Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp

by Tera Lynn Childs

  "Well. I ha­ve be­en han­ging out with a bunch of gods." I say. "May­be it's rub­bing off."

  "Co­me on," she says, gi­ving me a te­asing nud­ge to­ward the do­or. "Let's go see if we can sne­ak so­me ice cre­am past Hes­per to go with the lo­uke­uma­des."

  "Uh-oh," I say, le­ading the way. "I think you're ha­ving de­lu­si­onal fan­ta­si­es aga­in."

  She just la­ughs and fol­lows me to the kitc­hen. The day we can sne­ak an­y­t­hing past Hes­per is the day Dad knocks on the front do­or.

  After be­ing sho­o­ed out of the kitc­hen-not only wit­ho­ut ice cre­am, but al­so wit­ho­ut our lo­uko­uma­des, which Hes­per con­fis­ca­ted to ser­ve with des­sert (for a ho­use­ke­eper, she's got skills that wo­uld ma­ke an army ge­ne­ral pro­ud)-Mom and I jo­in Da­mi­an in the di­ning ro­om.

  "Pho­ebe," he says as I ta­ke my se­at at the an­ci­ent tab­le, "he­re is the in­for­ma­ti­on you ne­ed for to­mor­row."

  I ta­ke the pa­le blue pa­per from him. It lo­oks li­ke one of tho­se back-to-scho­ol shop­ping lists you get from an of­fi­ce-sup­ply sto­re. What am I? In kin­der­gar­ten? Do I ne­ed to be su­re to bring cra­yons and sa­fety scis­sors?

  "What's to­mor­row?" Mom asks.

  "God­dess Bo­ot Camp," I say ab­sently, re­ading the int­ro­duc­tory no­te.

  Wel­co­me cam­pers!

  Dyna­mot­he­os De­ve­lop­ment Camp (col­lo­qu­i­al­ly known as God­dess Bo­ot Camp) is a li­fe-chan­ging ex­pe­ri­en­ce that's al­so lots of fun. In the next two we­eks, you will le­arn how to har­ness and cont­rol yo­ur po­wers and you will al­so bond with yo­ur fel­low he­mat­he­os cam­pers. We ho­pe you will co­me away with not only a firm grip on yo­ur po­wers, but al­so firm fri­ends­hips with the ot­her girls.

  "What is God­dess Bo­ot Camp?" Mom asks.

  "Dyna­mot­he­os De­ve­lop­ment Camp," Da­mi­an exp­la­ins. "A tra­ining in­ten­si­ve for stu­dents who ha­ve not yet mas­te­red cont­rol over the­ir po­wers."

  "And you think Pho­ebe ne­eds this camp?"

  Whe­re has Mom be­en the last few months? I me­an, I know she's be­en wrap­ped up in ho­ney­mo­on plan­ning and the idea of star­ting a part-ti­me the­rapy prac­ti­ce in the vil­la­ge, but she can't ha­ve mis­sed all of my po­wers-re­la­ted di­sas­ters. Es­pe­ci­al­ly not the one that in­vol­ved her bed­ro­om tur­ning in­to a Ro­man bath for a day and a half.

  Next on the pa­per is a sup­pli­es check­list.

  All cam­pers will ne­ed to bring the fol­lo­wing items:

  com­for­tab­le atb­le­tic clot­hing

  Not a prob­lem sin­ce that's pretty much all I own.

  spi­ral no­te­bo­ok

  wri­ting uten­sil (pen or pen­cil only, no mar­kers or cra­yons)

  po­si­ti­ve at­ti­tu­de

  I roll my eyes. A po­si­ti­ve at­ti­tu­de? What is this, che­er camp? And what's up with the no-cra­yons thing? Is that re­al­ly a prob­lem? I don't think I've even se­en a cra­yon sin­ce ele­men­tary scho­ol.

  "Her cont­rol has not prog­res­sed as qu­ickly as I'd ho­ped," Da­mi­an says. "I think she will be­ne­fit from the in­ten­se tra­ining of the camp."

  "What do you think, Pho­ebo­la?" Mom asks.

  I lo­ok up, start­led. It's be­en so long sin­ce so­me­one ac­tu­al­ly as­ked me my opi­ni­on on so­met­hing that af­fects my own li­fe that I'm not su­re how to ans­wer.

