Page 7 of Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp

  I can't tell what's go­ing on in his he­ad. You wo­uld think that af­ter go­ing out for ne­arly ni­ne months, I'd ha­ve a lit­tle bet­ter in­sight in­to what ma­kes his mind tick. But no. He­mat­he­os guys aren't any easi­er to fi­gu­re out than the re­gu­lar ones.

  Still, I can tell the­re's so­met­hing he's not sa­ying.

  Da­mi­an's abi­lity to re­ad minds wo­uld su­re co­me in handy right now.

  "Actu­al­ly"-he squ­e­ezes my hand-"I'm he­re to-"

  His ga­ze shifts. His blue eyes lo­ok over my sho­ul­der and he smi­les.

  Be­fo­re I turn aro­und, I know what I'm go­ing to see.

  "Hey, Da­ra." he says with a lit­tle wa­ve.

  Ada­ra is stan­ding at the ba­se of the steps, just a few fe­et away. and lo­oking dis­gus­tingly vul­ne­rab­le. Whe­re is the ha­ughty lift of her brows? The dis­da­in­ful smirk on her lips?

  I frown. This must be her tac­tic-pla­ying the vic­tim abo­ut so­met­hing so Grif­fin fe­els com­pel­led to help her. He swe­ars no one but me and Da­mi­an knows he's half des­cen­ded from Her­cu­les, so I'm su­re she's not kno­wingly exp­lo­iting the he­ro­ic com­pul­si­on. But she's up to so­met­hing. The stench of Ste­al Back My Boyf­ri­end is overw­hel­ming, even from this dis­tan­ce.

  I'm kin­da di­sap­po­in­ted Grif­fin wo­uld even fall for this.

  Tur­ning back to me. he says. "Lo­ok. Pho­ebes, I ne­ed to talk to her. I'll catch up with you at six. okay?"

  Then, be­fo­re I can ans­wer-by sa­ying. "Um, ex­cu­se me?"-he gi­ves me a qu­ick kiss on the che­ek and then jogs over to Ada­ra's si­de, le­aving me in the dust. What is go­ing on he­re? I fe­el li­ke a to­tal je­alo­us witch, even tho­ugh I know the­re is not­hing ro­man­tic go­ing on bet­we­en them. I know that. Right? Not on his si­de, any­way. But Ada­ra…?

  Pre­pa­red to sta­ke my cla­im, I start af­ter them.

  "Cast­ro!" Stel­la's aut­ho­ri­ta­ti­ve vo­ice calls out, stop­ping me in my tracks with one fo­ot ho­ve­ring mid-stalk.

  "Yes?" I squ­e­ak, twis­ting aro­und to see her gla­ring down at me from the top of the steps.

  With her fists on her hips and a de­ter­mi­ned lo­ok in her co­ol gray eyes, she lo­oks li­ke a girl on a mis­si­on. And I ha­ve a sin­king fe­eling that I am the mis­si­on.

  "You and I ne­ed to chat." Cle­arly sen­sing I'm abo­ut to ma­ke so­me ex­cu­se, she adds, "Now."

  With a glan­ce at my boyf­ri­end chat­ting with his ex I sigh. "Fi­ne."

  She stomps down the steps.

  "Lis­ten," she snaps. "I've be­en a God­dess Bo­ot Camp co­un­se­lor for three ye­ars, and I ha­ven't fa­iled a cam­per yet. I'm not abo­ut to start with you."

  "So?" I ask. ste­aling a glan­ce at Grif­fin and Ada­ra. I ne­arly po­un­ce when he puts his hand on her sho­ul­der.

  "So?" Stel­la re­pe­ats. "You po­se a so­mew­hat mo­re"-she se­arc­hes for the word-"chal­len­ging edu­ca­ti­onal si­tu­ati­on."

  "Why is that?" I ask ab­sently.

  How can Grif­fin do that, kno­wing I'm right he­re watc­hing them?

  The ex-co­up­le mo­ve down the path and 'ro­und the cor­ner of the bu­il­ding, di­sap­pe­aring from my sight. I can't be­li­eve this.

  "Be­ca­use-and it kills me to say this," Stel­la says, let­ting out a se­ve­rely exas­pe­ra­ted sigh, "you ha­ve the most na­tu­ral po­wer of any he­mat­he­os 1 ha­ve ever known."

  Grif­fin and Ada­ra ins­tantly for­got­ten, I turn on Stel­la.

  "What?"

