Oh. My. Gods. (5 page)

Love,

Phoebe

I click send and log off. Bed is calling me. After all, it is ten hours later in Serfopoula and that means I haven’t slept in, like, thirty-six hours. And I have to go to the Academy with Damian at seven-thirty to fill out paperwork and finalize my class schedule.

The only good thing about this whole catastrophe so far is Damian says the track coach is world class and so is the team. And tryouts are tomorrow after school. At least I’ll get a good year of training in to prep me for the USC team.

Barely dragging up the energy to change out of my traveling clothes, I pull on a clean T-shirt and a pair of smiley face boxers and collapse onto my bed. At least the bed is comfy—all white and just soft enough. Still, I think I’m going to dream about green sea slugs and shimmering stepsisters tonight.

When my alarm clock goes off at six I’m tempted to fling it against the wall. I’m suffering serious jet lag in the form of whole-body muscle weakness and a headache that makes brain freeze feel like a pinprick. Tugging the white fluffy comforter up over my head to muffle the deafening alarm, I consider my two options.

Either I stay in bed, shut out the outside world, and hope that by the time seven-thirty rolls around—when I have to meet Damian— all my pain has faded away.

Or . . . I can toss off the covers, pull on my sneakers, and go for a good long run that might not erase the jet lag, but will at least replace this sluggish feeling with familiar physical exhaustion.

To snooze or not to snooze?

From beneath the covers I hear my room door burst open and smack against the wall.

“Turn that awful thing off!” Stella shouts.

Flopping a corner of the comforter back, I force one eye open and squint at her. I don’t say anything at first—partly because I’m surprised that she could hear my alarm all the way down in the slimy dungeon I’ve pictured her sleeping in and partly because I’m trying not to laugh. She looks like a pint of mint chocolate chip exploded on her face.

“Did you fall asleep in a bowl of pistachio pudding?”

She scowls and jabs her finger at the still-blaring clock.

Nothing happens.

“Aargh!”

I smile. Maybe I can get Stella grounded for the entire year—at least then I’d be safe.

If her face weren’t covered in green I know she would be turning red.

When she stomps in my direction, I fling my arm out and smack the top of the clock. I don’t want her getting any of the green goop on my fluffy white comforter. “Forget it,” I say, sitting up and swinging my legs out of bed. “I’m getting up anyway.”

For a moment she looks like she wants to continue her attack, but then turns and stomps back to her room.

My brain is waking up—no turning back now.

I grab a pair of track pants, a T-shirt, and a pair of white socks out of the dresser, pull them on in a matter of seconds, splash some water on my face in the bathroom, lace up my sneakers, and am heading out the door when the snoozing alarm clock starts blaring again. Smiling at the thought of Stella having to hunt it out from under my bed, I start down the path to the dock where we arrived last night. Where there’s water there must be a beach.

The dock is in a little lagoon, nicely protected from the open sea, with rocky cliffs on one side and a narrow strip of sand on the other. Even though I’m not going to push my worn-out body too hard, I sit on the dock and do ten minutes of stretches. Pulling a hamstring is the last thing I need.

The sun is just starting to rise and casts a pale pink over everything. I take deep, filling breaths as I reach for my toes, taking in the salty clean smell of the sea. A different smell from the California beaches I’m used to. Purer, maybe.

I twist my upper body to the one side, going for that extra oblique stretch, and notice a cluster of little white buildings on top of the cliffs. Bathed in the early morning twilight, it looks just as pink as the rest of the island. That must be the village. It seems so strange that there are people that live up there in that little village, a world away from L.A., with whole lives that go on whether I’m here to see them or not. I guess that’s true of everywhere—the cars you pass on the freeway, the towns you fly over at thirty thousand feet, and those little white buildings. Suddenly, L.A. feels even farther away.

Surrounded by pink and silence, except for gently lapping waves, I embrace the inner and outer peace. Leaving the dock for the thin strip of sand, I kick into a moderate run. If my entire year here were just like this moment then things might not be so bad. But I know that this feeling only exists when I run. It’s why I run. That, and to feel closer to Dad.

