Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp

by Tera Lynn Childs

"May­be if you we­ren't bad­ge­ring me the who­le ti­me," I snap back, pus­hing away from her and tur­ning aro­und, "I wo­uld be ab­le to con­cent­ra­te."

  She spins aro­und, her va­pid blue eyes nar­ro­wing.

  "I don't think this has anyt­hing to do with yo­ur con­cent­ra­ti­on."

  "Oh ye­ah," I say bril­li­antly. "What do­es it ha­ve to do with then, yo­ur ge­nu­is­ness?"

  Inste­ad of ans­we­ring, she cro­oks her fin­ger at me be­fo­re tur­ning and stal­king out of the co­urt­yard. Li­ke I'm go­ing to fol­low her an­y­w­he­re.

  I cross my arms over my chest and stand my gro­und.

  Sud­denly, she shim­mers-auto­por­ts-into pla­ce right in front of my no­se.

  "I ha­ve ne­ver be­en mo­re mad at an­yo­ne in my li­fe than I am at you right now," she grinds out thro­ugh clenc­hed te­eth. "Unless you want to spend the next three days on ho­li­day in the un­der­world, I sug­gest you jo­in me in the hall. Now."

  Then, just as qu­ickly as she ap­pe­ared, she di­sap­pe­ars aga­in.

  I lo­ok help­les­sly aro­und the co­urt­yard, but all the ten-ye­ar-olds are fo­cu­sing on the exer­ci­se, with Stel­la, Xan­der, and Miss Ori­vus clo­sely su­per­vi­sing.

  Okay, if Ada­ra wants to ha­ve it out, I'll ha­ve it out.

  Stom­ping af­ter her, I'm abo­ut re­ady to un­le­ash my ti­ra­de when I catch sight of her eyes. They're all red. And full of te­ars.

  That stops me in my tracks.

  If she's so mad at me, why is she crying?

  "No," she in­ter­rupts be­fo­re I can say anyt­hing. "You lis­ten to me, Pho­ebe Cast­ro. We both know you're not my fa­vo­ri­te per­son on this is­land, but I'm go­ing to put that asi­de for the sa­ke of so­me­one I ca­re abo­ut very much." She ta­kes a de­ep bre­ath, li­ke she's com­po­sing her­self, be­fo­re sa­ying. "What you are do­ing to Grif­fin is aw­ful."

  "What I'm do­ing to him?" I sha­ke my he­ad. "I'm not do­ing anyt­hing-"

  "You're bre­aking his he­art."

  I fre­eze, mid­sen­ten­ce. My mo­uth drops open. It's not just what she sa­id, but how her vo­ice cracks as she says it. Had an­yo­ne as­ked me fif­te­en se­conds ago, I wo­uld ha­ve sworn up and down on a stack of gold me­dals that Ada­ra Spen­cer was in­ca­pab­le of ac­tu­al hu­man emo­ti­on.

  "You've ig­no­red his e-ma­ils and dod­ged his pho­ne calls. He tri­ed to catch you at ho­me half a do­zen ti­mes this we­ekend. He's be­en run­ning every be­ach on this is­land ho­ping to find you."

  I ac­tu­al­ly back up a step, shoc­ked by the emo­ti­on in her out­burst and by what she's tel­ling me.

  "I'm only go­ing to say this on­ce," she says qu­i­etly. "So lis­ten up. Grif­fin Bla­ke is he­ad over he­els abo­ut you. He wo­uld ne­ver tre­at you the way you've be­en tre­ating him." Her vo­ice drops anot­her notch, so low I ha­ve to le­an in to he­ar. "He wo­uld ne­ver do­ubt you."

  "I don't-" I al­most say that I don't do­ubt him, but that's not true. Over the past few days I've pro­ven over and over that I do. Not that my do­ubts are un­fo­un­ded. "You're right. I-I don't trust him."

  "He do­esn't de­ser­ve that."

  What abo­ut me? What do I de­ser­ve? Li­es and de­cep­ti­on?

  "Then why won't he tell me what you two ha­ve be­en do­ing to­get­her?"

  Ada­ra's ga­ze is un­wa­ve­ring. "Be­ca­use I as­ked him not to."

  Do­esn't that con­firm my do­ubts?

