Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp

  "Be­ca­use," she says, her ruby-glos­sed lips smi­ling misc­hi­evo­usly, "That is one of the sec­ret col­lec­ti­ons."

  "Sec­ret col­lec­ti­ons?" I re­pe­at. Why wo­uld so­me­one send me a call num­ber for a bo­ok in a sec­ret col­lec­ti­on?

  "One of?" Ni­co­le gasps. "You me­an the­re's mo­re than one?"

  "Of co­ur­se, de­ar." Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos turns sharply and walks to her desk.

  "She's a lit­tle scary," I whis­per.

  Ni­co­le whis­pers back, "She's a des­cen­dant of Ne­me­sis."

  Who is that? I sha­ke my he­ad.

  "God­dess of ret­ri­bu­ti­on," Ni­co­le exp­la­ins.

  I'm imp­res­sed. "No won­der she lo­oks li­ke she can kick butt."

  "She al­so has ex­cel­lent he­aring," Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos says as we re­ach her desk. Be­fo­re we can re­act, she says. "What is the exact call num­ber, de­ar?"

  As I re­ad it out she qu­ickly keys in the let­ters and num­bers.

  "Inte­res­ting," Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos says, squ­in­ting at the scre­en. Her short, spiky gray ha­ir glows blue in the light from her flat-pa­nel mo­ni­tor.

  "What?" Ni­co­le and I both ask, hur­rying aro­und the desk to see.

  Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos pres­ses a red but­ton on her key­bo­ard and the scre­en go­es blank just as we catch a glimp­se.

  "I'm sorry, girls." she exp­la­ins, "but that seg­ment of the col­lec­ti­on is off-li­mits to stu­dents."

  "What do you me­an?" I ask. "Isn't this a stu­dent lib­rary?"

  "Of co­ur­se." She gi­ves me a sad lo­ok. "But we are al­so the of­fi­ci­al arc­hi­val lib­rary of Mo­unt Olym­pus."

  "So?" Ni­co­le asks, de­fi­antly cros­sing her arms over her chest.

  "So," Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos rep­li­es, just as de­fi­antly, "not every do­cu­ment the gods fi­le is fit for stu­dent eyes."

  My sho­ul­ders slump. Af­ter all the ra­cing my bra­in has do­ne sin­ce I got that no­te, I half ex­pec­ted so­me kind of mi­rac­le in that call num­ber. I'm not su­re what kind of mi­rac­le, but I was su­re the­re was so­me kind of mystery abo­ut my dad's de­ath that might exp­la­in why he'd di­ed. Why he'd do­ne it. Why he'd de­ci­ded that his fo­ot­ball ca­re­er was the most im­por­tant thing in his li­fe. So­me clue to how I might avo­id the sa­me fa­te.

  Now I might ne­ver know.

  "That's all right, Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos," I say, de­fe­ated. Thanks for yo­ur help."

  Ni­co­le ga­pes at me. "What?" she asks. "You're gi­ving up? When you're this clo­se"-she holds up her palms half an inch apart-"to fin­ding the truth?"

  "What truth?" I throw back. "My dad di­ed. The gods smo­ted him be­ca­use he abu­sed his po­wers to suc­ce­ed in fo­ot­ball. Not­hing can chan­ge that."

  "How can you be-"

  Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos gasps, stop­ping Ni­co­le mid­sen­ten­ce. "You're Nicky Cast­ro's da­ugh­ter."

  "Did you know my dad?"

  "No, not per­so­nal­ly." She gi­ves me a sad. sympat­he­tic smi­le. "But I knew of him." Af­ter a thick be­at, she adds, "Ever­yo­ne did."

  My eyes wa­ter. The­re's so­met­hing in that be­at, in that si­len­ce, that tells me the en­ti­re he­mat­he­os world knows Dad's story. Li­ke he's a war­ning. Ca­re­ful how you use yo­ur po­wers or this will hap­pen to you.

  "How did you get this call num­ber?" she asks. "It's not stu­dent-acces­sib­le in EC­HO."

  I shrug as I blink away the mo­is­tu­re. "So­me­one left that no­te at my do­or."