As the sand squishes beneath my Nikes, I lose myself in the memory of our early-morning training runs. When Dad was training in the off-season we would run almost every morning. Almost always on Santa Monica beach. We would park near the pier, run the three miles down to Marina del Rey, and then race back to the pier for ice cream. If I beat him, I got a double scoop.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until I taste my tears. Not slowing my pace, I wipe at my eyes. Why was I even thinking about Dad? Usually I don’t think about anything when I run. I’m too focused on the sensation of running.

Clearing my mind, I notice the burning in my quads. How long have I been running? The world around me is no longer bathed in pink. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms my suspicion. The dock is nowhere in sight and the sun has cleared the horizon.

I need to get back.

Dropping to a walk, I’m about to turn around and head back when I notice another person running on the beach. He’s less than two hundred yards away from me, close enough for me to appreciate the loose, easy movement of his gait. I can tell his body is made for running, and somehow I know that his soul lives for it. I guess I recognize a kindred spirit.

Before I know it—because I’m mesmerized by watching him run—he’s jogging to a stop right in front of me. I practically melt into a puddle of girl drool.

He looks around my age and he is beyond beautiful. It isn’t just his hypnotic blue eyes or his perfect, sloped nose, or his sculpted high cheekbones. His lips are full and soft and yummily pink. The kind that just make you want to grab him by the hair with both hands—even though I can’t see his hair under the blue bandanna— and make out until you can’t think anymore.

“Hi,” he says, his voice just low enough and smooth enough to send shivers down my spine.

“Hi,” I say back.

Brilliant. Normally, speaking is not a problem for me, but I’m hypnotized.

His mouth lifts up at one side, like he finds it funny that I’m staring and incapable of speech. “Where did you run from?”

“Um,” I say, continuing my display of brilliance. A large portion of my brain is distracted by the faint accent that makes his question sound like a melody. I manage to gesture vaguely over my shoulder. “The dock.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s nearly eight kilometers.”

“What?” That’s like five miles. I’ve been running for over half an hour. Even if I keep my same pace the whole way back I won’t have time to shower before meeting Damian. And the way my thighs feel, I’m definitely going back at a slower rate.

Great, I’m going to show up for my first day of school sticky and smelling like sweat.

“There’s a shortcut,” Mr. Beautiful offers. Pointing to the rocks at the edge of the beach, he explains, “That path will get you home in half the time.”

I squint at the rocks, trying to find a path. All I see are big, beige rocks and short, shrubby bushes that look like they might like to scrape the crap out of my legs.

“It’s there,” he says with a laugh. “It starts out steep, but you’ll be on the flat after the first half kilometer.”

Finally spying the narrow path, I turn back and say, “Thank—”

But he’s already gone, running back the way he came.

I didn’t even get to ask his name.

“Thanks!” I shout after him.

Without turning or slowing he waves over his shoulder. I allow myself a few seconds of appreciation—watching him from behind is even more mesmerizing. Then, shaking myself out of that detour into fantasy, I turn and head up the path.

I’m back at the house in under twenty minutes, with just enough time to shower and dry my hair before I have to meet Damian.

Following Damian up the broad front steps of the Academy, I feel my jaw drop at the gorgeous building that is my new school. Clearly very old—ancient even—the whole stone front is lined with columns that stretch all the way to the roof. Above the columns is a triangle filled with carvings of men and women doing all different things—standing, sitting, lying down while eating grapes. It looks like a drawing I saw once of what the Parthenon might have looked like when it was new. Nothing like the single-story, boring to the point of hospital decor building that houses PacificPark.

“This building dates to the relocation of the Academy in the sixth century,” Damian explains. He pushes open the massive golden front door and gestures for me to go in. “The only changes since that time have been technological modernizations. We have one of the most advanced computer labs in the world.”

“Good to know some things on this island have reached the twenty-first century,” I say, thinking back to the ancient computer at his house.

