Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp

  "The­se pac­kets con­ta­in vi­tal in­for­ma­ti­on for camp." Ada­ra holds up a ra­in­bow pac­ket. "Be­si­des the sche­du­le, the­re are han­do­uts, work she­ets, and study gu­ides. The most cri­ti­cal is the Dyna­mot­be­os Study Gu­ide."

  "This gu­ide exp­la­ins the po­wers pas­sed down by the twel­ve Olym­pi­ans to all be­mat­he­os. It is the fo­un­da­ti­on for our tra­ining," Stel­la exp­la­ins. "We ex­pect you to study it tho­ro­ughly. To­night."

  I ta­ke the pac­ket Stel­la hands me and flip thro­ugh it. This se­ems a lot li­ke ho­me­work-so­met­hing I was lo­oking for­ward to not do­ing this sum­mer. As if a work she­et is go­ing to help me cont­rol my po­wers.

  "Yes, La­ris­sa?" Ada­ra says.

  A blon­de girl to my right lo­wers her ra­ised hand and asks. "Um, if dyna­mot­be­os co­mes from the twel­ve Olym­pi­ans, why is Ha­des the­re? lHe do­esn't li­ve on Olym­pus."

  "No," Stel­la exp­la­ins. "But he is one of the six ori­gi­nal child­ren of Cro­nus and Khea. De­me­ter ga­ve up her cla­im to a dyna­mot­be­os, pre­fer­ring to pass on her ag­ri­cul­tu­ral abi­li­ti­es thro­ugh out­re­ach and edu­ca­ti­on."

  "Oh," La­ris­sa says with a shy smi­le. "Okay."

  "Now let's go over the sche­du­le. And af­ter," Stel­la con­ti­nu­es, "we will do so­me iceb­re­aker ac­ti­vi­ti­es so we can all get to know each ot­her a lit­tle bet­ter."

  Even tho­ugh she can't lo­ok at him wit­ho­ut be­ing to­tal­ly ob­vi­o­us, I'm su­re Stel­la me­ans she wants to get to know Xan­der best of all. The idea that Stel­la has a crush and I might get to wit­ness her ac­ting li­ke a lo­ve­sick puppy ma­kes me hap­pi­er than it pro­bably sho­uld, but a girl has to ta­ke ple­asu­re whe­re she can.

  May­be this won't be the worst two we­eks of my li­fe, af­ter all.

  "My na­me is Pan­do­ra. I'm a des­cen­dant of, well, Pan­do­ra. I usu­al­ly li­ve with my mom in Ge­ne­va, but she's do­ing re­li­ef work in the Con­go and sent me to stay with my dad on Ser­fo­po­ula for the sum­mer."

  Ever­yo­ne in the circ­le says, "Hi, Pan­do­ra!"

  I swal­low a gro­an. This is li­ke the first mor­ning of every cros­sco­untry camp I've ever at­ten­ded. Only at cross-co­untry camp I at le­ast had hard-co­re run­ning to lo­ok for­ward to. I don't think I'm lucky eno­ugh to ho­pe that af­ter the iceb­re­akers Stel­la's go­ing to say, "Warm-up's over. Let's run."

  We're just over half­way thro­ugh the circ­le, with three girls, the co­un­se­lors, and-joy-me still to gi­ve our int­ro­duc­ti­ons.

  "Wel­co­me, Pan­do­ra." Stel­la smi­les swe­etly at the friz­zy-ha­ired blon­de. "What are yo­ur ex­pec­ta­ti­ons for God­dess Bo­ot Camp?"

  "Well…" Pan­do­ra says, che­wing on her lip as she thinks. "I'd li­ke to be ab­le to turn my lit­tle brot­her in­to a to­ad."

  The ot­her girls all la­ugh.

  Stel­la tsks. "You most cer­ta­inly will not le­arn that."

  "Fi­ne, then." Pan­do­ra cros­ses her arms with a lit­tle po­ut, "Sin­ce I li­ve in the not­bos world, I want to le­arn how to ke­ep my po­wers hid­den."

  "Very go­od." Stel­la nods in ap­pro­val.

  Ever­yo­ne el­se claps.

  I'm sec­retly re­li­eved, be­ca­use I ne­ed to le­arn that, too. As much as I lo­ve Mom and Da­mi­an-most of the ti­me-I don't in­tend to spend the rest of my li­fe on this tiny is­land. IF I am ever go­ing to re­turn to the not­bos world, as Pan­do­ra put it-a world I hap­pily in­ha­bi­ted un­til a few months ago-then I ha­ve to not only le­arn how to cont­rol my po­wers, but al­so how to con­ce­al them.

