Oh. My. Gods.

  Mom doesn’t let it go. “This has something to do with that boy, doesn’t it—”

  “Phoebe, wait!”

  I turn to see Griffin jogging down the street toward us, a brown paper bag in his left hand. My heart rate speeds up and I know it’s because I’m hoping he’s running after me to apologize. To say he wasn’t teasing and that he really is glad to have me on the team.

  Ha!

  “Here,” he says, handing me the paper bag. “Aunt Lili didn’t want

  you to leave without your bougatsa.” I stare at the bag. Why did my heart have to get its hopes up? “Thanks,” I mumble. “But we didn’t pay for this.” When I try to give the bag back he waves me off. “Lili wants you

  to have it.” He dips his head a little so he’s looking into my eyes.

  “She says you have excellent taste in pastry.” “Really?” He nods, smiling just a tiny bit. I almost miss it. “Tell her thank you,” Mom says, breaking that momentary con

  nection between me and Griffin. He looks up at her, his eyes wide like he’d forgotten she was even

  here. “Sure,” he says. That polite smile returns. “No problem.” Without another word, he turns and runs back up the street. “He seems like a nice young man,” Mom says, watching him

  retreat. “Yeah,” I say. “If you catch him on a good day.” Too bad he doesn’t have many.

  “You’re not wearing that,” Nicole says the second she walks in my room. “Fuzzy gray sweats will send Griffin into Adara’s arms—not yours.”

  She is wearing a dark denim miniskirt and layered red and white tanks and more bangle bracelets than I ever thought a person’s arm could hold. Her look is more back-off than boy-attracting, but I’m not about to argue. Dressing for boys is not in my repertoire.

  “Fine,” I say, stepping out of my Nikes and heading to my dresser. “What should I wear?”

  “Let me see.” She pushes me out of the way and begins digging through my drawers, tossing pants and tees over her shoulder. “No.” Throws item. “Nope.” Throws item. “Nuh-uh.”

  I catch my baby blue velour track pants before they can land on the floor. “Do you have to throw everything?”

  She keeps rummaging, ignoring my question. “Ah-ha!” Pulling a pair of shorts triumphantly from the pile, she waves them over her head. “Put these on.”

  They’re the gray shorts with pink pinstripes I bought for the Race for the Cure last year. Pink is so not my color—except for the occasional furry pillow, of course.

  “Nicole, these aren’t really—”

  “Don’t you have anything besides T-shirts?”

  “Um, no. Not—”

  “Here then.” She pulls her arms inside her tank top, wiggles around for a second, then emerges with the white under tank in hand. “Put this on.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Hurry up.” She flings the tank at me. “You shouldn’t be late for your first meeting.”

  I catch the tank, think about arguing, then decide it’s futile. Tank and shorts in hand, I head to the bathroom and change out of my comfy gray sweats. I feel practically naked with my legs and arms fully exposed. I’m not used to showing so much skin except on competition days.

  When I get back to my room, Nicole is sprawled on my bed, flipping through an old issue of Runner’s World.

  “You actually read this stuff?” she asks, lifting her head. “Holy dolmades!”

  She sounds shocked.

  “What?”

  “You,” she says, dropping the magazine to the floor, “look hot.”

  I can feel my cheeks burning red.

  Not just because of the compliment. The shorts hug my hips closer than I’m used to, and the tank stretches tight across my breasts, even in my chest-flattening jog bra.

  “I had no idea you had curves under those T-shirts.” She circles me, gauging my appearance from every angle, I guess. “We can definitely use those to your advantage. And your legs are great—lean and toned and shapely.”

  “Th-thanks,” I stammer. “Do you really think I can . . .”

  I can’t make myself ask the question.

  Nicole looks at me for a long time before saying, “If you want him, we’ll get him. Don’t worry. And those . . .” She gestures at my chest. “. . . will just make the bait more appealing.”

  I’m not sure how good I’ll be at using those at all, but if they’ll help me, then I’m all for it.

  “Now that your appearance is set—though you might want to try something other than a ponytail for your hair,” she waves a hand at my apparently inadequate hairstyle. “Let’s discuss strategy.”

  I reach up and tighten my ponytail. My hair only has two styles: ponytail and down. Ponytail for running. Down for school.

  Not even the great Griffin Blake can induce anything more elaborate from me.

  “Before we get to, um, strategy,” I say, knowing that this is a question I need answered before this goes any further, “I want to ask about your history with Griffin. It seems like you have some bad blood and I don’t want to—”

  “There’s no history,” she snaps. “Not the romantic kind, anyway. It’s just a personal disagreement. Don’t worry about it.”