  "Um…" I say, bu­ying ti­me to co­me up with a res­pon­se. "I think Da­mi­an's right. I'm a dan­ger to so­ci­ety. My lack of cont­rol pretty much sucks. Un­less you li­ke wa­king up to a bed­ro­om snows­torm."

  That ta­ught me a les­son abo­ut wis­hing for air-con­di­ti­oning. An is­land bre­eze thro­ugh an open win­dow will do just fi­ne.

  "That was cer­ta­inly a chilly surp­ri­se." Mom says. "It wasn't dan­ge­ro­us, tho­ugh. No­ne of yo­ur… mis­haps ha­ve ca­used las­ting harm."

  "Not yet," I ag­ree. "But what abo­ut the next ti­me? Or the ti­me af­ter that? Or the ti­me af­ter that? If I don't get my po­wers un­der cont­rol. the­re's al­ways the chan­ce so­me­one might get hurt."

  And I might get smo­ted for it.

  "If you think that's what you ne­ed." Mom says, tho­ugh she still lo­oks wor­ri­ed. "I don't want you to spend the who­le sum­mer wor­king. You ne­ed to ha­ve fun, too."

  "I will," I pro­mi­se. "I can fo­cus on fun and the Pythi­an Ga­mes as so­on as I pass the stu­pid test."

  "What test?" She lo­oks at Da­mi­an. "What test?"

  Je­ez, didn't Da­mi­an tell Mom an­y­t­hing abo­ut this? He can exp­la­in whi­le I fi­nish re­ading the flyer.

  On tbe first day of camp we will me­et in the Aca­demy co­urt­yard at 10 a.m. Camp will dis­miss at 4 p.m. Lunch will be pro­vi­ded. Ext­ra-camp tu­to­ri­als will be sche­du­led at co­un­se­lor disc­re­ti­on for cam­pers ne­eding ad­di­ti­onal or per­so­na­li­zed help. Co­un­se­lors will wa­it witb cam­pers ne­eding to be pic­ked up on the front steps.

  Ne­eding to be pic­ked up? So­me of the ot­her cam­pers must be pretty bad off if they can't even go ho­me wit­ho­ut an es­cort. I must not be in as bad sha­pe as I tho­ught.

  "The gods are con­cer­ned by Pho­ebe's lack of cont­rol." Da­mi­an says in his he­ad­mas­ter to­ne. They ha­ve de­ci­ded she must pass a test be­fo­re she can con­ti­nue her stu­di­es."

  "What kind of test?" Mom asks.

  "I am not cer­ta­in." Da­mi­an cle­ars his thro­at. "In my only pri­or ex­pe­ri­en­ce with such a si­tu­ati­on, the gods pla­ced the stu­dent in a si­tu­ati­on de­sig­ned to push his rest­ra­int to the li­mit."

  "And what hap­pens if she du­esn't pass this test?"

  I lo­ok up when Mom asks this be­ca­use I want to know the ans­wer, too. Su­rely he won't be qu­ite as eva­si­ve with her.

  He do­esn't get the chan­ce.

  "Eve­ning, ever­yo­ne," Stel­la sing­songs as she flo­un­ces in­to the ro­om. She drops her gi­ant pink pur­se-the Pep­to co­lor ma­kes me want to retch- on the buf­fet tab­le and sli­des in­to her se­at ac­ross from me.

  "You're la­te, " Da­mi­an says, gi­ving her a stern lo­ok. He's go­od at stern lo­oks, a ta­lent I enj­oy mo­re when they're di­rec­ted at Stel­la than at me.

  "Da­ra and I we­re go­ing over a few last-mi­nu­te de­ta­ils for to­mor­row." She flas­hes him her best I-can-do-no-wrong smi­le. "You wo­uldn't want us to be unp­re­pa­red, wo­uld you?"

  Be­fo­re he can ans­wer-tho­ugh I know he wo­uld to­tal­ly say, "Of co­ur­se not"-Hes­per swe­eps in­to the ro­om with a tray full of fo­od.

  'Mmmm.,it smells won­der­ful," Stel­la says, "Psa­ria pla­ki?"