  Xan­der le­ans for­ward and says, "When camp is over, I can help you out with that to­ad thing."

  He se­ems comp­le­tely se­ri­o­us-no hint of a smi­le or anyt­hing. That earns him a scowl from Stel­la, a gig­gle from Pan­do­ra, and an eye roll from Ada­ra. I'm de­fi­ni­tely int­ri­gu­ed. This is the most he's sa­id all mor­ning. Up un­til now it's be­en nods, ra­ised eyeb­rows, and-when for­ced-a grunt of ag­re­ement. He's de­fi­ni­tely got the who­le myste­ri­o­us thing wor­king.

  I ne­ver knew Stel­la went for the jaded re­bel-boy type.

  "Next." Ada­ra says, mo­ving the int­ro­duc­ti­ons along.

  "I'm Gil­li­an and my mom te­ac­hes he­re at the Aca­demy. I'm a des­cen­dant of At­he­na, and I-"

  "Sorry I'm la­te."

  Ever­yo­ne turns to lo­ok as a wo­man rus­hes to­ward the circ­le, her san­dals smac­king on the sto­ne flo­or with every step. Half­way to the circ­le, the strap on her to­te bag bre­aks, sen­ding the con­tents flying everyw­he­re. She drops to her kne­es, gat­he­ring the stray pa­pers back in­to a pi­le.

  Next to me, Stel­la huffs.

  "Ever­yo­ne," she says, her vo­ice full of ba­rely dis­gu­ised exas­pe­ra­ti­on, "this is our fa­culty spon­sor. Miss Ori­vas."

  As Miss Ori­vas lo­oks up and, still on all fo­urs, wa­ves, Stel­la po­ints at the pa­pers. They glow for a se­cond and then are sud­denly back in the to­te bag. Anot­her qu­ick glow re­pa­irs the bro­ken strap.

  "Thank you." Miss Ori­vas exc­la­ims, clim­bing back to her fe­et. "Don't mind me. The girls are in char­ge." She po­ints at Stel­la and Ada­ra. "I'm just he­re to ma­ke su­re no one blows up the scho­ol."

  "Lucky us," Stel­la mut­ters un­der her bre­ath. Then to the gro­up. "Miss Ori­vas is an aca­de­mic co­un­se­lor he­re at the Aca­demy. She ad­vi­ses A thro­ugh H stu­dents in Le­vel 13."

  "I'm a des­cen­dant of Har­mo­nia on my mot­her's si­de and Eris on my fat­her's," she says che­er­ful­ly. "Which ma­kes me a lit­tle conf­lic­ted."

  Ever­yo­ne la­ughs. I for­ce a la­ugh, too, even tho­ugh I don't get what's so funny. I me­an, I can gu­ess that Har­mo­nia is the god­dess of pe­ace and har­mony or so­met­hing, but I can't re­mem­ber who Eris is.

  My to­tal con­fu­si­on must show, be­ca­use the girl on the ot­her si­de of Xan­der-who se­ems a co­up­le ye­ars ol­der than the rest-le­ans aro­und him and whis­pers, "Eris is the god­dess of dis­cord."

  "Thanks… um…"

  "Tansy," she of­fers, then le­ans back in­to her spot.

  Okay, I get it. Miss Ori­vas des­cends from war and pe­ace. Ma­j­or conf­lict.

  "My fa­mily his­tory ma­de for go­od conf­lict-re­so­lu­ti­on tra­ining."

  I think she ex­pects us to clap or ask qu­es­ti­ons or so­met­hing, but we all lo­ok at her kind of con­fu­sed. Well, ex­cept for Xan­der, who is le­aning back on his el­bows and lo­oking up at the sky. At the unex­pec­ted res­pon­se, Miss Ori­vas gig­gles un­com­for­tably as she ta­kes a se­at in the circ­le bet­we­en me and Stel­la and says, "Ple­ase, con­ti­nue with the int­ro­duc­ti­ons."

  "Of co­ur­se," Stel­la says, but I can tell she's an­no­yed. May­be be­ca­use Miss Ori­vas se­pa­ra­ted her from Xan­der even fart­her, or may­be be­ca­use Miss Ori­vas se­ems kind of nutty. Or may­be Stel­la's che­er­ful ve­ne­er is fi­nal­ly we­aring off-I knew it co­uldn't last. In any ca­se, she smi­les at Gil­li­an, and says, "Con­ti­nue."