  Keep your nose out of my business. I hear the unspoken caution as clearly as if she’d said it aloud.

  “Okay.” I can take a blatant hint to move on.

  She runs her hands through her spiky blonde hair, sending it in all different directions. “Listen,” she says, taking a seat on my bed. “I don’t really like to talk about this. I mean, I never have talked about this with anyone.”

  “I get it.” I sit down next to her. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “You should know.” Taking a deep breath, she says, “Griffin and I used to be friends. Best friends.”

  Wow, I did not see that one coming.

  “When we were young we got into trouble. Big trouble.” Her eyes shine bright with unshed tears. “My parents wound up exiled from Serfopoula. That’s why I didn’t start at the Academy until Level 9.”

  “Oh, Nicole, I’m so sorry.”

  “The worst of it was,” she says, wiping at her tears, “they were punished because of what Griffin and I did. Because he wouldn’t accept responsibility for his actions. He let the gods ruin my parents’ lives to save his own skin.”

  “I can’t believe that.” I know Griffin can be jerky, but the boy I met on the beach—the one I’m going through all this for—has a good heart. “He wouldn’t do something that would knowingly hurt—”

  “He went in to testify,” she snaps. “When he came out, my parents were banished.”

  Tears stream down her cheeks. Wrapping my arms around her, I squeeze tight. This is what Mom would call the release of repressed emotion. I think it’s just good for her to let it all out. I can’t believe she never talked to anyone about this before. Then again, everyone else probably already knows the whole story. I’m just glad I could be here for her.

  For several minutes we sit there, Nicole crying and me hugging her. Eventually, the tears stop and she begins to sniff.

  “So,” I say to alleviate the post-traumatic release silence, “you said something about strategy?”

  “Yes,” she says matter-of-factly, jumping to her feet and pretending like she was never crying. “You can’t go in without a game plan. It’d be like . . .” She thinks for a second. “. . . running a race without knowing the course.”

  Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like this?

  “Okay,” I relent. “Strategy.”

  “I recommend one part helpless girl, one part ample cleavage, and three parts ego-petting.” She must see the blank look on my face because she adds, “Do I need to write this down?”

  “No,” I reply. “But you’ll have to explain it.”

  With a whole body sigh, she sits on the bed. “To get Griffin’s attention—in a good way—you need to appeal to his weaknesses. Those w
ould be playing the hero, ogling breasts, and colossal arrogance that could fill the Parthenon.”

  I nod, but am still not really sure what she means.

  Nicole rolls her eyes at my continued confusion. “He’s a chauvinistic, hormone-driven, egotistical jerk.”

  Oh. Is that all? I already knew that.

  “The real question,” she continues, “is how to use that against him.”

  “I bet you have a plan.”

  “As a matter of fact—” She grins wickedly. “I do.”

  I know I’m not going to like this.

  “Are you ready for pain?” Griffin asks as I walk up to the starting line.

  Nicole suggested I play it weak—no arguing, no witty retorts, nothing but sweetness and sugar. The second I see Griffin’s smug smile I know I can’t play that part.

  “I can take anything you dish out, Blake.”

  He looks me up and down, hovering over my chest and thighs on the way back up. I’m filled with a little bubble of satisfaction that my clothing is worth the embarrassment. If nothing else, I know that he likes what he sees.

  “Let’s get started,” I say when he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry.

  “Right,” he says, his eyes snapping back up to my face. “You warmed up?”

  “On fire.”

  He smirks. “Then on my count.”

  We line up at the starting line.

  Griffin counts down, “Three, two, one—”

  I take off before he says go, speeding down the trail, knowing he’s at least one pace behind. A quarter-mile into the course he catches up with me.

  “You cheated.”

  “No,” I say casually. “I was just evening the score.”

  He has no comeback for that. He knows he cheated last time and I’m confident he’s not going to cheat again. There’s no one here but the two of us to see who wins.

  Besides, I bet he’s dying to find out for real who’s faster.

  Right then I know I can’t go through with Nicole’s plan. It feels too good to be in a real race for victory—I can’t not compete. I’m going to run this race until my feet bleed. And I’m going to win.

  I see a blaze of red out of the corner of my eye.

  Turning, I see Nicole’s spiky blonde hair amidst the shrubby trees and undergrowth. What is she doing h—

  A flash of light glows at my feet and next thing I know I’m pitching to the ground, face-first. Even as I tumble, I feel my feet fly out from under me and I know it’s not another case of knotted shoelaces.

  No, Nicole just sprained my ankle for me.

  Chapter 7

  “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Griffin is leaning over me, his brows

  pinched together in concern.

