Oh. My. Gods. (15 page)

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“Oh.” It has to be Cesca. No one else would even have a clue. But I know she did it with the best intentions. “She must have been worried after I told her I couldn’t tell her anything. We haven’t kept secrets. Ever. It probably freaked her out.”

That makes me feel better about her not responding to the millions of e-mails and IMs I’ve been sending. Even though she’s hurt that I can’t confide she’s still trying to find out what’s going on with me.

She’s a true friend.

“We cannot undo your accident,” Damian says. He sounds resigned, which makes me feel worse. “There might not be anything to worry about. We shall wait and see if there are any more incidents.”

“And if there are?”

“We will have to take countermeasures.”

“Countermeasures?” I picture Cesca, her feet encased in concrete blocks, sinking slowly to the floor of the Pacific. Maybe the Greek gods operate like the mafia.

“Nothing so dramatic,” Damian says, smiling and proving once again that he can read emotions fluently, “I assure you.”

I’m not fully appeased, but I guess I have to take his word for it at the moment. If the time comes to enact “countermeasures” I’ll warn Cesca ahead of time so she can flee the country or whatever.

For now, I just smile and nod as I gather up my backpack to leave.

“Oh, Phoebe,” Damian calls as I walk to the door. When I turn around, he adds, “Try not to accidentally reveal any more of our secrets. If you do, I just might have to try the concrete blocks method.”

My jaw drops. “Hey, you said you could only read emotions!”

Damian, cryptic as ever, just smiles and returns his attention to work. How like him.

I’m lucky I don’t keep a diary for him to read.

As I close the door behind me I hear, “Everything I need to know is stored in your hippocampus anyway.”

Because I can’t think of any better response I slam his door.

Believe it or not, I’m starting to feel sympathy for Stella. She’s had to live with him her whole life.

I only have to endure him for nine months.

“Damian and I have been talking, Phoebola,” Mom says. She’s sitting in my room, watching me try to do homework.

“Yeah,” I answer absently, wondering what Plato meant when

he said, We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light. “I would think you two do that a lot.”

Sure, I used to be afraid of the dark, but who ever heard of someone being afraid of the light? Maybe he’s being metaphorical. Light must be a symbol for something else. How about success? That would be like being afraid to win a race. It would be beyond sad if someone was afraid of winning. I start scribbling down my answer.

I can practically feel her giving me the Mom look.

“You know what I mean.” Mom clears her throat before continuing. Uh-oh. “This is all such a big change—for both of us. All of us. It’s going to get even harder when you go away to college.”

I sit up straight in my chair, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

“We think it might be better for you to stay on at the Academy for another year. Maybe even attend college in the U.K. after graduation. That will give you another year to adjust and—”

“What!”

I think my scream can be heard in Athens.

“Now calm down, after everything that’s—”

“Calm down? Are you crazy?” I jump up from my desk and start pacing. “You’re trying to ruin my entire future and you want me to calm down?”

“We are not trying to ruin your future.” She sits on my bed, the picture of calm and collected. “You could really benefit from another year of challenging academics.”

My pacing speeds up—if I had a rug I would probably burn a hole in it. I already know Damian wants this—Stella told me, after all—but my own mother?

“Nola, Cesca, and I have been planning on going to USC together since junior high.” I stop pacing long enough to throw my hands in the air. “How can you ask me to just throw all those years of plan-ning—not to mention my friendships—away?”

I resume pacing, my mind racing just as fast.

“I’m not asking you to do anything more than think about it,” she says calmly.

I hate it when she does the whole calm-Mom-therapy thing on me.

It makes me so mad I do things I might regret.

“It’s bad enough you marry a complete stranger,” I shout, “and you make me move halfway around the world without telling me I’ll be going to school with a bunch of kids with superpowers who can zap me whenever they want. But now, now after all this, you want me to stay even longer than absolutely necessary? This is all his idea, isn’t it?”

“Of course not,” she says, sounding all defensive. “He may be my husband, but I am still your mother.”

“Then why?” I demand. “Why this? Why now?”

“Because if you are—” She stops mid-sentence. Standing up slowly, she says, “All I ask is that you think about it.”

Aargh! She can’t even come up with a bogus excuse.

“Fine,” I spit out as she walks to my door. “I’ll think about it—and every time I do I’ll think about how much I hate you.”