Then I step into the expansive front hall and all thought flees.

In front of me, directly across the stone tiled floor from the main door, is the biggest trophy case I have ever seen. And it is jam-packed with shining gold trophies.

“Wow,” I whisper, unable to hide my awe.

“The Academy has an illustrious history,” he says, walking up behind me when I zombie-walk to the glass case, spellbound by all the glitter.

“Are all these for sports?” I ask. Front and center is a big gold trophy that makes the Stanley Cup look like a wineglass. That must be for some major competition.

“Hardly,” Damain says with a half-laugh. “The sports trophies are nearer to the end of the cabinet.”

I follow the direction of his gesture with my eyes. I have to squint to see the section he’s pointing to because it’s halfway down the never-ending hall.

The hall is like twenty feet wide and just as tall, all shiny-smooth stone. Marble, probably. Clearly it runs the entire length of the building—all several hundred feet. Now I notice that there are windows in the wall behind the columns, letting in bright stripes of morning sunlight across the marble floor and reflecting off the glass-fronted cases. The whole space glows with the same soft amber color as the marble.

Every last inch of the interior wall is a trophy display.

“Then what—”

“Many of these are for academic competitions,” he explains, answering my question before I finish. “But we also hold many historical artifacts on display. Artifacts too valuable to display in a museum. Our security is impenetrable.”

“Artifacts?”

“This,” he says, pointing to a no-larger-than-life-size apple that looks like it’s been dipped in gold, “is the Apple of Discord, the cause of the Trojan War.”

I lean in for a closer look. Other than being gold, it doesn’t look any different than a regular apple. Then the letters of a Greek word carved on its side start to glow, like it knows someone’s watching.

“Be careful.” Damian pulls me back. “The Apple is tremendously powerful and dangerous. Do not get too close.”

“Oh,” I say casually, trying not to look impressed. “What else do you have?”

“There is one display I think you will especially enjoy.” He strides off down the hall toward the sports section. When he stops in front of an almost empty case I nearly run into him.

All that’s in the case is a little wreath of dried-up twigs. Not very impressive. Damian must think I’m easily amused.

Then I read the plaque.

Laurel presented to the first Olympic champion, Nikomedes, 919 BC.

Oh. My. God.

I blink up at Damian, disbelieving.

He smiles, a broad, self-satisfied smile that tells me he knows he impressed me and he isn’t going to let me forget it. I don’t care.

Reaching up, I finger the glass in front of the wreath, marveling at the thought that it had once crowned the very first Olympic champion ever. Kinda makes our medals seem like Happy Meal prizes.

“Come, Phoebe,” Damian says, “we must discuss your schedule.”

“B-but—”

He gently presses a hand to my back and leads me away. “There will be plenty of time for worshipping the athletic artifacts,” he says. “You will be here for one year, at least.”

Yes, yes, one year.

“Next time,”—he stops in front of a door and, unlocking it, ushers me inside—“I will show you the actual Sandals of Pheidippides.”

It’s a good thing Damian points me to the chair in front of his desk because I am on the verge of expiring from excitement. Suddenly, hurrying back to Athens to see the subway display—on my way back to civilization or not—seems like a really unnecessary expedition.

Who needs a replica when you can see the real deal?

Chapter 3

“YOU’RE THE NOTHOS.”

Turning around in my desk, I stare at the girl behind me.

“The what?” I ask.

“Nothos,” she says again. “The normal one.”

“Normal?” I laugh. “Depends on your definition.”

“As in not a descendant.”

“Oh, then I guess so.” It’s true, after all.

She sticks out her hand. “I’m Nicole.”

“Phoebe,” I say, smiling as I shake her hand.

Nicole is the first person I’ve met at the Academy. Okay, so technically I’m only in my first class—World Literature of the Twentieth Century—and it hasn’t even started yet, but still, a first is a first.

“Your stepsister is an evil harpy.” Her voice is stone cold and I must look as frightened as I feel because she hurries to add, “In a purely metaphysical way.”

