Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp

by Tera Lynn Childs

  "So did I," I say, tur­ning away and wal­king to my desk.

  "Pho­ebe, I didn't me­an to-"

  "I'd li­ke you to le­ave." My vo­ice cracks as I add, "Now."

  I stand in front of my desk, af­ra­id to mo­ve un­til he do­es-afra­id that my he­art will shat­ter comp­le­tely. For a long ti­me the­re's just si­len­ce, stil­lness in the air, as I can fe­el him watc­hing me.

  "I'm not Jus­tin," he whis­pers.

  Then, all of a sud­den, it's li­ke a va­cu­um sucks all the air out of my ro­om. The next thing I he­ar is the click of my do­or clo­sing be­hind him as he le­aves.

  I col­lap­se in­to my desk cha­ir, fol­ding my arms over my lap­top and la­ying my check on the smo­oth, plas­tic sur­fa­ce. My he­art fe­els li­ke it's be­en rip­ped out of my chest. The orac­le was wrong. Grif­fin and I aren't fa­ted for anyt­hing mo­re than he­ar­tac­he.

  It's not un­til I fe­el the wet­ness on my arm that I re­ali­ze I'm crying on my lap­top. The last thing I ne­ed is to fry my con­nec­ti­on to the out­si­de world. I sit up, wi­pe away my te­ars, and lift the top on my lap­top. I've ne­ver ne­eded No­la and Ces­ca mo­re in my li­fe, and if one of them isn't on­li­ne, I don't know what I'll do.

  But when I log in to chat, I see blank lit­tle fa­ces next to the­ir scre­en na­mes.

  Right. Ces­ca's pro­bably in Pa­ris by now. No­la's pro­bably at the lib­rary do­ing re­se­arch for her study. How can they both ha­ve so much gre­at stuff go­ing on when my li­fe is a mess?

  Ye­ah, I know that's to­tal­ly self-cen­te­red. It's not fa­ir for me to beg­rud­ge them go­od stuff. Es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce we're best fri­ends.

  Not one per­son on my fri­ends list is on­li­ne. Not Ces­ca or No­la, not Ni­co­le, not Troy. Not even the gor­gon che­er­le­ader qu­e­en-trust me, if I co­uld get Ada­ra off my fri­ends list I wo­uld, but the Aca­demy IM system se­ems to ha­ve a twis­ted sen­se of hu­mor abo­ut this. How can ever­yo­ne be una­va­ilab­le when I ne­ed them?

  Whi­le I'm sta­ring at the scre­en thro­ugh te­ar-fog­ged eyes, a yel­low smi­ley fa­ce shows up next to No­la's scre­en na­me.

  Thank the gods!

  I open up a new chat win­dow.

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: No­la!

  Gra­no­laGrrl: hey Pho­ebes

  Gra­no­laGrrl: what's up?

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: I think Grif­fin and I just bro­ke up

  Gra­no­laGrrl: omi­gods, what hap­pe­ned??

  I bi­te my lip to ke­ep from crying. Mo­re.

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: he's che­ating on me

  Gra­no­laGrrl: of co­ur­se he's not!

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: he is

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: with Ada­ra

  Gra­no­laGrrl: his ex? that's nuts

  Gra­no­laGrrl: he's crazy abo­ut you

  LostP­ho­ebe: he's be­en spen­ding lots of ti­me with her

  Gra­no­laGrrl: may­be the­re's a re­aso­nab­le exp­la­na­ti­on

  No­la al­ways se­es the go­od in pe­op­le. Whi­le this is a gre­at tra­it in a best fri­end-she al­ways lo­oks past my bad at­ti­tu­de when I'm in a crappy mo­od-she's not the most dis­cer­ning when it co­mes to cha­rac­ter. She blindly be­li­eves the best un­til pre­sen­ted with in­cont­ro­ver­tib­le pro­of. So­me­ti­mes not even then.

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: the­re's mo­re

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: he was in her dorm ro­om this af­ter­no­on

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: when he told me he was hel­ping his aunt

  Gra­no­laGrrl: are you su­re?

  Gra­no­laGrrl: did you ask him abo­ut it?

