke my he­ad. If I talk abo­ut it, then the­ra­pist Mom might ma­ke an ap­pe­aran­ce. And the last thing I ne­ed right now is a shrun­ken he­ad.

  "Not­hing." I for­ce a smi­le as I open my eyes. "Just a hard run to­day."

  "Ooh, yo­ur first tra­ining ses­si­on for the tri­als. How did it go?" Mom asks, pro­ving she re­al­ly has be­en pa­ying at­ten­ti­on to so­met­hing ot­her than ho­ney­mo­on plans. "You're not over­wor­king yo­ur­self, are you?"

  "We did a be­ach run," I say, not ans­we­ring the "Mom" qu­es­ti­on-li­ke the­re's such a thing as over­wor­king when it co­mes to run­ning? "We're inc­re­asing gra­du­al­ly, but on an ac­ce­le­ra­ted sca­le. Don't want to we­ar out our sne­akers." I for­ce a lit­tle la­ugh.

  "That re­minds me." She gets off the bed and cros­ses the ro­om. "I al­most for­got our run­ning sho­es."

  Whi­le she tri­es to sho­ve two pa­irs of Ni­kes-as if an­yo­ne in my fa­mily co­uld own anyt­hing el­se-into an overs­tuf­fed bag, I go over to her va­nity and sit on the lit­tle up­hols­te­red sto­ol. The tab­le is big­ger and ol­der than the one she had in L.A., but it's co­ve­red with the sa­me col­lec­ti­on of bot­tles and po­ti­ons. Pul­ling the lit­tle stand mir­ror over in front of me, I check out my fa­ce. It's not a bad fa­ce. My skin is pretty cle­an and it's got kind of an ath­le­tic glow. De­cent las­hes and-my best fe­atu­re-ni­ce brown eyes. Puc­ke­ring my lips, I won­der what I wo­uld lo­ok li­ke in full fa­ce pa­int. I am not much of a ma­ke­up girl, but so­me­ti­mes I envy tho­se co­ver-mo­del types. Tho­se Ada­ra types.

  I push the mir­ror away and ins­te­ad grab one of Mom's per­fu­mes. I lo­ve the sha­pes of all the bot­tles, but this one is my fa­vo­ri­te. The bot­tle is this long te­ard­rop sha­pe with a gold neck and a crystal ball on top. Dad ga­ve it to her the day be­fo­re he di­ed.

  Pul­ling off the crystal ball, I spritz a lit­tle on my left wrist.

  The he­avy scent of orc­hid and plum fills the air aro­und me. Ta­king a de­ep in­ha­le, I'm im­me­di­ately fil­led with me­mo­ri­es of Dad. His smi­le. His wink. His dirt- and grass-sta­ined fo­ot­ball jer­sey. Him wa­ving to us from the grass-gre­en-per­fect turf of Qu­al­comm Sta­di­um.

  It's ama­zing how a scent me­mory can ma­ke se­ven ye­ars ago fe­el li­ke yes­ter­day.

  As I rub my wrists to­get­her. I ask. "Do you still miss him?"

  In the va­nity mir­ror I see Mom fre­eze.

  I didn't me­an to ask the qu­es­ti­on. We ha­ven't tal­ked abo­ut him sin­ce fin­ding out he and I are des­cen­dants of Ni­ke. Sin­ce fin­ding out he di­ed for fo­ot­ball.

  I sho­uld ha­ve kept my mo­uth shut. Tal­king abo­ut Grif­fin and Ada­ra wo­uld be bet­ter than this edgy si­len­ce.

  "Of co­ur­se 1 miss him." Mom fi­nal­ly says, "Every mi­nu­te of every day."

  She walks up be­hind me and puts her hands on my sho­ul­ders.

  "Just be­ca­use he's go­ne do­esn't me­an he isn't still with us."

  Her vo­ice is so qu­i­et and full of emo­ti­on I reg­ret sa­ying anyt­hing. She do­esn't ne­ed me ma­king her cry the day be­fo­re her ho­ney­mo­on. And I don't ne­ed anot­her re­ason to cry to­day.

  "I know." I for­ce a bright smi­le. "Run­ning ma­kes me think of him."

  That's one of the re­asons I lo­ve run­ning so much.

  "He's with you all the ti­me." She pres­ses a kiss in­to the top of my he­ad. "Not just when you run."

  Gre­at. Mo­re te­ars. To­day has be­en a rol­ler co­as­ter, and I am so not used to be­ing that girl. I've ne­ver felt as emo­ti­onal as I do right now.

>   "I just- " My thro­at tigh­tens, but I ma­ke myself say the words that ha­ve be­en chur­ning in­si­de for ni­ne long months. The qu­es­ti­on I'm af­ra­id to ask, but that just won't stay loc­ked away any­mo­re. "W-why did he do it?"

  Her arms squ­e­eze aro­und my sho­ul­ders. I co­ver them with my own and squ­e­eze back. For se­ve­ral long se­conds we just hold each ot­her, not mo­ving, not sa­ying a word. Li­ke she's ab­sor­bing my pa­in, and I'm ta­king hers. We ha­ven't sha­red such an in­ten­se mo­ment sin­ce the day he di­ed.

  "I can't ans­wer that, baby." Her vo­ice so­unds small and qu­i­et and a lit­tle lost. "No one can."

  So­me­ti­mes I for­get Mom is go­ing thro­ugh this, too.

  Gre­at, now I fe­ef li­ke a sel­fish cow on top of everyt­hing el­se. The last thing Mom ne­eds is my emo­ti­onal mess the night be­fo­re her ho­ney­mo­on. She de­ser­ves her hap­pi­ness with Da­mi­an.

  I stra­igh­ten up and pat Mom gently, sig­na­ling my re­turn to my sen­ses. She gi­ves me one mo­re squ­e­eze be­fo­re re­le­asing me and turns back to her su­it­ca­ses. I qu­ickly wi­pe at the re­si­du­al te­ars.

  "So, are you all pac­ked?" I ask, spin­ning on the sto­ol.

  She lo­oks ner­vo­usly at the bed. "I think so."

  "Gre­at," I say, hop­ping to my fe­et. "Let's zip the­se up so we can go eat Aunt Li­li's lo­uko­uma­des."

  As we clo­se up the su­it­ca­ses I try to ke­ep my mind from drif­ting back to Dad. Or Grif­fin. Or anyt­hing el­se that might call back the te­ar pat­rol. Bet­we­en Grif­fin and Ada­ra and Dad and the po­wers test, it's a won­der I can go fi­ve mi­nu­tes wit­ho­ut bre­aking down.

  "All do­ne." I say, pul­ling the last zip­per tight.

  Mom frowns. "May­be I ne­ed anot­her pa­ir of san­dals."

  "You'll be fi­ne." I pro­mi­se. "Be­si­des. If you ta­ke everyt­hing you ne­ed, how will you jus­tify bu­ying even mo­re when you get the­re?"

  "1 ne­ver tho­ught of it that way." Mom lo­oks at me, a hu­ge smi­le on her fa­ce. "When did you get so de­vi­o­us?"