  "I al­ways say the­re are ex­cep­ti­ons to every ru­le, ho­ney." She types anot­her qu­ick se­qu­en­ce, turns the mo­ni­tor to fa­ce me, and says, "You ha­ve every right to see this."

  Ni­co­le hur­ri­es aro­und to lo­ok over my sho­ul­der as I qu­ickly scan the entry on the scre­en.

  Col­lec­ti­on: Mt. Olym­pus Arc­hi­ves

  Tit­le: Co­un­cil Co­urt Mi­nu­tes

  To­pic: Pro­ce­edings of the Tri­al of Nic­ho­las And­rew Cast­ro

  Co­pi­es: l

  Call Num­ber: XI 597.11 FL76

  Lo­ca­ti­on: B2-S18D

  My he­art thuds in­to my thro­at.

  "The re­cord of my dad's tri­al? I didn't even know the­re had be­en a tri­al. I tho­ught the gods just de­ci­ded among them­sel­ves to pu­nish him. If the­re was a tri­al, may­be the­re was tes­ti­mony or in­ter­vi­ews or so­me kind of do­cu­men­ta­ti­on to pro­ve that Dad hadn't just sac­ri­fi­ced everyt­hing for a sport.

  "Fol­low me, girls," Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos says, grab­bing a set of keys from her desk dra­wer.

  "I can't be­li­eve it," I say to Ni­co­le as we fol­low Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos thro­ugh the do­or­way that le­ads to the stacks. The re­cord of my dad's tri­al. I didn't know they kept that sort of re­cord."

  I'd he­ard abo­ut the "sec­ret" col­lec­ti­on-ever­yo­ne has, but I had no idea what they held.

  "Ne­it­her did I." Ni­co­le's vo­ice so­unds stran­ge.

  When I lo­ok, she's sta­ring stra­ight ahe­ad, her eyes comp­le­tely blank. Wit­ho­ut qu­es­ti­on I know what she's thin­king abo­ut: the tri­al whe­re her and Grif­fin's pa­rents got ba­nis­hed. The tri­al over so­met­hing she and Grif­fin did. and for which the­ir pa­rents we­re pu­nis­hed. Tho­ugh she and Griff are fi­nal­ly fri­ends aga­in af­ter ye­ars of ha­ting each ot­her over it, I know it still kills them in­si­de. I can see it so­me­ti­mes when Grif­fin runs. His bright blue eyes get a fa­ra­way lo­ok and I know he's thin­king abo­ut his pa­rents. My he­art bre­aks every ti­me.

  As we re­ach the end of one row of stacks, Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos stops in front of a jani­tor's clo­set and whips aro­und to fa­ce us.

  "What I am go­ing to show you," she says, so­un­ding very omi­no­us, "you are not to bre­at­he a word abo­ut to anot­her li­ving so­ul." She starts to turn aro­und and then spins back. "Or a de­ad one."

  Ni­co­le and I exc­han­ge ra­ised eyeb­rows.

  Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos un­locks the jani­tor's clo­set and walks in­si­de.

  When we don't fol­low, she le­ans her he­ad back out and says, "What are you wa­iting for?" She wa­ves us in­si­de. "This way."

  Ni­co­le ra­ises her fin­ger to her temp­le and ma­kes the uni­ver­sal sign for nut­so. But re­al­ly, what ha­ve we got to lo­se?

  I shrug and ta­ke a step in­to the clo­set. As so­on as we're both in­si­de, Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos pulls the do­or shut. Whi­le we're sur­ro­un­ded by dark­ness I he­ar a bit of a shuf­fle. So­met­hing falls over, cras­hing to the flo­or.

  "Drat!" Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos snaps. "Who put that mop the­re? Ah, he­re we go."

  I he­ar a soft click. All at on­ce the tiny clo­set is bat­hed in soft light. And it starts to mo­ve. Down.

  "Whoa," Ni­co­le gasps. "The­re's a sub-sub­le­vel?"

  Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos winks at her.

  Se­conds la­ter, the clo­set stops mo­ving and Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos re­ac­hes for the hand­le. "Re­mem­ber, girls." she says, tur­ning the hand­le. "You we­re ne­ver he­re."

  "Oh. My. Gods."

