“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 Pacific Park 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 inone 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 offwhite 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 togetherno 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 sheis 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 andtight T-shirts abound. Not so different from the populars at Pacific Park.
“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 Kas64 sandra 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.
“Fine,” I say.
Really, though, my brain is on fire. I made it through Algebra on sheer luck-and a few answer prompts from Nicole. Cornball might have gotten his nickname from all the stupid jokes he makes during class, but when it comes to math he’s as serious as an 8.0 on the Richter scale.
Modern Greek had been a little easier-being a first-year language class and all-but I was the only one in the class on thedownhill side of puberty. You don’t know how immature fourteenyear-olds can be until you’re stuck in a room with a bunch of them for an hour.
The only thing that made World History, my last class before lunch, bearable was hunky Mr. Sakola. He looks like some fifties movie star, with a bright white smile, perfectly combed hair, and a really cute dimple in his left cheek. He’s also as charming as Will Smith-with an equally beautiful wife, if the framed pic on his desk is any indication. The class, however, was another dumpload of information. I took enough notes to fell an entire forest.
So, by fine I mean exhaustingly rotten, but I don’t say it.
“Good.” He smiles like a principal-wide and proud, his sophisticated face cracking into sophisticated lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Any problems or questions?”
“No…” I say, but even that’s not true. “Actually, there is one thing.”
He nods, encouraging me to clarify.
Though I have seriously considered not telling him this, I think it’s in my best long-term interest to be as forthright as possible. After all, I don’t want him out to make my life more miserable than it already is. So, I suck it up and say, “I, um, tweaked my schedule a little…”
He nods again. “In what way?”
“Well-” I swallow, hoping he doesn’t question my prerequisites.
“I traded Computer Applications and Biology for Art History and Physics II.”
More nodding. What’s with all the nodding? “As long as you keep up with your assignments, I don’t foresee a problem. I just want to see you happy in your time here.” Now hissmile is more parental, small but still reaching his eyes to crinkle up the corners. He leans across the table to Nicole and whispers, “Miss Matios, the last student who tried to zap Philosophy out of their schedule spent a week as a pile of sand.”
Then, without another word, he stands up and walks away, surveying the lunchroom like a General watching his troops.
“Man,” Nicole says when Damian’s out of earshot, “I’m glad I’m not you. I wouldn’t want Petrolas for a dad.”
“He’s not my dad,” I snap. I feel instantly guilty. It’s not her fault I’ve been tossed into this little dysfunctional family. “Sorry. My real dad died a long time ago. Damian is just my stepdad.”
She shrugs like I haven’t just bitten her head off or she could care less that I did. I’m just relieved she doesn’t make a big deal of the dead dad thing. I’m not always so touchy about it-therapist Mom head-shrank me through the whole grieving process-but I’ve been thinking about him more than usual since the whole stepdad thing started. Having a fake dad makes me miss my real one more.
Great, another thing to look forward to for the next nine months.
At least Nicole doesn’t seem to care if I’m a moody psycho.
Something over my shoulder catches her attention. “Travatas!” she shouts across the dining hall, waving her arm in the air to catch someone’s attention.
At the head of the lunch line is a cute boy-blond and wholesome in a Chad Michael Murray kind of way-with dark gold hair and wearing aMY CHEMICAL ROMANCET-shirt. He looks up at Nicole’s shout and smiles.
“Hey Nicole,” he says, carrying his tray over to our table and taking the seat next to mine.
“Phoebe,” she says, pointing her fork at cute boy, “this is Troy.”
“Hi.” I wave in greeting.
He smiles, showing straight white teeth and says, “Hi back.”
“He’s pretty much the only person in this school worth knowing.”
She starts to take a sip of her Dr Pepper, but then adds, “Besides me, of course.”
Nicole is not short on confidence.
“Has Nicole been showing you around?” he asks, his mouth curling up at the corners.
“Yeah.” I nod.
Nicole is way better as a guide than Stella would have been. I can just imagine my day as Stella’s puppy dog, forced to trail after her and lick her boots when she got a scuff.
Even across the crowded dining hall, I can feel her glare.
She is at a table at the opposite side of the hall-far, far away from ours-sitting with the rest of the Zeus-and-Heras. She’s sitting next to a boy with short, rusty blond hair who, from the confident way he is holding himself, is the leader of their pack. Tan, slick, and arrogant, he looks like her perfect match.
