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.”
“What bet?” I repeat.
“It’s nothing,” Griffin says—not that I believe him.
“Nothing?” Adara looks at Griffin, shocked. “I think this was a major coup.”
“And I thank you for it.” Stella gives Griffin the most evil looking smile I have ever seen.
“What bet!?”
Adara answers, “It’s quite simple, really.”
“Griffin said he could get you to fall for him,” Stella says, “even though he treated you like trash when you first got here.”
“I didn’t think he could,” Adara says. “I thought you had more self-respect than that.”
“But I knew he could.” Stella winks at him. “He’s charming and you’re weak. I was right.”
Griffin stands there, stiff and silent.
“We made a bet.” Adara links her arm through his. “A latte at Kaldi’s coffee shop to whoever was right.”
I stare at Griffin. “You knew about this? You started this?”
He makes no indication he even hears me.
“I must confess,” Stella coos, turning her attention to Adara. “I did cheat a little. I gave Phoebe some motivation to spend time with him—to befriend him. If you want to call the bet, I understand.”
“No,” Adara assures her. “You were right. Whether you urged her along or not, she still fell for him like a lead anchor.”
My head is spinning.
It was all because of a bet. He spent time with me, treated me like a friend, all because of some stupid bet. The whole Hercules thing was probably a total lie. And that garbage about breaking up with Adara.
Before I can stop myself, I take two steps toward Griffin, pull back my hand, and slap him as hard as I can. I don’t wait around to see if I leave a mark.
“Nicole was right about you. You’re a selfish bastard.” I barely have control of the tears trying to fill my eyes. “Stay away from me.”
Then I run all the way home.
Mom tries to get me to talk when I won’t even leave my room for dinner, but I tell her it’s just hormones and she leaves me alone. Even if she doesn’t believe me.
Spending an entire day locked in my room, avoiding all social interaction, gives me a lot of time to think. I go back over all the moments with Griffin, analyzing each one, and decide that I can’t tell when he was being straight and when he was playing me. Which only reinforces my decision to stay as far away from him as possible. I can’t trust myself to tell which Griffin I’m talking to.
Around ten o’clock I decide to check my e-mail.
I have been avoiding it all day—just in case there’s another drama/crisis/problem waiting for me in my inbox. After deleting all the spam—you would think the gods could develop some sort of supernatural spam-blocker—I have three new messages. I decide to open in the order of most likely to make me feel better—or rather, least likely to make me feel like worse crap.
The first is from Coach Jack at USC.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Cross-Country Scholarships
Miss Phoebe Castro, I am pleased to announce that you are being considered for the Helen Rawlins Memorial Scholarship. Pending your successful admission to the University of Southern California, you will compete with three other candidates for this prestigious scholarship that will cover your tuition, books, fees, room and board for up to four years of undergraduate education.
Annual renewal of the scholarship is dependent upon maintaining an above-average academic
record and participation in the USC cross-country team.
Best of luck,
Coach Jack Farley
Oh. My. Gods. Page 17