  I can't be­li­eve what I'm se­e­ing. It's a who­le ot­her le­vel that spre­ads out be­ne­ath the scho­ol. With just as many rows and rows of bo­oks­hel­ves as the flo­or abo­ve. And every last shelf is full.

  "Are the­se all re­cords from Mo­unt Olym­pus?" Ni­co­le asks, ga­ping just as se­ri­o­usly as I am.

  "Of co­ur­se not," Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos says, as if that's the most ri­di­cu­lo­us thing that's be­en sa­id all day. "Most of the­se are from the Lib­rary of Ale­xand­ria."

  "The Lib­rary of Ale­xand­ria?" I ask. "Didn't that burn down?"

  Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulus scoffs. "Damn fo­ol Hypa­tia. At­he­na tri­ed to con­vin­ce her to ins­tall a sprink?
?ler system. But no-o-o, no one was go­ing to tell the lib­ra­ri­nat­rix how to run her lib­rary." As she starts stom­ping down one ais­le, she adds. "Athe­na sa­ved the col­lec­ti­on be­fo­re it tur­ned to ash, but she co­uldn't exactly ad­ver­ti­se the fact, co­uld she? So, we ke­ep it pro­tec­ted he­re."

  As we hurry past shelf af­ter shelf of an­ci­ent bo­oks and scrolls and pa­pers, bo­und in va­ri­o­us earthy sha­des of le­at­her and smel­ling li­ke dirt and mold and cen­tury upon cen­tury of his­tory, I try to catch a few tit­les. The Comp­le­te Plays of Sop­hoc­les. Pla­to's Early Wri­tings. Chro­nic­le of the Tro­j­an War. Wow.

  Be­hind me, Ni­co­le gasps. I no­ti­ce her stop and sta­re at a bo­ok. She runs her fin­ger­tips re­ve­rently over the bur­gundy le­at­her spi­ne be­fo­re tug­ging it out. Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulus do­esn't no­ti­ce, but I ha­ve a fe­eling she wo­uld fre­ak out a lit­tle if she saw Ni­co­le grab­bing so­met­hing off the shelf. I try to dist­ract her.

  "How do you ke­ep track of it all?" I ask.

  "Hep­ha­es­tus de­sig­ned an ama­zing com­pu­ter system that scans, ca­te­go­ri­zes, and ke­eps track of every do­cu­ment." She ke­eps hur­rying down the ais­le, get­ting fart­her and fart­her from Ni­co­le. "He's not just the god of blacks­mit­hing, you know."

  "Ye­ah," I say, pic­tu­ring his com­pu­ter-ge­eky des­cen­dants. "I know."

  "Aha!" she exp­la­ins, pul­ling to stop. "He­re we go. Shelf B2-S18D."

  She qu­ickly skims a fin­ger ac­ross a shelf of bo­oks, mumb­ling the call num­bers as she go­es. "Chi Sig­ma 597.10. Chi Sig­ma 597.1099.

  Chi Sig­ma 597.121-wa­it a se­cond." she says, skim­ming back a few bo­oks and then ahe­ad aga­in. "Chi Sig­ma 597.1099 and then Chi Sig­ma 597.121. Whe­re is Chi Sig­ma 597.11?"

  I lo­ok for myself. She's right. The bo­ok is go­ne.

  "That's not pos­sib­le, she says. "This is a non­cir­cu­la­ting col­lec­ti­on. No one can check out an Olym­pic re­cord. No one."

  My he­art sinks.

  Gre­at. The one and only re­cord of my dad's tri­al is mis­sing. That's li­ke wa­ving a bowl of co­oki­es and cre­am un­der my no­se and then tel­ling me ice cre­am's off-li­mits. Al­most ha­ving that re­cord in my hands ma­kes me even mo­re des­pe­ra­te to know everyt­hing. All of a sud­den I ha­ve a mil­li­on mo­re qu­es­ti­ons. What's in the re­cord? Who to­ok it? Why did they ta­ke it? And, most im­por­tant at the mo­ment, do­es who­ever sent me that no­te know whe­re it is?

  ***

  "Afra­id I won't catch you?"

  I lo­ok back over my sho­ul­der at Xan­der, stan­ding the­re lo­oking all co­ol and pas­si­ve. He's hol­ding his hands out, palms up, but in a ca­su­al way.