Troy must see me staring at her because he says, “I hear Stella’s your stepsister.” He takes and swallows a bite of vegetable lasagna.
“Sorry.”
What, did they have a school-wide briefing about me? It seems like everyone knows who I am, where I came from, and how I got here. Right now, about half the cafeteria is looking at me while trying not to look like they’re looking. I’m like a celebrity, but not in a good way.
Don’t they have better things to talk about? “Am I the school’s only gossip?” I ask.
“Pretty much,” Nicole says.
I shrug. Great. “Then trust me,” I say to Troy. “Stella is the least of my challenges.”
“Yeah, I guess it would be hard to get dropped into this world.”
His eyes-a really pretty green with bright gold flecks in the center-are warm with sympathy. “Don’t worry… you’ll get through.”
He’s sweet, which may be why I confess, “It might be easier if I had found out about this whole ‘the gods are real’ thing before the yacht docked on Serfopoula.”
Troy’s jaw drops. “They didn’t tell you?”
“What,” Nicole says, rolling her eyes, “like you’re surprised? You know how Petrolas is about security.”
“I know, but-” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe it.
Join the club. “Let’s just say this has been a summer of shocks.”
“What did they tell you?” Nicole asks.
“Pretty much that the school was founded by Plato, moved here ages ago, and protected by the Greek gods. Oh, and that all the students are related to them.”
She snorts, clearly not impressed with how little I know. “Leave it to Petrolas to give you the history without any real, useful info.”
“Like what?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous.
I’m not sure I want to know how much more I need to know.
“Any use of powers that breaks school rules,” Troy says, “like cheating or skipping class or altering a teacher’s memory, is forbidden and earns serious detention time.”
“No one wants a Petrolas detention,” Nicole says, sounding grim.
“They make the Labors of Hercules look like kindergarten homework.”
“You should know,” Troy teases. “You’ve done more detention than anyone else in our year.”
“Are you volunteering to take my place next time, Travatas?”
Troy turns white. “N-no, I mean, I was only-”
Nicole throws a roll at him.
I laugh because this reminds me so much of the sparring matches between Nola and Cesca. For a second I feel like I’m back in L.A. with my best friends. Until Nicole says, “And whatever you do, don’t go into the last stall of the girls’ bathroom on the second floor.”
“Why,” I ask, afraid of the answer, “does it open a portal to a parallel universe, or something?”
“No,” Nicole says with a laugh. “It backs up all the time and makes the Physics room smell like a sewer.”
Troy hands me a roll and I toss it at Nicole.
“Don’t worry,” he says when we all get done laughing. “Nic and I will teach you the ropes. You’ll be a world-class social navigator before we’re done.”
“We’ll at least make sure you don’t run your ship up on the rocks,” she adds. “Lunch is the perfect chance to see all the little gorgons in action. Where should we start?”
The pair of them look around the dining hall, searching out examples for my education.
“How about with you?” I suggest. “What, um, gods are you related to?”
Nicole points at Troy. “Travatas is around fifty generations removed from Asklepios.”
“Who’s Askilopus?” I ask.
“Asklepios,” Troy corrects. “The god of healing.”
“That’s neat,” I say.
“Right.” Troy rolls his eyes. “I’m just dying to follow in that millennium-long line of doctors and nurses.”
Talk about pressure. I guess maybe that’s not so great, after all.
Turning back to Nicole, who is looking around the room again, I ask, “What about you-”
“That’s the Athena table,” she announces. “They’re all brainiacs, like Tyrovolas.”
Troy leans closer and whispers, “Nerds.”
Like I couldn’t tell. As if the thick glasses and pocket protectors weren’t clues enough, they’re huddled around the table and bickering over trading cards. The cards flash and sparkle with every movement. I have a feeling these aren’t your typical Pokemon.
“Those girls.” Troy nudges me, pointing to a bunch of blondes standing near the door. “They’re the cheerleaders.”
Where does this guy think I’m from? Siberia? Southern California is the cheerleader capital of the world-well, second maybe to Texas-and I have no problem identifying them. The blue and white uniforms are a dead giveaway. Even in street clothes, the matching hair ribbons mark them as the cheer squad.
But, Troy is cute and I don’t want to make any enemies on the first day-Stella is already enemy enough-so I just ask, “Whose are they?”