Without another word she walks out, closing the door quietly behind her. Not satisfied, I march over to the door, pull it open wide, and sling it shut with a powerful slam.

Somehow that’s more appropriate for the end of my relationship

with my mother. Before the echo dies down I burst into tears. I don’t even have Cesca and Nola’s shoulders to cry on. How could my life possibly get any worse?

Chapter 8

“PLEASE PUT AWAY YOUR BOOKS and take out several sheets of blank paper.” Mr. Dorcas’s voice is monotone. “We are having a pop quiz on The Republic.”

The whole class groans.

Me? I just carry out his instructions with the resignation of a beaten dog. Since the moment I thought my life couldn’t get worse, the world, this school, and everyone on this island have conspired to prove me monumentally wrong.

No one but Nicole and Troy are talking to me, though Troy hasn’t even been at lunch because he’s getting extra tutoring in Chemistry. I keep e-mailing and IMing Cesca and Nola every night in the hope that I’ll eventually wear them down. Mom is giving me my distance, not that I mind, and Damian has been so busy with school business that I haven’t even seen him in days. And, though I’m not mourning the fact that Stella’s stopped speaking to me, I’m starting to miss our sparring sessions. They’re better than no human contact at all.

My running times have not improved, despite the millions of hours of extra practice. Coach Lenny assures me I’m just at a plateau and any day now I’m going to see major improvement. I don’t believe him.

I still haven’t figured out Plato and have given up all hope of ever understanding his concept of justice. Ironically enough, Physics II and Art History—the classes Nicole switched me to—are the only classes I’m actually doing well in. Everything else will be lucky to see a passing grade.

So, of course Mr. Dorcas is giving us a pop quiz on a Friday. It’s just the way my life is going.

“Answer the following question.” He tugs on the projection screen, sending it rolling into its case and revealing the pop quiz.

An essay question.

Hardly shocking.

Plato ends The Republic with the myth of Er, a story about the fate of men, both good and bad, in the afterlife. Why do you think he, a believer in reincarnation, chooses this tale with which to end his discourse on justice?

The first thing that jumps out at me is the word myth. After what Troy told me, I don’t think some story Plato made up about a guy visiting the afterlife qualifies as “explaining the unexplainable.” This is more like a fairy tale, a story that Plato wanted to be true. He wanted to believe that good men would be rewarded and bad men punished because that would mean the world made sense.

Clearly, he’d been burned by the success of some undeserving people.

Half an hour later I turn in my “quiz,” my hand cramped from writing a mini-thesis in response. I sink back into my seat. I can’t even look forward to a mental break because I was the last person done.

Mr. Dorcas jumps right into his lecture.

He starts writing on the board, his back to the room.

“Pssst.” Nicole tosses a note on my desk.

I open the elaborately folded piece of paper.

Troy says he passed his Chem test. No more lunch tutoring.

I write, Good. I missed him. Then I toss the note back on Nicole’s desk. She opens the note, smiles, then glances to the front of the room and frowns.

Following the direction of her gaze, I see Mr. Dorcas scowling in our direction.

“The note, Miss Matios.” He holds out his hand expectantly.

Nicole rises slowly from her seat, leaning closer to me as she whispers, “Distract him.”

I nod, wondering what I can do to get Mr. Dorcas’s attention.

Not knowing what else to do, I scream, “Ouch!”

“What is it, Miss Castro?”

“I, uh, think something bit me.” Twisting around in my seat, I search the floor like I’m looking for the offending creature. “I think it was a scorpion.”

“Miss Castro,” Mr. Dorcas admonishes as he stalks to my desk, “we don’t have scorpions on this island.”

Eyes wide, I ask, “Really?”

From the corner of my eye I see the note paper in Nicole’s hand glow. She nods at me.

“You must be right,” I say to Mr. Dorcas, who eyes me skeptically. “It must have been the elastic in my underpants.”

He gives me a solid glare before returning to the front of the room to take the note from Nicole. He then proceeds to read the note out loud.

“I can’t wait to read Aristotle. No, me either. It will be so much fun.” Mr. Dorcas stares at the note, like he can’t believe what he read. Then, with a scowl, he crumples up the note and tosses it in the trash. “Return to your seat, Miss Matios.”