  "Not be­ca­use the­re's anyt­hing to con­ce­al from you in par­ti­cu­lar." She tucks her blon­de ha­ir be­hind her ears. "Be­ca­use I don't want an­yo­ne to know what I'm go­ing thro­ugh."

  "What you're-"

  "But," she says, gla­ring at me for in­ter­rup­ting aga­in, "be­ca­use I ca­re abo­ut him so much, I will tell you."

  I try not to get hung up on the who­le be­ca­use -I -ca­re-abo­ut-him-so-much bit and lis­ten to her exp­la­na­ti­on. In the few months I've known her, she has ne­ver be­en this se­ri­o­us over anyt­hing that do­esn't in­vol­ve na­il po­lish, de­sig­ner sho­es, or a half­ti­me che­er at a wrest­ling match. An une­asy, my-li­fe-is-abo­ut-to-turn-upsidc-down fe­eling set­tles in my sto­mach.

  "My mot­her is be­co­ming a hand­ma­iden of Apol­lo."

  Er, what?

  I know I lo­ok to­tal­ly con­fu­sed.

  "Be­co­ming a hand­ma­iden is an ho­nor and a sac­ri­fi­ce. The cho­sen must pled­ge to ser­ve the de­ity un­wa­ve­ringly for the du­ra­ti­on of her term. That me­ans she is le­aving me and my fat­her." Her eyes well up aga­in, and her vo­ice catc­hes. "She will ser­ve on Mo­unt Olym­pus for the next twenty-fi­ve ye­ars."

  "Wow, that's a long ti­me to work for so­me­one."

  "The worst is"-Ada­ra gi­ves me a we­ak smi­le-"she can't le­ave Mo­unt Olym­pus du­ring her ser­vi­ce."

  Holy Ha­des. I sha­ke my he­ad, trying to wrap my bra­in aro­und that idea. Nic told me that no one-not even he­mat­he­os- can vi­sit Mo­unt Olym­pus un­less they are in ser­vi­ce or on tri­al. Only an edict from the gods can grant a day pass, and that al­most ne­ver hap­pens. That me­ans Ada­ra won't see her mom for the next qu­ar­ter cen­tury.

  I try to ima­gi­ne what it wo­uld be li­ke not to ha­ve Mom to talk to for that long. She'd miss out on my birth­days and my gra­du­ati­ons and my-so­me­ti­me in the dis­tant fu­tu­re-wed­ding. The­re wo­uld be ra­ces, may­be even the Olym­pics, every day the­re are lit­tle things that I talk to her abo­ut, ask her abo­ut. If she we­ren't aro­und… it's un­fat­ho­mab­le.

  I sho­uld e-ma­il Mom when I get ho­me.

  "Ada­ra, I'm so-'

  "Sorry?" she asks with a sad la­ugh. "That's exactly why I didn't want Grif­fin to tell an­yo­ne. I'm not in­te­res­ted in a pity party. Be­si­des, this is sup­po­sed to be a pres­ti­gi­o­us ho­nor for the fa­mily. I'm sup­po­sed to ce­leb­ra­te"-one hand wi­pes at a te­ar stre­aking down her che­ek-"not gri­eve."

  "So, Grif­fin has be­en hel­ping you, uh…"

  "Pre­pa­re to lo­se my mot­her?" She gi­ves a lit­tle snort. "Ye­ah, pretty much."

  I try to wrap my bra­in aro­und this news. Grif­fin hasn't be­en ro­man­ti­cal­ly in­vol­ved with his ex, he's be­en hel­ping her thro­ugh a to­ugh ti­me. I can't fa­ult him for that, of co­ur­se. Be­si­des the who­le des­cen­dant of Her­cu­les ob­li­ga­ti­on thing, de­ep down he's a sen­si­ti­ve and lo­yal guy.

  I've be­en so wrap­ped up in my own is­su­es that I ne­ver tho­ught that so­me­one el­se might be ha­ving prob­lems. Ada­ra's li­fe al­ways se­emed so per­fect, I ne­ver on­ce tho­ught she might be go­ing thro­ugh a to­ugh ti­me.