  “Yes,” I say, rolling onto my back. “Just peachy.”

  “What happened?” He looks really anxious, like I’m going to accuse him of zapping me like last time.

  No, I know better.

  “I’m not sure. I just tr—aaaack!” I try to stand, but my right ankle buckles under me. Arms flailing, I collapse forward against Griffin’s chest.

  Seems like Nicole didn’t just knock me down. My ankle doesn’t hurt or anything, but it won’t support my weight. As I clutch Griffin’s shoulders and claw my way upright, I throw a scowl in the direction of the bushes where I glimpsed her. She’s long gone, I’m sure.

  “You must have really twisted that ankle,” Griffin says, placing his hands on my back for support. “Can you walk?”

  “Of course I ca—aaaack!”

  Another step forward—and another tumble immediately into Griffin’s arms. What did Nicole do, zap away my ankle muscles?

  “Here.” Griffin comes up behind me, scoops down, and lifts me into his arms. “I’ll carry you.”

  “No, really, that’s not nec—”

  “Yes,” he interrupts. “It is.”

  While it is not totally unappealing to be in his arms, this is not how I’d always imagined it would be. Wait—I mean this is not how I’d fleetingly thought it would be when we came up with this plan.

  I never wasted my time imagining Griffin and me doing anything. Promise.

  Anyway, here I am, cradled in his arms as he makes his way back through the woods. I feel like some fairy-tale damsel in distress being rescued from a dark forest full of ogres and trolls.

  But Griffin Blake only acts like a fairy-tale hero when it suits him.

  “Why are you being so nice?” I ask.

  His blue eyes glance down at me. “I’m not.”

  I give him a look that says, “Um, hello!”

  “All right,” he relents, then mumbles, “I hrmphoo.”

  “What?” I know he’s weird, but I am sure he is capable of intelligible speech.

  “I said . . .” He closes his eyes—I glance ahead on the trail to make sure he’s not going to trip over a tree root or anything—and clenches his jaw. “. . . I have to.”

  “What do you mean you have to?”

  I stomp down on the little part of me that wants him to say, I can’t help myself because I love you, Phoebe. Talk about delusional.

  “It’s in my blood,” he explains. And leaves it at that.

  Like that clears everything up.

  “I don’t get it.”

  He growls and I can feel it in his chest.

  “Listen, if you’re going to do the silent thing the whole way then just—”

  “Hercules is my ancestor.”

  “Isn’t Hercules Roman?”

  “The name is,” Griffin says. “But most people have never heard of Heracles. Even the gods stopped using that name centuries ago.”

  “I thought you were descended from Ares.”

  “I am,” he grumbles. “On my great-grandmother’s side. Hercules is on my father’s line.”

  “And . . .”

  “Descendants of Hercules are compelled to act heroic when someone is in need.”

  I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. He really is helping me because he can’t stop himself. This is priceless.

  I can see this definitely working to my advantage.

  “You can’t, however,” he says when I can’t stop laughing, “abuse the privilege. Only genuine situations of need qualify.”

  “What?” I ask, suppressing my giggles. “Is there some kind of contract? Qualifications and exceptions to your heroics?”

  His jaw clenches again and he doesn’t answer.

  In fact, he stares straight forward and doesn’t even look down at me. I must have touched a nerve or something. Great, now I feel guilty for teasing him—the guy who tried to zap me off the cross-country team in the first place. I have no reason to feel bad for him.

  But I do.

  “I’m sorry,” I hear myself say. “I shouldn’t make fun of stuff I don’t understand. This hero thing is pretty serious, huh?”

  He nods once.

  “How many of you are there?”

  Grim faced, he keeps staring off ahead—we’ve made it out of the woods and are now crossing the lawn below the school. Thinking he’s so mad he’s not going to answer, I drop my head back against his arm and relax. Might as well enjoy the ride.

  “One.” His blue eyes glow as they meet my brown ones. “Just one.”

  “You’re the only descendant of Hercules?” Wow. That must be a major burden. “How is that possible?”

  “There is only one child born to the Herculean line each generation.”

  “Then what about your parents?”

  The glow in his eyes disappears. “They’re . . . not around.”

  “Not around? Are they traveling or something?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Okay. I have no idea what he’s saying—what I’m supposed to get from his cryptic responses—but I get the feeling he’s not going to elaborate.

  “So, um . . .” I try to think of something to talk about, to break this tense silence. “. . . where are you—”


  “You’re friends with Nicole.”

  I’m not sure if I’m more shocked that he’s actually speaking or that he’s speaking about Nicole. Especially after what she told me about their past.