As she slides back into her chair, Nicole winks at me.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank goodness for Nicole—she’s the best thing I’ve got going for me right now.

“Ha ha!” Coach Lenny, waving the stopwatch around like a flag,

shouts as I cross the finish line. “I told you.”

“Wh-what?” I ask between gasps.

This is the last timed run of our training schedule before next Friday’s meet—and our last Saturday session—and I pushed myself as hard as I could go. The rest of our practices are going to be light days, so I can conserve energy for the big race.

“You didn’t believe me,” he taunts. “You thought I was full of sh—”

“What!” I demand. Hands on my hips, I’m pacing around the starting area trying to regain my breath.

“You dropped a full three minutes.”

I stop moving and my knees buckle beneath me. Bending at the waist, I brace my hands on my thighs to keep from falling to the ground.

“You’re kidding?” Then I wonder if maybe he is—just to keep me motivated. “You better not be kidding or I’ll beat you up as soon I can feel my legs again.”

“Three minutes,” he repeats. “Honest.”

He holds the stopwatch in front of my face. He isn’t joking—the digital numbers read a full three minutes faster than my previous best.

Forgetting my exhaustion, I rush Coach Lenny, flinging my arms around him. “You rock! I can’t believe it.”

“I hate to say I told you so, but—”

“You were right.” I start jumping in a circle around him. “The training actually worked.”

I’m making so much noise I don’t hear anyone walk up.

“Am I missing the celebration?” Griffin asks.

“Griffin,” I cry. “I dropped my time.”

Then, without thinking, I rush him and throw my arms around his neck. He gently wraps his arms around my waist. “Congratulations.”

“Oh,” I say when I realize I’m hugging Griffin, who hasn’t spoken to me in days. “Sorry.”

I release him and step away.

“I’m going back to my office to wrap up,” Coach Lenny says. “If I can trust you to do a solid cooldown, I’ll let you go early.”

“Absolutely,” I insist.

Griffin adds, “I’ll make sure she does it, Coach.”

Coach Lenny gives me a questioning look. I smile—knowing he wants to know if I’ll be okay with Griffin. Then, stopwatch and clipboard in hand, he heads back up to the school, calling over his shoulder, “We’re still practicing at eight A.M.”

“I wouldn’t dream of sleeping in.”

I still can’t believe it—a whole three minutes. With that time, I could win any race in the world.

“So, the training paid off,” Griffin says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I can’t believe it.”

We fall into a silence, even though I’m humming with enough energy to power the school for a month.

“What do you usually do for cooldown?”

“Oh,” I say, having totally forgotten my promise. “I walk eight laps.”

I’m not eager to leave Griffin—I really want to know why he showed up at my practice on a Saturday morning—but I can’t let Coach Lenny or myself down. I’m just about to tell him I have to go when he says, “I’ll walk with you.”

“Great.”

We walk to the stadium in silence, the question of why he’s here is killing me. I restrain myself. I wasn’t the one who didn’t speak for over a week for no reason.

It’s definitely up to him to explain himself.

As we emerge from the tunnel, he asks, “So, are you ready for the race on Friday?”

“I think so.”

“Good.”

We make a full lap before he speaks again.

“Coach Lenny has been working you hard, huh?”

“Yes.”

If he’s not going to apologize, I’m not going to be more than barely civil. I realize he is a boy and predisposed to abhor admitting he’s wrong. He, however, has given me no reason to stick my neck out.

Besides, it’s not like he’s treated me with respect from day one.

I really shouldn’t even expect common courtesy—

“Nice morning.”

Okay, so he’s making an effort at small talk.

I’m not giving in. “Yup.”

That was apparently the extent of his chitchat repertoire because we keep walking in silence, with only the sound of our sneakers crunching on the cinder track. The sun is rising—must be late morning by now—and I’m all sweaty. With the sweat comes irritation.

Why did he come to my practice session? Or better yet, why did he drop off the face of the earth after the whole ankle incident last weekend? Or best of all, why did he act like such an ass when I first got to the Academy?

“Look,” I finally say two laps later, fed up. “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing.”

One word responses are not going to cut it.

“Nothing? You show up here hours before normal people wake up on a Saturday, seem content to not say a word more than absolutely necessary, and I want to know why.”

Silence.

“Fine.” I turn off the track, heading for the stadium exit. “Finish my cooldown for me, will ya?”