  I can't ha­ve he­ard her right. That so­un­ded li­ke… a comp­li­ment.

  "Most kids ha­ve tro­ub­le brin­ging the­ir po­wers to the sur­fa­ce. Yo­urs li­ve on the sur­fa­ce. They bub­ble out when you're not even trying."

  Is that envy in her vo­ice?

  "That's highly unu­su­al. Ra­re, even. On­ce you le­arn to har­ness them, you'll be at le­ast as po­wer­ful as I am." She pur­ses one si­de of her mo­uth, li­ke she can't be­li­eve what she's abo­ut to say. "May­be mo­re."

  "I'm sorry." I sha­ke my he­ad. That de­fi­ni­tely so­un­ded li­ke a comp­li­ment. "What?"

  "You he­ard me," she re­torts. "I won't say it aga­in."

  "Wow," I say, in ut­ter shock. Stel­la ac­tu­al­ly comp­li­men­ted me. I didn't think that was in her vo­ca­bu­lary. I'm surp­ri­sed she didn't spon­ta­ne­o­usly com­bust at the ef­fort.

  "Earth to Pho­ebe," she says, snap­ping her fin­gers in front of my fa­ce. "Fo­cus on the big­ger pic­tu­re he­re, ple­ase."

  I scowl. "How do you know what I'm fo­cu­sing on?"

  She just cocks her eyeb­rows, as if to say, How do you think?

  Then it hits me. Her dad has this un­can­ny abi­lity to re­ad minds- or emo­ti­on- or wha­te­ver he's ad­mit­ting to at the ti­me. She pro­bably in­he­ri­ted that ta­lent from him.

  'What, is re­ading minds li­ke a He­ra thing?"

  "Didn't you re­vi­ew the study gu­ide?" She cros­ses her arms over her chest, da­ring me to try sar­casm aga­in. '"Psycbos­pec­ti­on,. the abi­lity to see in­to the minds of ot­hers, is a po­wer de­ri­ved from the qu­e­en of the gods."

  "Oh." And I tho­ught I was kid­ding.

  That wo­uld be a pretty co­ol po­wer to ha­ve. No mo­re trying to gu­ess what Grif­fin is thin­king or what Ada­ra's mo­ti­ves are. Too bad I'm not a des­cen­dant of He­ra.

  "All he­mat­he­os ha­ve this po­wer," Stel­la says, ans­we­ring my tho­ughts, "To so­me deg­ree, any­way. It's how the po­wers thing works. In ad­di­ti­on to a pri­mary abi­lity from yo­ur spe­ci­fic an­ces­tor god, we ha­ve po­wers de­ri­ved from all twel­ve Olym­pi­ans-which you wo­uld know if you had re­ad the study gu­ide. The clo­ser you are on the tree, the stron­ger all the po­wers."

  And I as­su­med the po­wers we­re mo­re of a va­gue, li­mit­less thing. I ne­ver tho­ught abo­ut the­re be­ing dif­fe­rent kinds. Or whe­re they ca­me from.

  "So I can re­ad minds?"

  "Not li­kely." She snic­kers. "Only des­cen­dants of He­ra can li­te­ral­ly re­ad minds. Most he­mat­he­os just sen­se ba­sic emo­ti­ons or ge­ne­ral ide­as."

  Go­od. The last thing I ne­ed is ever­yo­ne re­ading my mind. It's bad eno­ugh if Stel­la can. Es­pe­ci­al­ly when I'm thin­king abo­ut how much she-

  "Wa­it," I say, re­mem­be­ring what ca­used the who­le li­ving-birth­day-ca­ke in­ci­dent. "Do­es that me­an you-"

  One word. She didn't even he­ar the qu­es­ti­on, but I know she knows.

  "I'm sorry," I say, me­aning it. I may not li­ke Stel­la all the ti­me, but she is the clo­sest thing to a sis­ter that I ha­ve. Be­si­des, I don't li­ke be­ing me­an to an­yo­ne-except Ada­ra, of co­ur­se. It's bad kar­ma or so­met­hing. And 1 don't ne­ed to in­vi­te mo­re bad luck than I al­re­ady ha­ve.

  "The big­ger pic­tu­re," she prods. "You can apo­lo­gi­ze pro­fu­sely af­ter you pass the test."

  "Oh, right." I set asi­de my per­so­nal be­ra­ting. "I'm su­per­po­wer­ful. What docs that me­an?"