“Oh.” Whew. Not that I would be the tiniest bit surprised if that were true, given everything I’ve learned in the last eighteen hours. And beautiful but vicious pretty much describes Stella perfectly. “Tell me about it.”

“Have you got a year?” she asks and I like her immediately.

Clearly, Stella is not high on her list of favorite people, either.

I am still laughing when the teacher, Ms. Tyrovolas—I can already see myself in detention for repeated mispronunciation, so I should probably just go with Ms. T—walks in. High school teachers at PacificPark do not look like this: almost six feet tall, light brown hair curled and pinned up all around her head like a crown, and wearing something that looks like a cross between a sheet and an evening gown.

Staring is horribly rude, but I can’t help it. I’ve never seen anyone who looked like that—not even in Los Angeles, where weirdos come out to play.

Without looking at me, Ms. Tyrovolas says, “I see you are unfamiliar with the costume of ancient Greece, Miss Castro.”

I blink, not really knowing how to respond. She did catch me staring, after all, even if she had her back to me at the time.

The entire class turns to stare at me.

Trying to act cool, I swipe a hand over my head to make sure I haven’t sprouted horns or anything. Haven’t they ever had a new student in class before?

“Um, not really, Ms. Tra— um, Tivo— Tul—”

Nicole whispers, “Tyrovolas.”

“Turvolis,” I say, my voice catching. Why didn’t I just go with Ms. T?

Ms. T turns around and everyone is instantly focused on their desks.

I try to smile, but I think it comes across more as a grimace.

“The tradition has been passed down since the founding of the Academy,” she explains, “and I choose not to disregard our history.”

At least I don’t have to dress that way. My personal uniform of jeans and a T-shirt suits me just fine. On the rare occasion of a more formal event, Mom usually has to bribe me into dressy pants. A dress would cost her World Cup tickets.

Don’t think she won’t have to pay to get me into a bridesmaid’s dress for the wedding.

“Tyrant is steadfast about tradition,” Nicole whispers.

Which maybe explains why Ms. T is giving her a dirty look. With her short, bleached blonde hair—in an I’m-a-little-bit-punk and not at all I’m-a-cheerleader kind of way—half an arm of hot pink and white jelly bracelets, and silver glitter eyeshadow, Nicole is far from traditional.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I say back. “So, are the teachers here . . . I mean, is Ms. T a—”

“Descendant?” Nicole asks. “Oh yeah. She’s direct lineage from Athena. We’re talking serious bookworm.”

“I thought Athena was the goddess of war.”

“You don’t think Tyrovolas could kick some ass?” Nicole laughs. “I’m just teasing. War is only part of Athena’s domain. She’s also the goddess of wisdom, which makes her a big busybody with everything that goes on at the Academy.”

Navigating this school is going to be a lot tougher than I ever imagined. I thought at least the teachers would be normal, but no luck there.

I need a new student handbook.

And the classwork? Let’s just say I’ll be struggling to maintain the B average I need to get into USC. Ms. T’s syllabus looks like a work of world literature itself and we’ll be reading more books in one year than I’ve read in my entire life. So much for Cesca’s fantasy of me lounging on the beach—I’ll be spending all my free time reading Kafka and Orwell and writing a twenty-five-page term paper.

She even teaches for the whole period—on the first day!—diving into the influences of Freud and Einstein on modern thought and the ramifications on everything from literature to war. By the time she dismisses us—the Academy doesn’t have bells at the end of class—my brain is fried.

Only three more classes until lunch.

We walk out into the hall and there are students everywhere.

Unlike the hall inside the front entrance, the rest of the building looks pretty much like a school. The halls and floors are typical off-white and lined with lockers. Classrooms branch off on both sides, with big windows that look out over either the hills surrounding the school or the inner courtyard. All of the upper-grade classes meet on the second floor, while the lower grades take up the first. I guess that’s so the younger kids can have recess out in the courtyard.

“Who do you have next?” Nicole asks.