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: he ad­mit­ted it

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: he says it's not what I think

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: but he won't tell me what it *is*

  Gra­no­laGrrl" I'm so sorry swe­etie

  New te­ars rush to my eyes. If even No­la is wil­ling to ac­cept that I'm right, then all my nig­gling do­ubts are go­ne. How co­uld I ha­ve be­en so stu­pid over a guy… aga­in?

  Gra­no­laGrrl: I know how much he me­ans to you

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: gu­ess it wasn't mu­tu­al

  Gra­no­laGrrl: you ne­ver know

  Gra­no­laGrrl: he might still surp­ri­se you

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: do­ubt it

  Gra­no­laGrrl: pro­mi­se me you'll gi­ve him a chan­ce to exp­la­in

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: I did

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: he wo­uldn't

  Gra­no­laGrrl: gi­ve him one mo­re chan­ce

  Gra­no­laGrrl: for me

  I al­most say I won't. I don't want to. But for No­la, only for No­la.

  I will.

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: okay

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: for you

  Gra­no­laGrrl: I ne­ed to go

  Gra­no­laGrrl: you okay?

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: I'II be fi­ne

  Gra­no­laGrrl: I'll be on­li­ne aga­in la­ter

  Gra­no­laGrrl: lo­ve you

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: lo­ve you too

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: thanks

  I sta­re at the chat scre­en un­til her smi­ley fa­ce di­sap­pe­ars.

  Inste­ad of fe­eling bet­ter, re­as­su­red, I fe­el a lit­tle mo­re empty af­ter chat­ting with No­la. She didn't exactly say what I wan­ted to he­ar. That's No­la, tho­ugh. She al­ways says and do­es what's right, not what's con­ve­ni­ent or com­for­ting.

  Almost auto­ma­ti­cal­ly, ne­eding so­met­hing to ke­ep my mind busy, I click on the icon to check my e-ma­il. Three new mes­sa­ges. One from Ada­ra-no thank you. I click on the mes­sa­ge and am abo­ut to drag it to the trash when I see the fol­der I ma­de when I was mad at Grif­fin last ye­ar. "Li­ars." I drop he­re-ma­il in the­re. Even if she hasn't li­ed to me, I bet she wo­uld if I ga­ve her the chan­ce.

  The se­cond e-ma­il is from Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos.

  To: Lib­rary Emp­lo­ye­es

  Cc: he­adm3ster@thed­ca­demy.gr

  Bcc: los­t­p­ho­ebe@the­aca­demy.gr

  From: lib­rar­y­lady@the­aca­demy.gr

  Su­bj­ect: Sec­ret Arc­hi­ves Ac­cess

  For­mer Aca­demy lib­rary emp­lo­ye­es,

  Upon a re­cent ins­pec­ti­on of the lib­rary sec­ret arc­hi­ves, I ha­ve dis­co­ve­red two mis­sing vo­lu­mes in the Mo­unt Olym­pus re­cords. If you ha­ve any know­led­ge of the theft or whe­re­abo­uts for the­se vo­lu­mes, ple­ase con­tact me im­me­di­ately. No pu­ni­ti­ve ac­ti­on will be ta­ken if the vo­lu­mes are re­tur­ned wit­hin the we­ek.

  Also, ple­ase re­mem­ber that yo­ur right to ac­cess the sec­ret arc­hi­ves de­pends on yo­ur sta­tus as a lib­rary emp­lo­yee. If you are no lon­ger wor­king in the lib­rary, you sho­uld not ac­cess the sec­ret arc­hi­ves for ANY re­ason.

  Yo­urs,

  Phi­lip­pa Phi­li­po­ulos

  At le­ast she only blind-co­pi­ed me. Da­mi­an won't know I'm in­vol­ved. I wo­uldn't want him to get sus­pi­ci­o­us and rush ho­me from his ho­ney­mo­on. The last thing I ne­ed is Mom and Da­mi­an no­sing aro­und in the mid­dle of my trying to find out what hap­pe­ned to Dad.

  Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos sa­id two vo­lu­mes are mis­sing. Cle­arly, one of them is Dad's tri­al re­cord. I won­der what el­se was ta­ken. The last e-ma­il is yet anot­her bloc­ked mes­sa­ge.