  But why did he lie to me? We're sup­po­sed to be part­ners. Equ­al. He sho­uld ha­ve known he co­uld tell me the truth in comp­le­te con­fi­den­ce. But he co­uldn't-or wo­uldn't-con­fi­de in me, which me­ans he do­esn't trust me. Not comp­le­tely. That me­ans that, whi­le he's not comp­le­tely in the right, he do­es de­ser­ve anot­her chan­ce. We de­ser­ve anot­her chan­ce.

  "You ga­ve Grif­fin a raw de­al., she says.

  I ne­ver tho­ught I'd say this, but she's right. "I did."

  "What are you go­ing to do abo­ut it?"

  "I'll fix it," I vow. As so­on as camp is out for the day, I'll be knoc­king on his do­or, pre­pa­red to work out this who­le trust thing.

  "You'd bet­ter."

  When she starts to turn back to the co­urt­yard, I re­ach out and to­uch her el­bow. "Thank you."

  She stif­fens. "Wha­te­ver," she says, back in old Ada­ra form. "If you're over be­ing pis­sed at me, may­be we can get on with the neo-fac­ti­on exer­ci­se."

  Less than a mi­nu­te la­ter, she's stan­ding the­re with a ste­aming-hot lat­te in her hand.

  I spin aro­und, re­ady for my ac­
co­la­des.

  She ta­kes a sip and then snorts. "Ni­ce try." The cup glows for a se­cond and then di­sap­pe­ars. That was de­caf."

  For a se­cond I think abo­ut strang­ling her. But then my com­mon sen­se kicks in. First of all, I ne­ed to fo­cus on cont­rol­ling my po­wers if I'm go­ing to pass the test. And se­cond, I don't fancy spen­ding ti­me in Ha­des.

  Sympathy for Ada­ra has not­hing to do with my de­ci­si­on to qu­i­etly turn aro­und and try aga­in.

  Pro­mi­se.

  * * * *

  "He didn't men­ti­on whe­re he was go­ing," Aunt Li­li says when I ask her if Grif­fin's ho­me.

  "Oh," I say, def­la­ted. I want to talk to him as so­on as pos­sib­le. For the first ti­me in a whi­le, I do not think the worst. Des­pi­te my bet­ter judg­ment-may­be it was her te­ars or the pha­se of the mo­on or a cur­se of un­ders­tan­ding-I be­li­eve Ada­ra. "Can you tell him I stop­ped by. And-" I al­most ask her to tell him I'm sorry, but that's de­fi­ni­tely the sort of thing a girl ne­eds to say in per­son. "And that I'll try aga­in to­mor­row."

  And the day af­ter that. And the day af­ter that. And every day un­til we're go­od aga­in. Be­ca­use what we ha­ve is de­fi­ni­tely worth the ef­fort-and de­fi­ni­tely worth my eating so­me humb­le pie.

  "My nep­hew isn't per­fect," Aunt Li­li says as I re­ach the do­or. "But he has a go­od he­art."

  "Ye­ah," I say gi­ving her a con­fi­dent smi­le. "I know that." Now.

  If my trust is­su­es ha­ve dri­ven him away, I ha­ve no one to bla­me but myself.

  As the do­or clo­ses be­hind me, I think abo­ut how un­fa­ir I was to Grif­fin-and to myself-for thin­king the worst. Af­ter ni­ne months, I sho­uld trust him-and my ins­tincts-mo­re than that.

  Wit­ho­ut thin­king, I kick in­to a jog as I hit the ed­ge of the vil­la­ge. My Ni­kes po­und the smo­oth sto­ne path with a soft thud, every step I ta­ke sends mo­re blo­od, mo­re oxy­gen, pum­ping thro­ugh me. My wor­ri­es start to ooze away. Grif­fin and I will be fi­ne. If he can't for­gi­ve me right away, then I'll work to win him back. We're fa­ted. That's not the kind of thing a girl can let slip away.

  I'll pass my test. My cont­rol over my po­wers is get­ting bet­ter every day. Last we­ek I auto­por­ted and to­day I ma­te­ri­ali­zed-ne­ofac­tu­red-a do­zen lat­tes for Ada­ra,even if no­ne of them was to her exac­ting spe­ci­fi­ca­ti­ons, she still ga­ve me the me­rit bad­ge, (this one has an oran­ge ring of co­lor, a yel­low backg­ro­und, and a gray fac­tory-bu­il­ding de­sign. I'll li­ne it up on my dres­ser, next to the ot­her six, when I get ho­me.)