  "It me­ans yo­ur po­wers are har­der to cont­rol. They work with very lit­tle ef­fort." She flicks her high­light-he­avy ha­ir over her sho­ul­der. "You ne­ed to le­arn how to cont­rol them pro­perly so they stop unin­ten­ti­onal­ly go­ing off."

  That ma­kes my po­wers so­und li­ke a burg­lar alarm. Li­ke if I ac­ci­den­tal­ly open the do­or, I ha­ve three se­conds to en­ter the co­de or the po­li­ce will re­port to the sce­ne. At le­ast I don't ha­ve si­rens bla­ring every ti­me my po­wers mess up. Alt­ho­ugh that wo­uld at le­ast let me know when it's hap­pe­ned.

  "How exactly do I do that?" I ask. I've be­en tra­ining for months. and they're still out of cont­rol. "It's not li­ke I ha­ven't be­en trying."

  "But you ha­ven't had
my un­di­vi­ded at­ten­ti­on." She smi­les smugly. "I can work mi­rac­les when I ha­ve full fo­cus and a plan."

  I shi­ver at the tho­ught of be­ing Stel­la's full fo­cus.

  "What ma­kes you think you know the ma­gic for­mu­la? No one el­se do­es."

  "Be­ca­use I've do­ne it be­fo­re."

  "What do you me­an?"

  "I me­an, Daddy told you the­re was anot­her stu­dent who had to pass the gods' test, right?"

  I gasp. "That was you?"

  "No, of co­ur­se not." She scowls, li­ke how co­uld I be so stu­pid? "Under my tu­te­la­ge, that stu­dent pas­sed the test."

  Tu­te­la­ge? That so­unds too much li­ke tor­tu­re.

  But it's kind of re­as­su­ring to know that ot­her stu­dent pas­sed the test. With Stel­la's help. Plus, that me­ans she can dish so­me mo­re de­ta­ils on the test. Li­ke what that test will be li­ke and what might hap­pen if I fa­il the test.

  "With this ot­her stu­dent., I be­gin. "How did they-"

  "I'm go­ing to go thro­ugh so­me of my old tra­ining les­son plans this af­ter­no­on." She cuts off my qu­es­ti­on and checks her watch. "Why don't we me­et back ho­me at six to dis­cuss the plan?"

  "Can't," I say, stif­ling a growl. She al­ways acts so su­pe­ri­or. "Grif­fin and I ha­ve a tra­ining run."

  Stel­la turns on her stern fa­ce. "I re­al­ly think this is mo­re im­por­tant-"

  "No." As if an­y­t­hing is mo­re im­por­tant to me than run­ning. "I'll do wha­te­ver it ta­kes to le­arn to cont­rol my po­wers, but I am not gi­ving up run­ning. The Pythi­an Ga­mes tri­als are less than two we­eks away and I plan on qu­alif­ying. I can't do that if I don't tra­in every day."

  She lo­oks li­ke she wants to ar­gue. Or li­ke she's re­ading my tho­ughts.

  Re­ad this: No, no. no. no. no.

  "Fi­ne," she says, exas­pe­ra­ted. "How abo­ut af­ter din­ner? You will be ho­me for din­ner, won't you?"

  "Su­re," I say, even tho­ugh I won­der how din­ner will go when it's just the two of us. We had plenty of din­ner-tab­le bat­tles when our res­pec­ti­ve pa­rents we­re the­re to in­ter­ce­de. Who knows what co­uld hap­pen when we're alo­ne. Hes­per might ha­ve to in­ter­ve­ne.

  "And if you're la­te," she says with a wic­ked smi­le, "I might re­con­si­der my de­ci­si­on to not se­ek ven­ge­an­ce for my wed­ding ha­ir co­lor."

  An ima­ge flas­hes in my mind, an ima­ge of me with hot-pink stre­aks in my dark brown ha­ir. At this po­int, I'm not su­re if the ima­ge is a re­sult of my ove­rac­ti­ve ima­gi­na­ti­on or if the­re's so­me po­wer that lets her plant it in my mind-I ne­ed to re­ad that study gu­ide-but eit­her way it's not very ap­pe­aling.

  I gi­ve Stel­la my best gla­re. "Oh, I'll be the­re."

  * * *

  "Did you ha­ve yo­ur talk with Ada­ra?" I ask Grif­fin as we start our run. I swal­low my ir­ri­ta­ti­on, trying for in­no­cu­o­us. Af­ter dwel­ling on my re­ac­ti­on all af­ter­no­on. I fi­nal­ly de­ci­de I ha­ve to fa­ce it he­ad-on.

