“Come on, Phoebe.” He levels an exasperated stare at me. “You’ve just realized you have powers. Of course it’s going to take some training to learn how to control them.” His lips creep into a small smile. “When I first got my powers I was eight. I zapped my nanny to the Amazon.”
“But see . . .” I turn to face him. “. . . you’ve had ten years to practice. How can I expect to control them like you—”
“You won’t,” he says, squeezing me closer. “Not at first.”
I shake my head, overwhelmed by the idea of having powers and having to learn to control them.
“For a while—maybe even a long while—they’ll be controlled by your emotions.” He places his hand over mine, lacing our fingers together. “Like today.”
I turn to face him. “That’s what I’m worried about. I didn’t even know what I was doing. What if I—”
“You wouldn’t have been driven to using your powers by the need to prove yourself if I hadn’t let my emotions get the better of me at tryouts.” He looks out at the water, his cheeks red. “I didn’t consciously knot your shoelaces, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
He takes my hand and starts rubbing his thumb in little circles against my palm.
He sighs. “I was so conflicted about my feelings for you—feeling like I should scare you off because I thought you were a nothos and at the same time feeling overwhelmingly attracted to you . . . to something inside you. Since that first morning on the beach. Even though I knew who—what—you were, I couldn’t stop feeling this way. I just—” His cheeks turn redder. “My powers responded to my emotions and—”
“Sent me tumbling face-first into the dirt?” I say, joking. “Yeah, I remember that part.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, squeezing my hand tighter. “I wish I could go back and—”
“So you’re saying even you can’t fully control your powers?”
With his free hand, he rubs his palm against the knee of his jeans. “It takes a lifetime to have complete control. We all have to work at it.” Looking up at me from beneath his lids, he adds, “The teachers at the Academy can help you learn control faster than you ever could on your own.”
Is he right? Would it be better if I stayed on Serfopoula through next year and learned how to use—I mean control my powers?
“Who knows what havoc you might wreak on the poor, unsuspecting citizens of Los Angeles?” He leans over and nudges me with his shoulder. “You’d be endangering the safety of millions of people.”
“Really?” I ask with feigned awe. “Am I that powerful?”
He looks like he wants to lie, but thinks better of it—and a good thing, too, because I’ve had enough lies and half-truths to last me a lifetime.
“No,” he admits. “Probably not. But you could level a house or two.”
“Well, then. For the safety of Los Angeles,” I say in mock severity, leaning into his shoulder, “I should learn to control my powers before I return.”
“So you’re staying?” he asks, his voice full of anticipation. “Through Level 13?”
“Maybe . . .” I hedge. “If you’ll teach me one trick.”
“Anything.”
“Teach me how to turn water green.”
He frowns at me. “What have you got planned?”
“Nothing,” I promise innocently. “I just want to help my mom with her wedding color scheme.”
“All right,” he says, laying back and pulling me down next to him. “I’ll teach you on one condition.”
Smiling, I nudge closer until my mouth is inches from his. “What’s that?”
“You never . . .” He leans forward to peck a kiss on my cheek. “. . . ever . . .” On my other cheek. “. . . use that trick . . .” On the tip of my nose. “. . . on me.”
Instead of answering, I kiss him.
I wonder if he realizes that no answer means no promise. Then he reaches up and cradles my cheek in his hand and I stop wondering anything.
I’m kissing a boy with godly powers and movie-star-worthy looks. I’m part god myself. I’m surrounded by the turquoise Aegean, and stretched out on the pristine beach of Serfopoula, a tiny island I’m suddenly glad no one has ever even heard of.
Epilogue
WHEN THE ACADEMY’S string quartet plays the opening strains of Handel’s Water Music the flower girl—Damian’s four-yearold niece—starts down the aisle, throwing white rose petals everywhere.
Beside me I can feel Stella fuming, and not because I get to walk with Damian’s only attendant, his best man, and she has to walk alone.
The wedding planner points to her and motions down the aisle. Stella shakes her head vehemently, backing up like she wants to leave the church.
“Huh-uh,” I say, pushing her back into the doorway. “Don’t want to ruin the wedding.”