Troy frowns, confused, but Nicole understands.
“Aphrodite’s.” She does not hide the disgust in her voice, rolling her eyes as she adds, “You’d think she was the patron goddess of athletics instead of love, for all they throw her name around.”
“Athletics,” Troy explains, “fall under the patronage of Ares.”
Looking up, I follow the direction of his gaze to a table in the center of the room. While I’m watching, the cheerleaders approach the table and fill some of the empty seats.
One, the blondest of them all, walks up behind a boy. His back is to me, so all I can see is his black curly hair. He stands up to embrace Blondie, settling his mouth over hers and smoothing his hand over her butt.
Holy crap!
Next to me, Troy says, “Looks like Griffin and Adara are on-again at the moment.”
“Who?” I ask absently.
“Griffin Blake and Adara Spencer. They get back together every summer,” Nicole says. “Never lasts more than a week into school.”
Griffin Blake. The name rolls through my mind like gentle thunder. He is a god-okay, bad choice of words, but even with his face hidden behind the cheerleader he is the most beautiful specimen of boyhood I have ever seen.
After a brief fantasy about his luscious hair, I take in the rest of him, starting with his height-all six-foot-plus of him. (Wait, do they use feet and inches in Greece? Maybe I should say all two meters of him.) Tall and broad-shouldered, but with the lean, sleek athletic build of a runner. Which instantly appeals to me, of course.
There’s something vaguely familiar about him.
His coal black hair curls over the white collar of the navy and sky blue striped rugby shirt he wears. Lifting his head from kissing Blondie, he turns to laugh at something someone at the table says.
It’s him! The guy from the beach.
Those full and soft lips spread into the most beautiful, open smile I have ever seen. So much more than that half smile he had given me that morning. And I know, absolutely 100 percent know, that one day I want him to smile at me that way.
Then I see a girl at the table-one of the lesser blondes-pointing a finger in my gawking direction. Griffin’s gaze turns on me, sees me openly staring at him, and erupts into laughter.
Winning that smile is going to be much harder than I thought.
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” I turn back to Nicole to find her glaring at me.
“Trust me,” she says with her customary bitterness. “You want nothing to do with Griffin Blake.”
“Why not?”
“Because Nic and Gri-” Troy begins.
“Shut it.” She gives him a warning look and then turns back to me, her bright blue eyes steady and serious. “Because no girl should leave the Academy with a shattered soul.”
Without another word, she drops her gaze to her food and resumes eating. I look to Troy for answers, but his attention is fully on his plate, too.
Nicole’s warning doesn’t make any sense. Sure, he’s with the cheerleaders and the jocks-normally a formula for making a jerkbut when we met on the beach this morning he was totally nice. He even got me home in time to clean up before school.
Nicole must be mistaken.
Griffin Blake is a really nice guy.
“Welcome to the Academy track and cross-country team tryouts,”
Coach Zakinthos says. “Some of you are familiar with the process, but for new students I will explain.”
It may be my imagination, but I think he is talking only to me.
Everyone else seems bored by his little welcome speech.
We’re sitting on the soccer field at the center of a big stone stadium that’s on the far side of the campus from Damian’s house. It looks like a mini version of the Coliseum in Rome, complete with rows and rows of stone benches. We’ve already done group stretching and some stuff to get our blood flowing, like jumping jacks and push-ups-while Coach Z paces back and forth. His white and blue track pants whoosh with every step.
The apparel aside, he looks like he’s never seen the athletic side of a sporting event. I guess being part-god is no guarantee of physical perfection. Approaching ancient, over fifty at least, he has a beer gut to rival diehard football fans. A light jog looks like a stretch, let alone actually making it on a run.
Maybe he coaches discus.
“Everyone will select up to five events and will compete in those events for a position on the team. The top three finishers in each will automatically earn a slot, but the final roster rests at the coaches’ discretion. In distance running, there’s just one race. Six boys and six girls qualify. Any questions so far?”
He looks right at me. There are at least sixty kids sitting on the field, but his question is only for me. I throw a sideways glance at Griffin, sitting near the back of the group with Adara between his legs and surrounded by the rest of the Ares clique. His piercing blue eyes are trained on me.
I start to smile, but as soon as he notices me looking, he scowls and looks away. Boys can be so strange.