  I can't pre­tend it ne­ver hap­pe­ned, but I will gi­ve him a chan­ce to exp­la­in.

  "Ye­ah."

  That's it. No de­ta­ils.

  "Was it so­met­hing abo­ut scho­ol?" I pro­be. No res­pon­se. "Or sum­mer?"

  "No."

  We jog in si­len­ce for se­ve­ral long se­conds. Just when I think he's not go­ing to of­fer anyt­hing mo­re, he says. "It's a per­so­nal thing, Pho­ebes. Ada­ra's go­ing thro­ugh so­me stuff and I'm hel­ping her out. The­re's not­hing to it."

  "Oh." His sin­ce­rity ma­kes me fe­el li­ke a jerk. "Okay."

  I ne­ver wan­ted to be one of tho­se je­alo­us girlf­ri­ends, so I'm just go­ing to let this roll off my back li­ke trash talk on the ra­ce­co­ur­se. That do­esn't me­an I li­ke it any bet­ter than I did two ho­urs ago. But may­be that's my prob­lem, not his.

  Be­si­des, I don't do­ubt his com­mit­ment. He can withs­tand her ad­van­ces.

  This ti­me, the si­len­ce is com­for­tab­le. We're tra­ining on the cros­sco­untry co­ur­se to­day, a co­ur­se we've run so many ti­mes we co­uld ma­ke it blind­fol­ded.

  My tho­ughts drift-li­ke al­ways-to this kind of Zen-li­ke sta­te whe­re my mind dis­con­nects from my body. Not re­al­ly, of co­ur­se. but the­re's a dis­tan­ce that lets me think abo­ut wha­te­ver-usu­al­ly Dad-and then link back in to check on my body. It's hard to desc­ri­be, but it's what gets me thro­ugh the long ra­ces. Only this ti­me, ins­te­ad of thin­king abo­ut Dad's smo­ting and whet­her he kno­wingly ma­de that cho­ice, my tho­ughts jump ahe­ad to my own si­tu­ati­on. To my out-of-cont­rol su­per-su­per­po­wers, to the test I ha­ve no idea how to ta­ke, to the camp whe­re I will be spen­ding my days for the next two we­eks, the camp full of ten-ye­ar-olds, (so­me­ti­mes) evil step­sis­ters and arc­he­ne­mi­es, and enig­ma­tic re­bel boys who are sup­po­sedly the­re for my sa­ke-wha­te­ver that me­ans.

  "What's the de­al with Xan­der Ka­ta­ra?" I ask be­fo­re I re­ali­ze I'm go­ing to.

  "Ka­ta­ra?' Grif­fin gets that ado­rab­le scowl bet­we­en his brows. "Why do you want to know abo­ut him?"

  "He's one of the co­un­se­lors." I re­mem­ber him le­aning back on his el­bows, sta­ring at the sky whi­le ever­yo­ne el­se did int­ro­duc­ti­ons. "All he sa­id abo­ut him­self was, 'Xan­der Ka­ta­ra. Le­vel 13.' Didn't even say who he des­cends from. To­tal enig­ma."

  "So­unds li­ke him."

  Our arms brush as we squ­e­eze thro­ugh a nar­row sec­ti­on of the cross-co­untry co­ur­se. Glan­cing down at whe­re the bri­ef con­tact left lit­tle ting­les, I re­ali­ze I for­got to start the stop­watch…aga­in. Qu­ickly clic­king it on, I ma­ke a men­tal no­te to add three mi­nu­tes to the ti­me from when we star­ted. Whe­re is my he­ad, la­tely?

  No, I know whe­re it is.

  "So… " I prod when Grif­fin do­esn't say mo­re abo­ut the myste­ri­o­us Xan­der. "Who is he des­cen­ded from?"

  Grif­fin shrugs. "Who knows? He's kind of a lo­ner, li­ke Nic."

  She's an enig­ma, too.

  "I still don't know her god." She's avo­ided the qu­es­ti­on mo­re ti­mes than I can ask, sly girl. "Who is she des­cen­ded from?"

  "If she hasn't told you," he says with a la­ugh, "then I won't. She just star­ted spe­aking to me aga­in. I'm not abo­ut to piss her off."

  "Why the big sec­ret?" Se­ems li­ke ever­yo­ne in this world has so­me whop­pers. "What dif­fe­ren­ce do­es it ma­ke who Ni­co­le or Xan­der is des­cen­ded from?"