  To­mor­row night, I'll me­et my mystery e-ma­iler and find out what hap­pe­ned to Dad. And may­be le­arn how to ke­ep wha­te­ver hap­pe­ned to him from ac­ci­den­tal­ly hap­pe­ning to me.

  Run­ning al­ways ma­kes everyt­hing so cle­ar.

  May­be this is why I've be­en so stres­sed. Most of the run­ning I've do­ne la­tely is tra­ining runs. All bu­si­ness and fo­cus. No ti­me for dayd­re­aming and wor­king thro­ugh things whi­le physi­cal­ly ex­ha­us­ting myself. Run­ning is de­fi­ni­tely my the­rapy. Star­ting to­mor­row, I'm go­ing to sche­du­le re­gu­lar fun runs-tra­ining-free ti­me.

  Be­fo­re I know it, I'm jog­ging to­ward ho­me, fol­lo­wing the path that cur­ves aro­und the front lawn of the Aca­demy. But I ha­ven't fi­nis­hed exer­ci­sing my prob­lems, so I ste­er off to­ward cam­pus. A hard run aro­und the cross-co­untry co­ur­se sho­uld do the trick.

  Ne­arly two ho­urs la­ter I'm ra­cing up the front steps at ho­me, ex­ha­us­ted in the best pos­sib­le way.

  Giddy on en­dorp­hins, I bust in and sho­ut, "Stel­la, I'm-"

  I stop mid­sen­ten­ce.

  Lying on the li­ving-ro­om co­uch, fe­et prop­ped up on the arm and cle­arly as­le­ep, is Grif­fin. He didn't stir when I ca­me sho­uting in­to the ro­om. Ob­vi­o­usly, he's be­en out for a whi­le.

  "He was on the front porch when I got ho­me from camp," Stel­la says. She's le­aning aga­inst the far wall, ca­su­al­ly stir­ring up the fru­it in a pe­ach yo­gurt.

  My he­art melts big-ti­me.

  How co­uld I ha­ve be­en such an idi­ot? He's ma­de it cle­ar every day in a mil­li­on dif­fe­rent ways how much he ca­res for me. I was re­ady to dis­miss it all be­ca­use he was tal­king to anot­her girl. Be­ca­use he was hel­ping out a go­od fri­end.

  I will ne­ver be that stu­pid aga­in. Well, I'll try not to be any­way.

  In an ins­tant, I'm sit­ting on the cof­fee tab­le at the end by his he­ad.

  "I've got so­me work to do," Stel­la says, pus­hing away from the wall. "I'll be in my ro­om. With the do­or shut. And my he­adp­ho­nes on."

  I flash her a gra­te­ful smi­le. She's gi­ving us-me-so­me pri­vacy and I ap­pre­ci­ate it. I don't ne­ed her to see me beg­ging for for­gi­ve­ness- she'd ne­ver let me li­ve it down.

  As so­on as she and her yo­gurt di­sap­pe­ar down the hall, I le­an for­ward over Grif­fin. I ta­ke a se­cond to ab­sorb him be­fo­re I wa­ke him up. I've ne­ver se­en him sle­ep be­fo­re-his thick las­hes fan out be­low his eyes li­ke exo­tic palm fronds. The­re is no sign of worry or pa­in or the we­ight of his Her­cu­le­an ob­li­ga­ti­ons. Just pu­re, in­no­cent boy.

  My pu­re, in­no­cent boy.

  Hand ho­ve­ring abo­ve his sho­ul­der, I sigh. I don't want to wa­ke him up. I don't want to dis­turb his pe­ace.

  But my sigh must ha­ve be­en a to­uch too lo­ud or too clo­se- or may­be he just sen­sed I was the­re-be­ca­use his palm-frond las­hes flut­ter open, and ins­te­ad I'm sta­ring in­to his bright blue eyes.

  For abo­ut half a se­cond, his eyes are just as wor­ry-free as his sle­eping fa­ce had be­en. He smi­les. Then a clo­ud sha­dows the­ir bright­ness.