  The rest of the ten-ye­ar-olds int­ro­du­ce them­sel­ves in that pa­in­ful, first-day-of-class way. Li­ke you're crazy ner­vo­us be­ca­use you know ever­yo­ne in the circ­le is sta­ring at you. That was al­ways my le­ast fa­vo­ri­te part of back-to-scho­ol.

  When the last ten-ye­ar-old fi­nis­hes, ever­yo­ne's eyes turn on me.

  I blank.

  "Pho­ebe…" Stel­la le­ans in­to the circ­le and gi­ves me a fa­ke en­co­ura­ging lo­ok. I know it's fa­ke, be­ca­use she lo­oks to­tal­ly in­no­cent- and I know she's not to­tal­ly in­no­cent.

  "Um, hi," I say, bril­li­antly. I've ne­ver be­en big on pub­lic spe­aking, even if the pub­lic in qu­es­ti­on is jus
t a small gro­up of ten-ye­ar-olds. But if ever­yo­ne el­se can do it, so can I. "I'm Pho­ebe Cast­ro. I just mo­ved he­re last ye­ar. Ac­tu­al­ly, I just fo­und out abo­ut this who­le he mat­be­os world last ye­ar. And then I fo­und out that I'm a des­cen­dant of Ni­ke-which to­tal­ly ma­kes sen­se, be­ca­use I'm a run­ner and I lo­ve to win. But that's a who­le ot­her story."

  I know I'm bab­bling.

  I know I'm fa­cing a who­le circ­le of blank sta­res.

  I know I sho­uld stop.

  "Ever sin­ce I fo­und out," I con­ti­nue. "I've had an aw­ful ti­me cont­rol­ling my po­wers. I me­an, it's li­ke they ha­ve a li­fe of the­ir own. They do things all the ti­me wit­ho­ut my even me­aning to and now the gods are ma­king me ta­ke so­me stu­pid test, so I re­al­ly ne­ed to get my act to­get­her-"

  "Yo­ur po­wers act in­de­pen­dent of cons­ci­o­us ef­fort?" Miss Ori­vas asks.

  "Uh-huh." I nod.

  "Huh." She so­unds surp­ri­sed. "How do­es it hap­pen?"

  If I knew, I wo­uld do so­met­hing abo­ut it. And I wo­uldn't be sit­ting in an iceb­re­aker circ­le with a bunch of ten-ye­ar-olds, fa­cing two we­eks of tor­ment by my le­ast fa­vo­ri­te per­son on this is­land, des­pe­ra­tely ho­ping I can le­arn so­me me­asu­re of cont­rol when all I re­al­ly want to do is tra­in for the Pythi­an Ga­mes.

  I must lo­ok as sar­cas­tic as I fe­el, be­ca­use she adds, "What are the Cir­cums­tan­ces?"

  Oh, that.

  "All dif­fe­rent cir­cums­tan­ces," I exp­la­in. "I me­an, it hap­pens at ho­me, at scho­ol, and in the vil­la­ge. So­me­ti­mes it hap­pens when I'm trying to do so­met­hing, but my mind wan­ders. So­me­ti­mes it hap­pens when I'm just thin­king. I don't know why any mo­re than I can fi­gu­re out how to ma­ke it stop."

  "Fas­ci­na­ting," Miss Ori­vas mut­ters, and starts scrib­bling on her no­te­pad.

  "Most stu­dents strug­gle to ma­ni­fest the­ir po­wers," Stel­la says, as if I ne­ed exp­la­na­ti­on. I do, but I won't tell her that. "You ha­ve the op­po­si­te prob­lem."

  Gre­at, glad I co­uld be a ca­se study or wha­te­ver.

  "The fact that you are a third ge­ne­ra­ti­on," Ada­ra chi­mes in, "me­ans they are stron­ger than most. You're lucky we only had to eva­cu­ate the scho­ol on­ce."

  My che­eks erupt in fla­mes.

  "You're the one?" one of the girls on the op­po­si­te si­de of the circ­le gasps. I think her na­me is Tes­sa or Te­re­sa or so­met­hing.

  "The one what?" I ask ner­vo­usly, tho­ugh I know what she's abo­ut to say.

  She le­ans for­ward, sta­ge-whis­pe­ring ac­ross the circ­le. "The one who ne­ofac­tu­red li­ons du­ring the pep rally."