  Hes­per just hums in ag­re­ement as she sets pla­tes down for each of us. Ar­ran­ged on the oval pla­te is a co­lor­ful bed of chop­ped ve­ge­tab­les-bright oran­ge car­rots, li­me-gre­en le­eks, and warm yel­low po­ta­to­es-under a who­le fish. And by who­le fish, I me­an the wbo-o-ole fish. Eyes, gills, and ta­il inc­lu­ded.

  1 sup­press a shud­der and won­der if mo­ving the car­rots and po­ta­to­es aro­und on the pla­te will ma­ke it lo­ok li­ke I ate the fish. From the skep­ti­cal lo­ok the fish is gi­ving me, I do­ubt it.

  As lHes­per le­aves with the empty tray, Da­mi­an asks.,"I trust you girls will ma­na­ge all right on yo­ur own whi­le we are go­ne?"

  We've be­en go­ing over this in a do­zen dif­fe­rent ways ever sin­ce they bo­oked the trip back in Janu­ary. It's not li­ke Stel­la and I aren't adults. Stel­la's go­ing to be at Ox­ford in the fall, and if I hadn't de­ci­ded to stick aro­und for Le­vel 13, I'd be half­way to USC. I can even vo­te in the next elec­ti­on by ab­sen­tee bal­lot. Not that I can con­vin­ce Mom and Da­mi­an. They se­em to think we're still in juni­or high and t
o­tal­ly in­ca­pab­le of sur­vi­ving sans cha­pe­ro­ne wit­ho­ut eit­her kil­ling our­sel­ves or each ot­her.

  So lit­tle trust.

  "Of co­ur­se, Daddy. We'll be fi­ne." Stel­la lo­oks at me. "I'll ke­ep my eye on Pho­ebe."

  "What is that sup­po­sed to me­an?" I ask, stab­bing at a car­rot.

  Stel­la just smi­les and shrugs.

  I scowl.

  This is how our une­asy tru­ce works. She ma­kes ob­no­xi­o­us re­marks li­ke that-it's who she is. Qu­e­en of the cut­ting com­ments. So­me­ti­mes I let them sli­de. So­me­ti­mes I'm itc­hing for a fight.

  After the day I've had, my to­le­ran­ce me­ter is on ze­ro.

  Fo­cu­sing on one of the big fat ka­la­ma­ta oli­ves on her pla­te, I pic­tu­re a big ugly be­et­le. I know I can do this. I'm vi­su­ali­zing the oli­ve tur­ning in­to the be­et­le. I can see it. It's go­ing to-

  The ha­ir on the back of my neck stands up.

  As I sta­re at the oli­ve, sud­denly lit­tle black legs that lo­ok li­ke li­co­ri­ce la­ces pop out on each si­de and start to wig­gle aro­und. All right, so the legs aren't even long eno­ugh to re­ach the pla­te. But still, it's a suc­cess. I wan­ted the oli­ve to be­co­me a be­et­le and it (kin­da) did.

  My po­wers cont­rol is de­fi­ni­tely imp­ro­ving.

  At le­ast I didn't co­nj­ure up re­al be­et­les or anyt­hing-

  "Pho­ebe!" Da­mi­an ro­ars.

  I te­ar my eyes away from my suc­cess on Stel­la's pla­te.

  Craw­ling up Da­mi­an's tie-and along his col­lar and out of his shirt poc­ket and over his cuff links-are re­al, li­ve be­et­les.

  "Go­od he­avens." Mom gasps.

  Da­mi­an clo­ses his eyes, his jaw clenc­hed in cle­ar loss of pa­ti­en­ce.

  Not aga­in. "He­re, let me-"

  "No." Da­mi­an in­ter­rupts. "I'll ta­ke ca­re of them."

  He glows for a se­cond and then the be­et­les are go­ne.

  Why can't I ha­ve that kind of easy cont­rol? I me­an, I know he's had a li­fe­ti­me to le­arn, but just a lit­tle tas­te of con­ta­in­ment wo­uld be ni­ce.

  "Da­mi­an, I'm sorry," I say, gi­ving him my best apo­lo­ge­tic lo­ok. "I sho­uldn't ha­ve tri­ed to use my po­wers at the din­ner tab­le."

  "No, you sho­uld not ha­ve." He re­le­ases a he­avy sigh. When he opens his eyes, he smi­les and picks up his fork. "Let's con­ti­nue our me­al, shall we?"