When I don’t answer, Coach Z glances at his clipboard. “There are twenty-five events to choose from. Throwers stay here with me.
Jumpers go with Coach Andriakos. Hurdlers with Coach Karatzas.
Sprinters meet Coach Vandoros at the starting line. And distance runners, Coach Leonidas is waiting for you at the entrance to the tunnel.”
Around me, everyone gets up and heads off toward their coaches.
I know I am going to the tunnel, but I hold back, waiting to see where Griffin goes.
Adara, her arms wrapped around his neck, gives him a quick kiss before bouncing off with the rest of the sprinters. He turns and sets off at a jog.
Toward the tunnel.
Omigod.
Heart thumping in my chest, I follow close behind. From the second I saw him on the beach I thought he looked like a distance runner, but now I know it’s true.
That’s one thing we have in common.
“Ah, Miss Castro,” Coach Leonidas says as I walk through the tunnel, “you are a distance runner.” He smiles and rubs his hands together. “Excellent. Tell me about your background.”
Griffin is in front of me and he turns to hear my answer.
“Well,” I say, trying to focus on running and not the gorgeous hunk watching me with the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen, “I ran cross-country and long-distance track for three years at my old high school.”
“How’d you do?” Griffin asks.
I can’t tell if he’s teasing or asking, so I answer, “I won the Western Regional Championship twice.”
“What about the third year?”
This time I can tell he’s making fun-only to impress his obnoxious friends, of course. Why else would he be such a jerk when he was so nice to me this morning?
Well, while wanting him to smile at me someday might include a laugh or two, I don’t actually want him laughing at me. It’s a fine line. “Freshman year I came in second.”
He looks like he’s about to say something, but Coach Leonidas interrupts. “Wonderful,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll bring a lot to the team.”
“Thanks, Coach Leo…”
Okay, so Coach Z said his name, but I can’t remember how to pronounce it. Everything in this country is a tongue twister.
“Call me Lenny,” he says. “Everyone does.”
“Thanks,” I say again, “Coach Lenny.”
“Now that the pleasantries are out of the way,” he says, “let’s get to the running.”
Everyone cheers-still full of the excitement of the first day of the season and not yet worn down by miles and miles and miles of running.
I cheer, too. After all the embarrassment and inferiority I’ve faced today, I’m ready to show them all what I’m really good at.
“We’re going to start out with a nice, easy warm-up before we run the qualifying race.” Coach Lenny looks happy, like he loves running and thinks it’s great luck he gets to make a living doing it.
“Follow me.”
He turns and heads out of the tunnel, into the afternoon sun.
Now Coach Lenny looks like an athlete. There’s no trace of belly, beer or otherwise, on his wiry frame-he’s not hiding one, either, because his white tank and blue running shorts leave little to the imagination. He sets the pace-the twenty kids who’d assembled in the tunnel fall in behind him-a gentle run that’s not about to get anyone sweaty. I focus on the footfalls of his sneakers, counting out the rhythm in my mind and letting it sink into me.
The steady rhythm matches my heart rate.
I am vaguely aware that our pace is increasing. As we build up speed I stay focused on Coach Lenny’s sneakers, never letting him get more than a few feet ahead of me.
I get lost in the run.
Barely noticing my surroundings, I’m surprised when he looks over his shoulder and announces, “We’ll make two more laps around the stadium before heading to the course.”
I’m in the middle of the lead group, content for the warm-up to hold back my pace. Don’t want to wear myself out before the qualifier.
I love everything about running: the steady rhythm of my sneakers hitting the ground, the adrenaline and endorphins pulsing through my bloodstream, the cotton of myPAIN IS WEAKNESS LEAVINGTHE BODYtee rubbing against my skin with every step. If I could do it without winding up in a tree or a ditch, I’d close my eyes and just… feel.
Running is when I know I’m alive.
Everything else is downtime.
Step, step, step, breathe. Step, step, step, breathe.
That pattern is my comfort.
Nothing else that happened today matters anymore. The crazi ness of my life melts away. In my mind, I’m back home-running on the beach with Dad shouting encouragements and urging me to push myself. No gods, evil stepsisters, or mind-muddling boys allowed. All I know is I’m running and I feel perfect.
“Hold up here,” Coach Lenny announces, stopping us at a clearing with a smooth dirt path that leads into a pine forest.