  I'm too mor­ti­fi­ed to res­pond. No one was ever sup­po­sed to know that was me. I was only trying to show scho­ol spi­rit (go, Ne­me­an Li­ons!). My mo­uth just kind of drops open, li­ke if it hangs the­re long eno­ugh so­met­hing will co­me out.

  All the girls in the circ­le sta­re, the­ir eyes glo­wing with fe­ar and awe.

  As if I ne­ed anot­her re­ason for kids at the Aca­demy to think I'm dif­fe­rent.

  "Okay, then," Ada­ra says, sa­ving me-unin­ten­ti­onal­ly, I'm su­re, sin­ce she's the one who drop­ped the bomb-from con­ti­nu­ed em­bar­ras­sment, "Ti­me for the co­un­se­lor int­ro­duc­ti­ons. I'll go first." She tilts her he­ad to the si­de and smi­les. "My na­me is Ada­ra. I'm a des­cen­dant of Aph­ro­di­te. I'm an en­te­ring Le­vel 13, and I plan on at­ten­ding the Sor­bon­ne when I gra­du­ate."

  Wow. I am to­tal­ly surp­ri­sed that she isn't go­ing to Ox­ford li­ke ever­yo­ne el­se. Li­ke Grif­fin is. From what he says, pretty much ever­yo­ne at the Aca­demy go­es the­re, sin­ce the scho­ol has an ar­ran­ge­ment with the ad­mi­nist­ra­ti­on, if you're an Aca­demy grad, you're in. No for­mal ap­pli­ca­ti­on re­qu­ired. That eli­mi­na­tes the backg­ro­und re­se­arch on the ap­pli­cants-and on the scho­ol.

  "Hi, Ada­ra," ever­yo­ne says obe­di­ently.

  She lo­oks at Stel­la. "Yo­ur turn."

  Stel­la ta­kes a de­ep bre­ath. "As I sa­id be­fo­re," she says, her che­er­ful vo­ice wa­ve­ring just a lit­tle. "I'm Stel­la. I'm a des­cen­dant of He­ra. I gra­du­ated from the Aca­demy last we­ekend-"

  Ever­yo­ne che­ers, ap­pla­uding her suc­cess. I roll my eyes. As if Stel­la's gra­du­ati­on hasn't be­en the num­ber one to­pic in the Pet­ro­las ho­use­hold for the last few we­eks. By the ti­me she wal­ked ac­ross the sta­ge, I was re­ady to use her mor­tar­bo­ard to put myself out of my mi­sery. I'm so over it.

  "Thank you," she says, blus­hing. "And in the fall I will be mat­ri­cu­la­ting at Ox­ford, whe­re I in­tend to study eco­no­mics."

  I zo­ne out whi­le ever­yo­ne oohs and ahhs. This is a story I know prac­ti­cal­ly by he­art. Ins­te­ad, I ima­gi­ne what li­fe will be li­ke wit­ho­ut Stel­la in the ho­use. Su­re, we've only be­en ho­use­ma­tes for a few months, but it fe­els li­ke a li­fe­ti­me. It's li­ke I can't re­mem­ber a ti­me whe­re she wasn't the­re to tor­ment me da­ily. No mo­re des­pe­ra­tely rus­hing to the bath­ro­om, only to find the do­or loc­ked and the sho­wer run­ning. No mo­re ha­ving her knock on my do­or be­fo­re sun­ri­se, her fa­ce co­ve­red in one of her ra­in­bow ar­ray of fa­ce masks, de­man­ding I re­turn so­met­hing I ha­ven't bor­ro­wed-li­ke I wo­uld bor­row anyt­hing from her prep-trendy clo­set. No mo­re fa­cing her ac­ross the din­ner tab­le, wor­rying that my fo­od will turn in­to so­met­hing still li­ving-and kno­wing I can't re­turn the fa­vor wit­ho­ut it go­ing ter­ribly wrong. Li­fe wit­ho­ut Stel­la is go­ing to be ama­zing. Li­ke a birth­day party every day.

  Lit­tle ting­les of hap­pi­ness spark­le down my arms.

  "Gre­at Ze­us," Miss Ori­vas cri­es.

  My eyes snap back in­to fo­cus. Ever­yo­ne in the circ­le is sta­ring, wi­de-eyed at Stel­la. If the­ir mo­uths drop­ped any fart­her, they'd be car­to­ons.

  A sen­se of dre­ad shi­vers up my spi­ne.