  I gla­re at Stel­la, as if this is all her fa­ult.

  On the out­si­de, she's all com­po­su­re and high­lights and happy, preppy chic. But her gray eyes are full of smug. Li­ke my re­ac­ti­on- my botc­hed po­wers usa­ge-is exactly what she wan­ted. I think she enj­oys our not-qu­ite-sis­terly spar­ring ses­si­ons as much as I do.

  So­me­ti­mes I think it's mo­re ha­bit with us than ac­tu­al dis­li­ke. Sec­retly- and I wo­uld ne­ver ad­mit this un­der tor­tu­re or thre­ats of smo­ting or pro­mi­ses of ice cre­am-I ac­tu­al­ly kind of ad­mi­re her. She ne­ver pre­tends to be anyt­hing but her­self. Can't say that abo­ut most pe­op­le.

  She grabs an oli­ve-the legs now han­ging limp-and says, "I think it's lucky for all of us that you're go­ing to bo­ot camp. Me­al­ti­me will be sa­fe aga­in."

  She pops the oli­ve in her mo­uth and I'm only partly sa­tis­fi­ed by the dis­gus­ted lo­ok on her fa­ce. The rest of me is still di­sap­po­in­ted that my suc­cess tur­ned to fa­ilu­re so qu­ickly.

  As much as Stel­la's snarky com­ment abo­ut bo­ot camp bugs me, I know that cont­rol­ling my po­wers is re­al­ly im­por­tant.

  I'm ti­red of be­ing a su­per­na­tu­ral ha­zard.

  After din­ner, I ret­re­at to my ro­om and my lap­top. I call up my IM chat and am re­li­eved to find No­la and Ces­ca on­li­ne. If an­yo­ne can che­er me up it's my two best fri­ends.

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: hi girls!

  Prin­ces­sCe­sea: Pho­ebe!

  Gra­no­laGrrl: we've be­en wa­iting for you fo­re­ver

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: what's up?

  Prin­ces­sCe­sea: we ha­ve ex­ci­ting news

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: I got a sum­mer in­terns­hip with A La Mo­de ma­ga­zi­ne

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: in PA­RIS!!

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: omg Pa­ris?!? awe­so­me

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: tell me abo­ut it

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: when do­es it start?

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: the end of the month

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: may­be I can vi­sit you

  Pa­ris is only a three-and-a-half ho­ur flight from At­hens, and At­hens is only a three-ho­ur ferry ri­de from Se­ri­fus-the next is­land over. I bet on­ce I pass the test I can sne­ak away for a qu­i­ek vi­sit. Of co­ur­se that imp­li­es that I pass the test and don't end up han­ging from so­me me­di­eval tor­tu­re de­vi­ce in the dun­ge­on. With all my ot­her dist­rac­ti­ons, that's now­he­re ne­ar a su­re thing.

  For now, tho­ugh, I'm just ex­ci­ted for Ces­ca. I know how much she lo­ves Pa­ris and fas­hi­on. This is per­fect for her.

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: thats so awe­so­me C!

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: thanks

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: I'm be­yond ex­ci­ted

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: what's yo­ur news N?

  Gra­no­laGrrl: I might get a sum­mer re­se­arch grant from Ber­ke­ley

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: co­ol, what are you go­ing to re­se­arch?

  Gra­no­laGrrl: na­ti­ve cycla­di­an flo­ra

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: Eng­lish ple­ase?

  Gra­no­laGrrl: the flo­wers of Ser­fo­po­ula

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: OMG! do­es that me­an you'd be co­ming he­re?

  Gra­no­laGrrl: yes!

  Gra­no­laGrrl: *if* I get the grant

  I ha­ven't se­en No­la and Ces­ca sin­ce Mom and Da­mi­an's wed­ding last De­cem­ber. The­re was talk of me spen­ding part of the sum­mer with Yia Yia Min­ta in LA, or may­be vi­si­ting Aunt Me­gan in San Fran­cis­co, but when the Pythi­an Ga­mes tri­als ca­me up, tho­se plans got put on hold. If Grif­fin and I ma­ke the te­am, then we'll be tra­ining all sum­mer for the ga­mes in la­te August. This is a on­ce-every-fo­ur-ye­ars op­por­tu­nity, so I can't just toss it asi­de.