“Wait,” he calls after me. “Phoebe, wait.”

I am halfway to the exit when he reaches me. His fingers close around my upper arm. I’m not sure if he would physically stop me if I keep going because I stop the second he touches me.

Wheeling around, I jab my index finger in his face. “I have better things to do than finish my session in tension-heavy silence, so unless you’re ready to spill about whatever you came here for, I’m going home.”

His grip on my arm tightens just a little when I start to turn away.

“Okay,” he says, his voice low. “I’ll explain. Let’s get back to your cooldown and I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

I nod my head and follow him back to the track.

“I should—” His pace is brisk, and I walk faster to keep up. “I’m sorry for not talking to you all week. That wasn’t fair.”

“No,” I say as we walk even faster, “it wasn’t. But by now I’m pretty much used to your unfair treatment.”

I’ve had lots of practice.

“I just . . .” He kicks our pace up to a jog. “. . . get uncomfortable when people know my weaknesses.”

“Weaknesses? What are you talking about?”

“My being related to Hercules.”

“Surely other people know about th—”

“Only Headmaster Petrolas,” he says quietly. “And you.”

“What about Nicole?” I ask. They’d been friends when they were kids, she had to know.

“No. Even I didn’t know until I was thirteen.” He stares straight ahead. “By then we weren’t speaking.”

Wow. Instinctively, I inch a little closer so our arms almost brush with each step. “Still, I don’t understand how that’s a weakness.”

“Sometimes his blood controls me. Like last week when I had to carry you home—”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know. That’s what I’m saying. I had to. I couldn’t help it. It’s not your fault—or mine.” His fists clench. “I hate being weak.”

“Weak?” I give him a sideways glare. “You’re crazy. Any compulsion to help people—voluntary or not—is a strength. It’s noble.”

“You don’t under—”

“There’s nothing to understand, Griffin. You help people. That’s the bottom line. There are a lot of people in the world who don’t help anyone but themselves. And a lot more who wish they could do something—anything—to help someone in need, but can’t or won’t. The fact that you have to help people doesn’t diminish the fact that you do help them.”

We walk quietly for a few seconds. I give him time to let what I’m saying sink it—if he’s felt this way his whole life then it might be hard to accept. And it might explain why he’s such a jerk half the time. A little rebellion against his heroic blood.

Not that this excuses his behavior.

As we pass the finish line of our sixth lap, he says, “I guess I never looked at it that way.”

“Well,” I say, speeding up to a full run, “you should.”

He falls silent for a few seconds before blurting, “I broke up with Adara yesterday.”

“Oh really?” I ask, trying for cool, disinterested calm when my insides are jumping for joy. “That’s too bad.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, not looking at me but smiling just the same. “I never realized what an awful person she could be until I saw how she treated you.”

Though my heart is pounding like a bongo, I don’t say anything else. I just let the excitement over the possibilities crackle in the silence.

Together, we half-race around the track a few times before doing another cooldown. Racing Griffin in a good-natured competition feels good—like a kind of freedom I haven’t felt before. I want to win, but at the same time I’m just having fun. And if the big smile on his face is any sign, he’s having fun, too.

When we finish our last lap, he teases, “Race you to the water fountain.”

“No,” I reply, swatting him on the arm. “Then we’d have to cool down again.”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

I look him straight in the eyes. “I won’t lose.”

Then I take off for the water fountain in the tunnel at full speed. Griffin is fast on my heels as I skid to a stop, bending to take my victory drink.

“Well, well, well,” a girl’s voice echoes through the tunnel. “Aren’t you two having fun.”

“Quite the pair of running buddies,” another girl—the voice sounds like Stella, but I can’t be sure with the echo—says.

Griffin moves closer to my side, like he has to protect me from something. Must be that hero instinct in him. Seconds later, Adara and Stella step out of the shadows at the top of the tunnel, heading straight for us. They come to a stop, posing with hands on hips, directly in front of me.

“Looks like you won the bet,” Adara says, looking right at me.

“What bet?” I ask, genuinely confused.

If she’s talking about my deal with Stella there was no bet involved. That must mean—

“Dara, don’t,” Griffin says.

“Sure does.” Stella looks me up and down like I’m something stuck to the bottom of her ballet flats. “I believe you owe me a latte.”