  "To so­me pe­op­le," he exp­la­ins, "it ma­kes a hu­ge dif­fe­ren­ce. You know how most des­cen­dants stick to the­ir own kind?"

  I nod, re­mem­be­ring last ye­ar when Ni­co­le and Troy ga­ve me a crash co­ur­se in the Aca­demy cli­qu­es. Aph­ro­di­tes stick with Aph­ro­di­tes. Ze­uses hang with ot­her Ze­uses and, be­ca­use of the Olym­pi­an mar­ri­age, He­ras. And tho­se are just the po­pu­lars. Bre­aking tho­se cli­qu­es is prac­ti­cal­ly im­pos­sib­le.

  "Well, so­me as­so­ci­ati­ons work op­po­si­te," he con­ti­nu­es with a he­avy to­ne. "The­re are so­me gods and he­ro­es that no one is pro­ud to des­cend from."

  "Is that Ni­co­le's si­tu­ati­on?" I ask in a ne­ar whip­ser.

  "No, that's just an examp­le." His fists clench, a sign he's pro­ces­sing so­me se­ri­o­us emo­ti­on. "The­re are tho­usands of ye­ars of his­tory in our world, Pho­ebes. Not all of it ho­no­rab­le."

  We run in si­len­ce for a few mi­nu­tes. I fo­cus on my steps and my bre­at­hing, on fe­eling my co­re musc­les re­act to the fas­ter pa­ce. Step, step, step, bre­ath. My rhythm. Step, step, step-

  "That's we­ird abo­ut Ka­ta­ra, tho­ugh." Grif­fin says sud­denly.

  "What?"

/>   "I won­der why Pet­ro­las ma­de him a co­un­se­lor?" Grif­fin sha­kes his he­ad. "He's not exactly a mo­del stu­dent. He got ex­pel­led in Le­vel 10. He's ac­tu­al­ly a ye­ar ol­der than the rest of the Le­vel 13s be­ca­use he was go­ne for an en­ti­re scho­ol ye­ar."

  Hmm. The mystery-shro­uded re­bel boy gets even mo­re myste­ri­o­us. May­be that's why Stel­la's at­trac­ted to him. He's the comp­le­te op­po­si­te of her kiss-up prep­py-girl style.

  "What did he do?"

  "Pet­ro­las kept it qu­i­et." Grif­fin wi­pes a she­en of swe­at off his fo­re­he­ad, then runs his hand thro­ugh his lush curls. "No one tho­ught he'd ever be back."

  I won­der how so­me­one gets ex­pel­led from the Aca­demy-whe­re stu­dents zap one anot­her (sec­retly) every day-and then re­ad­mit­ted? May­be Stel­la knows what hap­pe­ned. She can be de­vi­o­usly de­ter­mi­ned when she wants to be. And whe­re Xan­der is con­cer­ned, she is cle­arly mo­ti­va­ted. I don't re­al­ly get the at­trac­ti­on, tho­ugh. I me­an, he has that re­bel-boy ima­ge go­ing for him, if you li­ke that kind of thing. Which she cle­arly do­es. Me? I pre­fer the he­ro­ic ath­le­te type. I me­an, how many girls get to da­te a des­cen­dant of Her­cu­les? One. Li­te­ral­ly. Grif­fin's the only one, and he's all mi­ne.

  Of co­ur­se at first I tho­ught Griff was the bad-boy type, but that tur­ned out to be only one thin la­yer of his per­so­na­lity. May­be the­re's so­met­hing de­eper in Xan­der, too.

  Watc­hing Griff from the cor­ner of my eye, I smi­le. I don't think I co­uld ha­ve dre­amed up a mo­re per­fect guy.

  "Can we run in the mor­ning to­mor­row?" he asks.

  "Su­re," I say, tho­ugh I'm a lit­tle di­sap­po­in­ted at the tho­ught of get­ting up early. It's bad eno­ugh I ha­ve camp every day on my sum­mer va­ca­ti­on. But bet­ter to run early with Grif­fin than alo­ne at any ot­her ti­me. "Any par­ti­cu­lar re­ason?"

  "Aunt Li­li wants me to go to Se­ri­fos with her to stock up on fresh ber­ri­es."

  As we kick up our pa­ce a notch, I try to ig­no­re the so­ur fe­eling in my gut. May­be I just ima­gi­ned the hint of gu­ilt in his vo­ice.