  To: los­t­p­ho­ebe@the­aca­demy.gr

  From: [Bloc­ked]

  Su­bj­ect: [No Su­bj­ect]

  Uri­an Na­cus will not be ab­le to decrypt my iden­tity be­fo­re our me­eting.

  Do not be la­te.

  Just for ducks, I click print. When the blank pa­ge spits out, I sli­de it back in­to the pa­per tray. I'm so not surp­ri­sed. If e-ma­ils one and two wo­uldn't print, it wo­uld be so­me kind uf di­vi­ne in­ter­ven­ti­on if the third did.

 
Clo­sing down my com­pu­ter, I de­ci­de I ne­ed to get out of my ro­om, out of this ho­use. I ne­ed the cla­rity of tho­ught that only run­ning can bring. I grab the zip-up swe­ats­hirt off the back of my cha­ir. As I hurry thro­ugh the li­ving ro­om, I try not to ma­ke eye con­tact. Xan­der is back and I'm not up for con­ver­sa­ti­on. I can see him and Stel­la sit­ting on the co­uch-Stel­la flir­ta­ti­o­usly tur­ned to fa­ce him with one fo­ot tuc­ked up un­der­ne­ath her and Xan­der nonf­lir­ta­ti­o­usly fo­cu­sed on wha­te­ver he's wri­ting in a spi­ral no­te­bo­ok.

  May­be I can get to the front do­or-

  "Pho­ebe," Stel­la calls out be­fo­re I can es­ca­pe, "are you okay'?"

  "Fi­ne," I say, ho­ping she'll ta­ke the hint.

  Of co­ur­se subt­lety is not her strong su­it.

  "Grif­fin lo­oked pretty up­set when he left." She climbs off the co­uch and ap­pro­ac­hes me. Drop­ping her vo­ice to a whis­per, she asks. "Is everyt­hing all right?"

  "Just pe­achy," I say, and I can't qu­ite ke­ep the emo­ti­on out of my vo­ice.

  But ins­te­ad of po­un­cing on my tra­uma-I can just see her glo­ating to Ada­ra over my con­ti­nu­ed tor­ment-she puts her hand on my sho­ul­der and says, "I'm sorry." And then shocks the Ha­des out of me by ad­ding, "If you ever ne­ed so­me­one to talk to…"

  "Su­re." I try to smi­le-and hi­de my shock at her ap­pa­rently sin­ce­re of­fer. "Thanks."

  She smi­les sympat­he­ti­cal­ly.

  "I'm go­ing for a run," I say, un­com­for­tab­le with this fri­endly Stel­la. I jerk my hand back over my sho­ul­der. "I ne­ed so­me fresh air."

  Xan­der lo­oks up at me, his la­ven­der eyes wi­de and in­tent. He lo­oks li­ke he might say so­met­hing, but I turn and he­ad out­si­de be­fo­re he gets the chan­ce.

  I ta­ke the front steps two at a ti­me. Tho­se sa­me steps whe­re Grif­fin al­most first kis­sed me. Right af­ter I fo­und out he was a duty-bo­und des­cen­dant of Her­cu­les. Right be­fo­re I fo­und out I was part of so­me ela­bo­ra­te bet bet­we­en him and Stel­la and Ada­ra. I sho­uld ha­ve lis­te­ned to my gut the first ti­me. Then my he­art wo­uldn't be shat­te­ring right now.

  May­be I sho­uldn't be surp­ri­sed at our rocky end. We had a pretty rocky be­gin­ning, even if the ti­me bet­we­en was smo­oth and won­der­ful.

  "Pho­ebe," Xan­der calls out. Then, when I don't stop, he sho­uts. "Cast­ro!"

  I. Ha­ve. Had. Eno­ugh.

  Whip­ping aro­und and jog­ging back to the porch, I snap, "What?"

  "I'm sorry," he says-li­ke he knows an apo­logy is the only thing that can un­der­mi­ne my fury. "I sho­uldn't ha­ve stor­med out li­ke that ear­li­er. You're go­ing thro­ugh a to­ugh eno­ugh ti­me wit­ho­ut my ma­king things wor­se."

  "Fi­ne," I say. "Apo­logy ac­cep­ted. Can I go now?"