  "You're not exactly ins­pi­ring con­fi­den­ce, I say, nod­ding at his hands. "Be­si­des, I've do­ne this sa­me thing li­ke a mil­li­on ti­mes be­fo­re. It's stu­pid."

  All aro­und me, ten-ye­ar-olds are gig­gling. We're in the co­urt­yard aga­in, tho­ugh I think we sho­uld re­al­ly be on a sof­ter sur­fa­ce. At the mo­ment we're sup­po­sed to be do­ing that te­am-bu­il­ding trust exer­ci­se whe­re you fall back and so­me­one catc­hes you. I'd much rat­her crash on grass than on the hard-ti­le mo­sa­ic of the co­urt­yard flo­or.

  All the giggly girls ha­ve be­en pa­ired up, and one af­ter anot­her, they're fal­ling back in­to one anot­her's arms.

  "You al­most let me fall!" one girl-La­ris­sa, I think-squ­e­als. She's a des­cen­dant of Ha­des, but with her gol­den blon­de ha­ir and dark gre­en eyes, she do­esn't lo­ok li­ke any Ha­des des­cen­dant I've met.

  "I did not!" her part­ner, curly-ha­ired Gil­li­an, pro­tests. "I was just sof­te­ning yo­ur fall."

  Whi­le they ar­gue, I turn my at­ten­ti­on back to Xan­der, who is still watc­hing me pa­ti­ently.

  "You're right," I say. "I don't trust you."

  He shrugs. This exer­ci­se isn't abo­ut trus­ting me."

  I scowl. "It's not?"

  "No." He sha­kes his he­ad slowly. "It's abo­ut trus­ting yo­ur­self."

  "I don't get it."

  He just shrugs aga­in and holds out his hands.

  Cle­arly, exp­la­na­ti­on ti­me is over.

  I de­ba­te it for a mi­nu­te lon­ger. I me­an, he's de­fi­ni­tely strong eno­ugh to catch me-that's why I'm pa­ired with him and not a ten-ye­ar-old-and de­fi­ni­tely mo­re li­kely than Stel­la or Ada­ra to catch me. But the qu­es­ti­on is: Will he catch me? The­re's a dark spark of misc­hi­ef in his la­ven­der eyes that sug­gests he li­kes bre­aking ru­les no mat­ter the con­se­qu­en­ces. He's tro­ub­le and li­kes it that way.

  "Tell me so­met­hing abo­ut yo­ur­self first." I'm not abo­ut to risk bo­dily inj­ury trus­ting so­me­one who won't tell me mo­re than his na­me and gra­de.

  He lo­oks in­dif­fe­rent. "Li­ke what?"

  "Li­ke-" I al­most ask why he got ex­pel­led, but then chan­ge my mind. That might be too per­so­nal for a first qu­es­ti­on. And af­ter what Grif­fin sa­id abo­ut so­me pe­op­le be­ing to­uchy abo­ut the­ir an­ces­tor god, that's not a smart cho­ice, eit­her. Ins­te­ad, I go for so­met­hing sa­fe… ish. "Are you su­bj­ec­ting yo­ur­self to we­eks of ten-ye­ar-olds just to spend ti­me with Stel­la?"

  I am to­tal­ly bluf­fing. I me­an, he's shown no in­di­ca­ti­on so far that he's in­te­res­ted in an­y­t­hing abo­ut this camp, let alo­ne one of the co­un­se­lors. But she's de­fi­ni­tely in­te­res­ted in him. I'm lo­oking out for my girl, tes­ting the wa­ters to see if her crush might be re­cip­ro­ca­ted. May­be plant the se­ed of in­te­rest in his mind.

  I don't ex­pect an ad­mis­si­on.

  His dark blond brows lift just the ti­ni­est bit, bet­ra­ying his surp­ri­se. Then, shoc­king the crap out of me, a flush of pink crawls up his neck.

  Gotc­ha!

  He grumb­les, "Let's just get on with the exer­ci­se."

  "Fi­ne," I say, sa­tis­fi­ed with my vic­tory.

  Be­si­des, if he drops me. I'll ha­ve an ex­cu­se to skip out on the rest of the­se stu­pid exer­ci­ses. I'll be ble­eding from the he­ad, but I'll be do­ing it at ho­me.