  But if Ces­ca is as clo­se as Pa­ris and No­la co­mes to Ser­fo­po­ula it­self, then it won't mat­ter if I can't get to Ca­li.

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: when do you find out?

  Gra­no­laGrrl: who knows?

  Gra­no­laGrrl: whe­ne­ver the grant com­mit­tee co­mes back from sum­mer hi­atus

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: you guys do not know how much you just ma­de my day

  Gra­no­laGrrl: so­met­hing wrong?

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: no, just a to­ugh day

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: so much bet­ter now

  Gra­no­laGrrl: got­ta go

  Gra­no­laGrrl: mom cal­ling

  Prin­ces­sCe­sea: me too

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: Tons of pac­king to do

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: night girls

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: so glad you're he­ading my way

  When I sign off my com­pu­ter i fe­el a mil­li­on ti­mes bet­ter. It's ama­zing what a dif­fe­ren­ce a lit­tle chat can ma­ke.

  As I fall in­to bed, I'm not even thin­king abo­ut to­mor­row. Or abo­ut Grif­fin and Ada­ra. Or the stu­pid test. Or Dad. Or ac­ci­den­tal smo­ting. In my mind it's al­re­ady we­eks from now and my two best fri­ends are he­re.

  Now, if only ac­tu­al ti­me wo­uld fly that fast.

  "Ri­se and shi­ne, cam­per."

  Thro­ugh the fog of sle­ep I he­ar a dis­gus­tingly che­er­ful vo­ice. Stel­la's dis­gus­tingly che­er­ful vo­ice. I must be ha­ving a night­ma­re. In re­al li­fe Stel­la is ne­ver che­er­ful. Con­des­cen­ding? Yes. Ob­no­xi­o­us? Ab­so­lu­tely. Just.
Not. Che­er­ful.

  "Co­me on. Pho­ebe­kins." the vo­ice says. "You ne­ed to get up and see Dad and Va­le­rie off. And you don't want to be la­te for camp."

  I'm blin­ded as my com­for­ter is jer­ked away and my eyes are ex­po­sed to the mor­ning sun­light stre­aming in my win­dow. Squ­in­ting, I for­ce one eye open.

  "What are you do­ing in my ro­om?" I grumb­le.

  "Wa­king you up, silly." She ta­kes me by the wrist and pulls me in­to a sit­ting po­si­ti­on. "They're le­aving in ten mi­nu­tes."

  The ins­tant she re­le­ases my wrist I fall back in­to my fluffy whi­te bed.

  But my eyes are open.

  As she walks away I eye her wa­rily. It's not li­ke Stel­la to be so sic­ke­ningly ent­hu­si­as­tic. She's mo­re the scowl-of-su­pe­ri­ority type. But to­day, everyt­hing abo­ut her scre­ams joy­ful­ness. From her sunny yel­low twin­set to her bright whi­te Keds.

  Wa­it. Stel­la do­esn't we­ar sne­akers. Not even the ca­su­al preppy kind.

  So­met­hing is de­fi­ni­tely sus­pi­ci­o­us.

  "Are you up. Pho­ebo­la?" Mom asks, po­king her he­ad in my do­or. "You know we're le­aving in-"

  "I'm up al­re­ady." I say, flin­ging my com­for­ter to the si­de.

  "Is Pho­ebe awa­ke?" Da­mi­an asks, wal­king up next to Mom. When he se­es me clim­bing out of bed he adds. "Go­od, yo­ur mot­her and I are abo­ut to de­part."

  "I know." I rub the sle­ep out of my eyes as I stumb­le ac­ross the ro­om. "Just gi­ve me two mi­nu­tes in the bath­ro­om."

  I squ­e­eze aro­und Mom and Da­mi­an and then past Stel­la, who is wa­iting in the hall. When did my ro­om be­co­me Uni­on Sta­ti­on? Thank­ful­ly I sle­ep in a mo­dest T-shirt and smi­ley-fa­ce bo­xers.

  In the bath­ro­om I qu­ickly splash cold wa­ter on my fa­ce and run a ha­irb­rush thro­ugh my ha­ir. I don't ha­ve the energy to pull it in­to a pony­ta­il, so I just le­ave it han­ging over my sho­ul­ders. I can al­ways se­cu­re it la­ter.