  Be­fo­re he can ans­wer, I turn and jog down the path le­ading to the dock-to the be­ach. To my left, the front lawn of the Aca­demy stretc­hes out in­to a rol­ling gre­en hill that le­ads down to the co­ve. Ahe­ad, I can see the Aege­an, inky black and rip­pling in ref­lec­ted mo­on­light from the starry sky. It's so pe­ace­ful and cal­ming and comp­le­tely at odds with the emo­ti­ons run­ning thro­ugh me.

  How can Grif­fin ma­ke me fe­el so go­od and so rot­ten at the sa­me ti­me? Why did he go back to Ada­ra? Do­es she ha­ve so­met­hing I don't-other than ble­ac­hed blon­de ha­ir and a che­er­le­ader uni­form?

  Do­es she, li­ke Mit­zi Bosch, of­fer so­met­hing I ha­ven't?

  When he sa­id he didn't know why he'd sta­yed with her so long, I'd be­li­eved him. When he told me abo­ut his mom's orac­le re­ading, I'd re­al­ly tho­ught we'd be to­get­her fo­re­ver. I'd tho­ught he was my one.

  Had I re­al­ly be­en such a fo­ol?

  With only a hint of a mo­on out to­night, I can ba­rely see the path down to the dock. It's only be­ca­use I've clim­bed this path do­zens of ti­mes that I ma­ke it to the bot­tom wit­ho­ut stumb­ling. Usu­al­ly I ta­ke a right, to the long stretch of per­fect whi­te be­ach that just scre­ams for a run. But to­night the ti­de is re­al­ly low and the­re's a thin sli­ver of sho­re le­ading off to the left.

  Wit­ho­ut anot­her tho­ught, I he­ad left. The strip of sand-still wet from a hig­her ti­de and so­lid be­ne­ath my Ni­kes-winds be­ne­ath the cliffs and the vil­la­ge perc­hed over­he­ad. It's qu­i­et and sec­lu­ded-the be­ach isn't usu­al­ly bust­ling with ac­ti­vity af­ter dark un­less it's bon­fi­re night-and it's a re­li­ef to know I won't be run­ning in­to an­yo­ne. Com­pany is the last thing I'm lo­oking for. As I hurd­le a low rock outc­rop­ping, I think abo­ut my pro­mi­se to No­la. She al­ways gi­ves pe­op­le se­cond chan­ces. And third and fo­urth and fifth chan­ces. So it's not exactly a surp­ri­se that she wants me to gi­ve Griff a se­cond op­por­tu­nity to exp­la­in. I don't want to-I fe­el li­ke I've al­re­ady gi­ven him tons of op­por­tu­ni­ti­es-but I can't bre­ak a pro­mi­se. Not to No­la.

  I'm just won­de­ring how to go abo­ut gi­ving Grif­fin anot­her chan­ce to exp­la­in-do I go af­ter him, or do I wa­it un­til he co­mes to me?-when I fe­el wa­ter slosh over my Ni­kes.

  "What the-?"

  I lo­ok down. The sli­ver of be­ach is two fe­et thin­ner than when I star­ted out. I ho­pe it just na­tu­ral­ly nar­rows down as it go­es. But a qu­ick glan­ce be­hind me re­ve­als that the en­ti­re strip of be­ach is di­sap­pe­aring. Abo­ut a hund­red yards back, it's comp­le­tely go­ne. Which can only me­an one thing.

  "Ri­sing ti­des," I exc­la­im.

  How co­uld I ha­ve be­en so stu­pid? If the ti­de is low and I'm sud­denly se­e­ing a be­ach that's ne­ver be­en the­re be­fo­re, it's pro­bably be­ca­use it's not the­re du­ring high ti­de. "Stu­pid, stu­pid, stu­pid."

  I ha­ve to de­ci­de qu­ickly what to do, be­ca­use it's not li­ke I can sca­le the cliffs if the ti­de co­mes in. Be­hind me, the be­ach is al­re­ady un­der­wa­ter. My only cho­ice is to press on and ho­pe the be­ach opens up aro­und the cur­ve up ahe­ad.

  Kic­king in­to a sprint, I try to calm my ra­cing he­art. Fe­ar sends ad­re­na­li­ne pum­ping thro­ugh my blo­od, and that's only go­ing to clo­ud my judg­ment.