  Hol­ding my arms stra­ight out to the si­de, I clo­se my eyes and fall.

  Half­way to the gro­und, my eyes fly open. He's not go­ing to catch me. He's not go­ing to-

  A split se­cond be­fo­re I hit the gro­und, his hands slip un­der my pits. My he­art ra­cing, I scramb­le up­right and whirl aro­und. "You al­most let me drop!"

  "You did not trust."

  "Of co­ur­se not!" I smack him on the sho­ul­der. Hard. "You we­re go­ing to let me fall."

  "No."

  "No?" My jaw drops. "My skull was inc­hes from ti­le."

  "Did it hit the gro­und?"

  Well, no," I stam­mer. "But if you had-"

  "Everyt­hing all right he­re?" Stel­la chirps. She's be­en ma­king her ro­unds of the part­ners, chec­king on the who­le I-trust-you-you-trust-me sta­tus.

  "No," I snap. "It's not all right. He sucks as a part­ner."

  Stel­la gla­res at me. Right, li­ke she'll lis­ten to any words aga­inst Xan­der.

  "This exer­ci­se," she says slowly, "is not abo­ut yo­ur part­ner."

  I just cross my arms. As if anyt­hing I say is go­ing to con­vin­ce her that Xan­der's at fa­ult he­re.

  "Hold this for me." She hands Xan­der-who spe­ars me with a ner­vo­us scowl-her clip­bo­ard. Hol­ding out her hands, she says, "Try with me, Pho­ebe."

  "Ye­ah, right."

  Her jaw clenc­hes so tight I can see it.

  "Just try," she prac­ti­cal­ly growls.

  Fi­ne. Wha­te­ver. I spin aro­und, fling out my arms, and he­si­ta­te. My he­art is still po­un­ding from my al­most crash with Xan­der.

  "This ti­me., Stel­la says, her
vo­ice soft and re­as­su­ring, "don't think abo­ut trus­ting me to catch you."

  "Go­od," I re­tort. "Be­ca­use I don't."

  "Inste­ad," she con­ti­nu­es li­ke I didn't snap at her, "think abo­ut trus­ting yo­ur­self not to fall."

  "What?" That do­esn't even ma­ke any sen­se.

  "Just try it."

  Fi­ne, clo­sing my eyes and ta­king a de­ep bre­ath.,I think, I. Will. Not. Fall.

  I fall back.

  She catc­hes me yards be­fo­re I hit the gro­und.

  I he­ar clap­ping.

  When I open my eyes, I see Stel­la and Xan­der on eit­her si­de of me, stan­ding over me.

  "Cong­ra­tu­la­ti­ons," Stel­la says, be­aming. "You just ear­ned yo­ur first me­rit bad­ge."

  I sta­re at her clap­ping hands. "You're not hol­ding me," I say stu­pidly.

  She sha­kes her he­ad.

  "Then who-"

  I twist my he­ad back. No one is the­re.

  "You are," Stel­la says tri­ump­hantly.

  I crash to the gro­und in a he­ap.

  Chapter 6

  __________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  PSYCHO­DIC­TA­TI­ON

  SO­UR­CE: AT­HE­NA

  The abi­lity to com­mu­ni­ca­te te­le­path­kal­ly, whet­her in words, fe­elings, or other ways, with anot­her he­mat­he­os. Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on sho­uld not be attem­p­ted wit­ho­ut pro­per tra­ining, be­ca­use of ra­re but se­ri­o­us risk of bra­in ane­urism. (See Psycbos­pec­ti­on for the abi­lity to re­ad anot­her's tho­ughts.)

  DYNA­MOT­HE­OS STUDY GU­IDE * Stel­la Pet­ro­las

  __________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  WHEN I PUSH THRO­UGH the glass do­or of the ice-cre­am par­lor, the ow­ner wa­ves. "After­no­on, Pho­ebe."

  I tell myself De­met­ri­us knows my na­me be­ca­use he pri­des him­self on kno­wing every stu­dent's na­me-not be­ca­use I ha­ve an ice-cre­am prob­lem or anyt­hing.

  "How was camp to­day?" he asks.