I glance at the schedule Damian made for me. “Algebra II with Mr. C—”

“Cornball,” she says and snatches the schedule out of my hand. “Me, too.”

“—Cornelius,” I finish.

“Look.” She waves a finger at the schedule and the bottom half glows for a second. “Our afternoon schedule is the same.”

Leaning in, I read the last three classes. Physics II, Art History, and Philosophy. “I’m supposed to be in Computer Applications and Biology,” I argue. “I hate Art and I never had Physics I.”

“No worries,” Nicole says. “I’ll get you through. Science is my thing and Mrs. Otis gives all As for art appreciation.” She frowns at the schedule. “We’ll just have to suffer through Dorcas together— no one gets out of here without Philosophy.”

She shrugs and hands me back the schedule, as if she can’t do anything more about it. Should I be upset? Should I go have Damian change my schedule back?

Or should I be thankful that someone seems happy to have me here and that maybe, just maybe, I’ve actually made a friend?

Folding the schedule, I stuff it in my pocket.

“Wow,” I say. “How’d you do that?”

Nicole looks at me like I’d said the dumbest thing on the planet. “You really are neo, aren’t you?”

“If that means out of my league, then yes.”

“Don’t sweat it, you’ve got me.” Nicole takes my hand and pulls me over to a bare section of wall, out of the crowd’s path. “I didn’t start at the Academy until Level 9. It’s pretty rough if you don’t have help, and most kids here aren’t into going out of their way to help a nothos—or, as some will call you, a kako. There are some basic rules you need to know.”

This morning, Damian had seemed single-mindedly focused on gushing about the school’s impressive history, leaving me to figure out the social stuff on my own. The only help he had offered me was having Stella as a guide. Not that I don’t think she knows every last in and out, but spending all day trailing after her is not my idea of a good time. I had respectfully turned him down.

If Nicole had to go through this just a few years ago, then she is a lot more appealing as a mentor. Even if she is part descendant herself.

“What does kako mean, anyway?” I ask, remembering how Stella had called me that when we met. “It’s not good, is it?”

Nicole shrugs. “It’s a tactless way of saying you’re not a descendant. Nothos is more politically correct.”

I have a feeling that when she says “tactless” she really means “insulting.”

“First of all,” she says, moving on, “cliques at the Academy are a little different. There’s almost no way to break in—not that you should want to—because they’re pretty much determined by your association.”

Association? I don’t understand what she means and decide not to say anything, hoping I’ll figure it out, but she must sense how clueless I am.

“Your family.” She gives me a pointed look. “Your god.”

Still not clear, I look around.

The second floor hall is full of students, and from the outside they all look fully normal. I see all the standard cliques. Populars here and nerds there. Jocks in a huddle and cheerleaders all around them. Freaks glaring at everyone from the corner and geeks trying to avoid getting knocked down. Stoners, burnouts, prudes, and skanks. Nothing unusual.

“Look at that group.” Nicole points across the hall.

Clustered around a set of lockers, a group of girls with perfect hair, heavy makeup, and suggestive clothing cling to boys with metrosexual taste in fashion and gel-spiked hair. Miniskirts and tight T-shirts abound. Not so different from the populars at PacificPark.

“Steer clear of them,” Nicole warns. “The Zeus set. Power, privilege, and partying. They make Paris Hilton look like a Vestal Virgin.”

The Zeus set? I guess I can see how being related to the ruler of all the gods would come with extreme popularity. Who would dare to cross them when you might wind up with a thunderbolt in the back?

One of the boys shifts, opening my view to the other side of the group. Stella stares back at me, willing one of those thunderbolts to hit me, I’m sure.

“Stella’s one of them?” I ask, looking away before those gray eyes turn me to stone or something.

“Not exactly.” Nicole flicks a sneering glance at the group. “She’s one of Hera’s.”

“So then why—” I begin. Then I remember Hera’s role on Olympus—Zeus’s consort.

“There are alliances,” Nicole explains. “Zeus-Hera is the strongest.”