Her stare could melt glass. And if Damian hadn’t grounded her powers this morning, I’d probably be a puddle on the floor right now. With one last snarl in my direction, she turns and walks toward the altar.
I don’t know why she’s so upset.
The green tint of her hair really brings out her eyes. And coordinates perfectly with her blue-green bridesmaid dress. I think after all the crap she put me through those first few weeks of school, I deserve a little good-natured retribution. Besides, it’s not like it’ll be documented for all eternity—Griffin taught me how to make sure it doesn’t show up in the photos.
Some people are never happy.
I, on the other hand, have never been happier.
I managed to make it through the first semester of Level 12 with my B average—my C in Literature balanced out by an A in Art History. I’ve even decided to stay on another year at the Academy—only partly so I can go to Oxford with Griffin next year. I’m having a blast—sometimes literally—learning how to use my powers. Another year of instruction and my Nikes might actually stop spontaneously combusting every time I’m in a close race.
As I pass the pews, I glance at Cesca and Nola and smile. Nola nudges Troy, who hasn’t noticed that the wedding started two minutes ago. He looks up and waves. Thankfully he was very forgiving of a certain ignorant girl who didn’t believe he didn’t use his powers to help her cheat.
Cesca is arguing with the boy next to her—he was in my Physics class but I can never remember his name.
Leave it to Cesca to pick a battle with a complete stranger.
In the pew on the other side of the aisle Nicole and Griffin are sitting with Damian’s sister-in-law. Griffin has Damian’s youngest niece in his lap. He looks up at me and grins just as the toddler slaps him so loud I hear it.
Griffin scowls like I had something to do with her lashing out. I just smile and let him wonder. It’s better if he doesn’t know what I’m capable of.
Approaching the altar I look at Damian. He looks handsome in his tuxedo, but he also looks . . . nervous! I can’t believe it. I never thought I would live to see Damian Petrolas nervous, but here he is.
Grinning like a fool, he looks at me. I smile softly and nod. He has nothing to be nervous about. Mom’s as in love with him as he is with her. He relaxes a little and I sigh with relief. We’d probably have to do this whole ceremony again if he passes out.
I take my place next to Stella and ignore her fuming.
The quartet switches smoothly over to the wedding march. Everyone in the packed church stands, turning to watch Mom walk down the aisle.
She looks beautiful—a vision in ecru.
I’ve never seen her happier, either.
As she makes her step-stop way down the aisle, I think about how much has changed in a few short months. And through all the ups and downs, I think the ends definitely justify the means. There isn’t a single thing I would go back and change.
Not that I could.
Nicole promises me that any attempts at time travel result in serious punishment—and the possible nullification of all existence.
But I’ve learned that
I do have a few tricks up my sleeve.
Keeping my hand hidden behind my bouquet, I point a finger at the ceiling. The air above the guests glows faintly. Dozens of white rose petals float perfectly to the floor, showering Mom in a floral snowfall. She looks up, letting some of the petals float over her face. When she looks back down the aisle she gives me one of the biggest tear-filled smiles I’ve ever seen.
She mouths, Thank you.
I just smile. I am definitely getting used to this goddess thing.
THANK YOU . . . . . .
Sarah Shumway, goddess of editing, for helping forge my story into something worthy of the Dutton name—and for understanding—or at least not fighting—my excessive use of em dashes. . . .
Jenny Bent, goddess of agenting, for being my perfect agent, keeping the faith, and having my back every step along the sometimes rocky way, and for telling me to call more often. . . .
Sharie Kohler, goddess of critique partnering, for saving me more times and in more ways than I can count, and for inspiring me to be a better writer in every way. . . .
Shane Bolks, goddess of mentoring, for answering my endless stream of questions, and for listening to all my wild ideas with admirable patience and a straight face. . . .
The Buzz Girls, goddesses of booksboysbuzz.com, for being the best cheering section a girl could want, and for sharing their innermost selves without hesitation or reservation. . . .
Don and Jane Childs, god and goddess of parenting, for supporting me unconditionally no matter how many times I say, “Here’s my new plan,” and for insisting that it’s because they love me and not because I’m their only child. I love you, too.
Oh. My. Gods. Page 24