“Everyone walk it out, bring your heart rate back down. Get a drink of water.”
He points to a drinking fountain near the head of the trail. I wait until everyone else has taken a drink before getting my own.
Someone taps on my shoulder, just as I suck down a big gulp.
Coughing, I turn to find Troy standing behind me, a big grin on his face.
“Hey,” I say, wiping at the water dripping down my chin. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought you might need a good luck charm.”
He holds out his hand, keeping it fisted so I can’t see whatever’s inside. I hold out mine beneath his. With a twist of his wrist, he opens his fist and I feel something fall onto my palm.
“A feather?”
“Yeah,” he says, blushing a little. Pink looks good on his cheeks.
“To help you fly faster.”
“Thanks,” I say, blushing myself. “That’s sweet.”
“You running today, Travatas?” Coach Lenny asks.
“No way.” Troy backs away. “Just saying hello.”
“If you stay, you run.”
Troy turns to me, looking a little panicked. “I’ve gotta run. I mean go.” He glances nervously at Coach Lenny. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He’s gone before I can say, “See ya.”
I don’t have time to laugh at his hasty escape, Coach Lenny blows his whistle and calls us all to the starting line.
“I’m going to lead the course,” he says. “And I’ll be waiting back here when you finish the circuit. Follow the path marked with white flags.”
Holding up his stopwatch, he turns to the course, blows his whistle, and starts the race. My heart rate kicks up at the shrill whistle, knowing this is the moment I have to prove myself.
Monitoring my pace, I stay in the middle of the pack. I’ve always been a strong finisher and it’s better if I conserve some energy for the last kilometer than burn it all off at the start. A couple kids bolted out of the gate and I know they will be running out of steam halfway through.
I maintain my pace, just like Dad taught me.
Step, step, step, breathe. Step, step, step“Why bother trying out?”
Griffin’s question-from right next to me-startles me and I trip over my own feet, but manage to stay upright and moving forward.
It takes several steps before I get my rhythm back.
“What do you mean?”
I risk a glance.
His blue eyes are focused on the course and his mouth is twisted in a smirk. “You’ll never qualify,” he says. “You’re a nothos. You can’t keep up.”
Who is he to tell me what I can and can’t do? He doesn’t know me. Cute boy or not, I can beat his tail.
“I’m keeping up with you,” I snap.
“Only because I’m letting you.”
His expression doesn’t change and he doesn’t look away from the course, but I can tell he’s laughing at me. I really can’t stand it when people laugh at me.
I feel a little surge of extra energy-adrenaline-and pick up my pace.
“When the race is over,” I say, letting his taunts get the better of me, “you can let me know how it feels to be beat by a nothos.”
That hits home. His anger doesn’t show on his face, but his hands ball into fists and his movement becomes a little tighter.
“That,” he says through clearly clenched teeth, “will never happen.”
What happened to the super sweet guy I met on the beach? This is more like the guy Nicole warned me about. “Were you possessed by the Furies after we met this morning? Or did I just catch you off guard before you’d had your jerk juice?”
“This morning,” he snaps, “I didn’t know who you were.”
“Oh,” I say, “you’re only nice to strangers. Now that we’re acquainted you have to be rude. Got it.”
“If I were being rude,” he said, his voice cold and hard, “youwould know it. I’m only amusing myself to pass the time. In about half a kilometer you’ll be in my dust.”
Well, I didn’t get to be Western Regional Champion-twicewithout learning how to ignore head games. Cross-country is full of trash talk, but it’s only effective if you let it get to you.
“Whatever.” I shrug, “We’ll see at the finish line.”
Looking ahead, I realize we have dropped back a little from the main group. I can’t let him get me off my race. I count to three before kicking up my pace another notch. Already I can feel myself closing the gap.
“Never,” Griffin says as he speeds up, “mess with a descendant of Ares, nothos.”
Then, before I can reply, a flash of light glows at my feet and the next thing I know I’m tumbling headfirst into the packed dirt path.
Griffin and the other runners disappear around a bend in the course and all I’m left with is a thin cloud of dust. Jumping to my feet, I look down to find my shoelaces untied, or, more accurately, untied and retied together.
Stepping out of my shoes rather than bother untying the supernatural knot-which is probably impossible to undo, anyway-I turn and start the long trudge back to the starting line.