Figures. Not only is Stella a colossal evil, but she’s got the popularity and the genes to back it up. I am more than thankful her powers are grounded right now. Otherwise Nicole would be carrying me to class in a baggie.

Looking around for something other than the evil stepsister to talk about, I ask, “What about them?”

Another group of students, all with sun-bleached hair, is gathered around a water fountain. They look like they washed up in the last wave. A lot of pooka shell necklaces and flip-flops. The guys are wearing brightly colored boardshorts and Hawaiian print shirts.

Some of the girls are in sundresses, some in camisoles and breezy skirts. One of the girls looks just like a picture I saw once of Cameron Diaz surfing.

“That,” Nicole says, pointing at the surfer crowd, “is Poseidon’s posse. Most of their brain cells have burned off from too much time in the sun.”

At the center of the circle I notice a guy with white-blond hair that looks a little like Heath Ledger in A Knight’s Tale.

“Forget it,” Nicole warns when she sees me looking. “Deacon’s dumb as a box of rocks.” She tilts her head, as if considering him for a second. “Actually, that’s an insult to rocks.”

From the other end of the hall I hear a boy squeal, “I got it! I hacked into the Olympic mainframe!”

He’s obviously a geek—complete with thick black-framed glasses and high-waisted pants. He’s clutching a calculator-sized PDA in his hand, jumping up and down and revealing a total lack of coordination as he practically trips over his own feet and falls into the rest of his group.

“Geeks?” I ask.

“Hephaestus,” she replies with a sigh. “I think he’s embarrassed by them. I know I would be. Not one of them has a chance of scoring an Aphrodite like he did, but I bet one day they make Bill Gates look poor.”

I always thought it was romantic how the deformed god of fire married the beautiful goddess of love. Kind of like a mythological Beauty and the Beast. Looking at his descendants, however, I’m thinking more along the lines of Weird Science—but these guys don’t look coordinated enough to build the perfect woman.

Seeing all the cliques grouped according to ancestral god makes me wonder about Nicole. Seems like she doesn’t hang out with anyone but herself—and now me. But she’s part immortal, too.

“So, which god are you—”

She suddenly jerks me across the hall toward an open door, almost sending me sprawling on the floor.

“What the—”

“The Hades harem,” she explains. “You do not want to mess with them.”

And, peeking back out the doorway, boy can I see why.

The group just rounding the corner look like your average Goths—black hair, black clothes, black eyeliner—but with an edge. Pretty fitting for the god of the underworld’s descendants.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, they stride down the hall, daring anyone to get in their way. The Zeus set stares them down, but most of the other students in the hall scamper out of their path. As they pass the doorway, a tall, thin girl with pale skin, shoulder-length black hair, and piercing pale blue eyes, stares at me with intimidating intensity. I know I must be a novelty and all, but she really doesn’t need to look like she wants to melt me with her eyes.

“Who is that?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

“That,” she says, grabbing my shoulder and dragging me into the classroom, “is Kassandra. Trouble on a cosmic scale.”

I don’t need her warning to know that.

“This is Cornball’s class,” she says, flopping into a desk in the last row. “Make it through this and it’s all downhill until lunch.”

“Great,” I say, dragging my fascinated thoughts back from Kassandra and the Hades harem and following her to the back of the room.

 I can do this. With Nicole’s help I’ll be in sync with the social patterns in no time, and all I have to do is get my Bs. No prob—

“I assume you all practiced the quadratic formula over the summer holiday,” the big, beefy teacher at the front of the class says. “Take out a sheet of paper, solve for x and graph the solution.”

He turns to the board and writes a list of ten equations, each one longer than a long distance phone number. Crap. Maybe USC will accept a solid C average.

Maybe I should have sat in the front row.

“How has your day been thus far, Phoebe?”

I look up at the sound of Damian’s voice. What a question. It’s a miracle I’ve made it to lunch, and the last thing I need is his interference in my half-hour of education-free time. My brain seriously needs to decompress.