  I've ne­ver be­en a short-dis­tan­ce das­her, but I ma­ke the two hund­red yards to the cur­ve in the be­ach in re­cord ti­me.

  My cal­ves are on fi­re and my he­art is ra­cing out of cont­rol. I've ne­ver felt so ke­yed up.

  As I spe­ed aro­und the rocks, I he­ave a hu­ge gasp of re­li­ef. The­re's a ni­ce wi­de be­ach, de­ep eno­ugh to stick aro­und for high ti­de. So­me of it even lo­oks fa­mi­li­ar.

  The­re's a clus­ter of bus­hes along the cliff wall that I know I've se­en be­fo­re. I re­mem­ber-it's the be­ach whe­re Grif­fin to­ok me when we ma­de up last fall. The last tra­ining ses­si­on be­fo­re the Cycla­di­an Cup.

  That's when I know that one day I'll thank No­la for ma­king me gi­ve Grif­fin a se­cond chan­ce. The me­mory of how gre­at it felt to know he ca­red abo­ut me, how gre­at it felt to ta­ke his hand and know that not­hing sto­od bet­we­en us any­mo­re. I want that aga­in.

  "What do you me­an you didn't tell her?" a muf­fled fe­ma­le vo­ice de­mands.

  I'm not su­re what ma­kes me do it-instinct, fe­ar, or know­led­ge be­yond my ye­ars-but I di­ve be­hind a big bo­ul­der. I he­ar the so­und of fo­ots­teps on gra­vel and then si­len­ce. Who­ever was tal­king must ha­ve just re­ac­hed the be­ach.

  "How co­uld I?" an in­ti­ma­tely fa­mi­li­ar ma­le vo­ice rep­li­es.

  Grif­fin.

  "She still do­esn't trust me," he says. "She thinks I'm che­ating on her."

  "Oh, and not tel­ling her what's go­ing on is de­fi­ni­tely go­ing to ma­ke that bet­ter."
<
br />   Is that Ada­ra? I can't see for su­re. I da­re a peck aro­und the ed­ge of the bo­ul­der and catch a glimp­se of blon­de. Her back is to me, so I can't tell. But it has to be… right?

  "I know that, Ni­co­le," he says.

  Ni­co­le?

  Everyt­hing cras­hes to a stop. The­re's no wind whist­ling thro­ugh the tre­es. No wa­ves cras­hing on the be­ach. No bre­ath le­aving my body.

  "You can't tell Pho­ebe," he says. "If she knew what was go­ing on, then she might…"

  The rest of his sen­ten­ce gets lost as the world rus­hes back to li­fe aro­und me. The­re's a ro­aring in my ears that I can't sha­ke away. Then my he­aring fi­nal­ly cle­ars as he says, "I don't want her to get hurt."

  Why do­es Ni­co­le know the sec­ret I'm not al­lo­wed to know? And why wo­uld wha­te­ver they're do­ing wind up hur­ting me? It's bad eno­ugh kno­wing Grif­fin has bet­ra­yed me with Ada­ra. I ex­pect that from her and sho­uld ha­ve known bet­ter abo­ut him. But Ni­co­le? She is the clo­sest thing I ha­ve to a best fri­end on this is­land.

  How co­uld they do this to me?

  In that ins­tant, my mind fo­cu­ses en­ti­rely on one thing; get­ting away from this be­ach. Away from whe­re I le­ar­ned abo­ut this la­test bet­ra­yal. Away, away, away.

  Eyes clo­sed, I fe­el a ting­ling spre­ad over my skin.

  When I blink open, I'm in my ro­om.

  Gre­at, I fi­nal­ly do so­met­hing use­ful with my po­wers, and I can't even enj­oy it. I'm too busy wor­rying abo­ut my world crumb­ling aro­und me.

  "I didn't he­ar you co­me ho­me," Stel­la says when I stumb­le out of my ro­om two te­ar -fil­led ho­urs la­ter.

  I ba­rely glan­ce at her be­fo­re con­ti­nu­ing to the kitc­hen. All my crying has left me se­ve­rely dehyd­ra­ted and I ne­ed li­qu­id li­ke no­body's bu­si­ness. Ta­king a dirty glass from the sink, I fill it with tap wa­ter and chug. I don't even ha­ve the energy to twist the cap off a Ga­to­ra­de.