  Slowly-in the ho­pes that may­be if I ta­ke my ti­me it won't be as bad as I'm ima­gi­ning-I turn to fa­ce Stel­la. No­pe, it's my worst night­ma­re. The first mor­ning of bo­ot camp and I've al­re­ady tur­ned Stel­la in­to a birth­day ca­ke. Okay, not an ac­tu­al bir­t­h­day ca­ke. Just de­co­ra­ted li­ke one.

  "I'm so sorry," I blurt.

  She has her eyes clenc­hed shut-pro­bably to ke­ep the fros­ting from drip­ping in­to them-and I'm pretty su­re her jaw is clenc­hed, too. It's hard to tell un­der the swirls of blue icing. She is go­ing to smo­te me fas­ter than I can say-

  "How did you do that?" Miss Ori­vas asks.

  I shift ner­vo­usly. "Um… I don't know… I-"

  "What we­re you thin­king abo­ut?"

  Ye­ah, li­ke I'm go­ing to ad­mit what I was thin­king at that mo­ment. Stet­la wo­uld not only smo­te me, she'd ma­ke it so tor­tu­ro­us that the six-day Ma­rat­hon des Sab­les thro­ugh the Sa­ha­ra wo­uld fe­el li­ke a stroll on the be­ach.

  "I was thin­king abo­ut my birth­day," I co­ver. "It was a co­up­le months ago and it was so much fun."

  Miss Ori­vas nods in un­ders­tan­ding. Of what exactly, I'm not su­re. I know I don't un­ders­tand.

  "Pho­ebe Di­ane Cast­ro." Stel­la's vo­ice, grit­ted out thro­ugh tightly clenc­hed te­eth, is icy cold and ba­rely con­ta­ined. If the­re we­ren't a do­zen pe­op­le he­re, she'd pro­bably be scre­aming li­ke a harpy. She ta­kes a de­ep bre­ath and then bursts in­to a bright glow.

  I blink in­to the bright­ness and then, when I can see aga­in, she's back to her per­fect preppy self, the­re's a tiny blob of blue on her left sho­ul­der, but I'm not abo­ut to po­int that out.

  "You," she says, an un­com­for­tab­le smi­le on her fa­
ce, "will le­arn how to cont­rol yo­ur po­wers in the next two we­eks."

  I'm re­ady for a thre­at-altho­ugh I'm kin­da surp­ri­sed she'd inc­ri­mi­na­te her­self in front of wit­nes­ses-but it ne­ver co­mes.

  "You will be my pet pro­j­ect." She eyes me up and down. "If I can't turn you in­to a pro­per god­dess, no one can."

  I'm not su­re which tho­ught ter­ri­fi­es me mo­re: the idea that I am abo­ut to be­co­me the fo­cus of Stel­la's energy, or that I'm ac­tu­al­ly co­un­ting on her to suc­ce­ed.

  Chapter 4

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  PSYCHOS­PEC­TI­ON

  SO­UR­CE: HE­RA

  The abi­lity to re­ad the tho­ughts and emo­ti­ons of ot­hers. Most he­mat­he­os can only sen­se ge­ne­ral fe­elings, rat­her than spe­ci­fic, tan­gib­le tho­ughts. Des­cen­dants of He­ra ha­ve the gre­atest af­fi­nity for this po­wer and can of­ten he­ar anot­her's tho­ughts as if spo­ken alo­ud.

  DYNA­MOT­HE­OS STUDY GU­IDE * Stel­la Pet­ro­las

  ___________________________________________________________________________________________

  GRI­FITN IS WA­ITING FOR ME on the Aca­demy steps when camp lets out for the se­cond day-which wasn't any mo­re ex­ci­ting than the first day, un­less you co­unt Stel­la and Ada­ra bic­ke­ring over whet­her to­day's han­do­ut was sup­po­sed to be gre­en or purp­le.

  "Hi," I say, hur­rying over to him and thro­wing my arms aro­und his neck. "I didn't know you we­re me­eting me he­re. I tho­ught we we­re tra­ining at six to­day."

  "We are," he rep­li­es, hug­ging me back, but lo­oking to­tal­ly un­hap­py.

  Then you just stop­ped by to see me?" He can be so swe­et, es­pe­ci­al­ly for a des­cen­dant of Ares. Not­hing war­li­ke abo­ut Grif­fin. Of co­ur­se the­re's the Her­cu­les si­de of him. too. I la­ce my fin­gers thro­ugh his. "I mis­sed you."

  He smi­les ner­vo­usly.