  "Pho­ebe,'' he exc­la­ims, lurc­hing up to a sit­ting po­si­ti­on. "I was wa­iting for you."

  I smi­le ner­vo­usly. "Cle­arly."

  "I me­an, I wan­ted to talk to you." He lo­oks over my sho­ul­der. "What ti­me is it?"

  I check my watch. "Six-thirty."

  "Ska­ta. I was sup­po­sed to me­et Da­ra at six." His eyes pop wi­de. "I me­an-not that I-she do­esn't-"

  "It's okay," I say, la­ying a hand on his arm. "She told me."

  His eyeb­rows pinch in­to a frown and he lo­oks li­ke he's in pa­in. "I wan­ted to tell you. You know I did. I just-"

  "I know," I say, trying to ease his pa­in. "You ha­ve to help her. It's yo­ur Her­cu­les comp­lex."

  "No." he says. "It's mo­re than that."

  "Then what?" I say, trying to be as open as pos­sib­le. I won't let the­re be any mo­re li­es and half-truths bet­we­en us.

  "Ada­ra is my fri­end. Un­til you hel­ped me work thro­ugh things with Ni­co­le last ye­ar, she was my ol­dest fri­end. That's ne­ver go­ing to chan­ge." He ta­kes my hands and holds them bet­we­en his, bet­we­en us. "Ne­it­her is the fact that you're my girlf­ri­end."

  "I know." I ig­no­re the wet­ness in my eyes. "I'm sorry I do­ub­ted you. I trust you. I re­al­ly do. But so­me­ti­mes I just don't trust my own ins­tincts."

  "We'll ha­ve to work on that," he says, grin­ning and pul­ling me off the cof­fee tab­le and on­to his lap.

  When he's got me set­tled, I slip my arms aro­und his neck. "Whi­le we're at it, let's work on you trus­ting me, too."

  "Me? I trust you," he in­sists. "What ma­kes you think I-"

  "I saw you with Ni­co­le on the be­ach the ot­her night." I think back to that night. When I got so up­set I'd shim­me­red myself ho­me. Grif­fin al­ways sa­id my po­wers wo­uld be af­fec­ted by my emo­ti­ons un­til I le­ar­ned to mas­ter them. "She knew what was go­ing on with Ada­ra."

  His brows scrunch over his blue eyes. "You we­re the­re?"

&nbs
p; I re­fu­se to blush. He do­esn't ne­ed to know I was hi­ding be­hind a bo­ul­der. "Why co­uld you tell her the truth and not me?"

  His he­ad flops back aga­inst the co­uch. "I didn't tell her," he gro­ans. "She gu­es­sed."

  "Re­al­ly?" That's a pretty un­can­ny gu­ess.

  "Inter­pol co­uld use so­me­one with her ins­tincts. If it ma­kes you fe­el any bet­ter, she was pretty pis­sed that I hadn't told you." He gi­ves me a half smi­le. "She let me ha­ve it."

  Sco­re one for Ni­co­le. She al­ways has my back.

  "Why did you think the truth wo­uld hurt me?" I ask.

  "What do you me­an?"

  "You as­ked her not to tell me," I exp­la­in. "You sa­id you didn't want me to get hurt."

  "No, that wasn't abo­ut Da­ra." He turns comp­le­tely se­ri­o­us. "You know that re­se­arch pro­j­ect Nic's be­en wor­king on?"

  I nod.

  "She's be­en trying to find a lo­op­ho­le in our pa­rents' pu­nish­ment dec­ree."

  "Wow." I'm bre­ath­less. "Can you do that?"

  "The­re ha­ve be­en a few ca­ses." He gi­ves me a sad smi­le. "But it's very ra­re."

  Ra­re, but not im­pos­sib­le. My mind flo­ods with pos­si­bi­li­ti­es. If the­re was a way to un­do an Olym­pic dec­ree, then Grif­fin co­uld get his pa­rents back. Ni­co­le's pa­rents co­uld be un-ba­nis­hed. Dad co­uld get un-smo­ted.

  "Omi­gods, Grif­fin," I gasp, overw­hel­med with ho­pe. "Do you know what this me­ans? This me­ans we co­uld all-"

  "No," he says, cut­ting me off. This is why I didn't want to tell you what she's trying to do. This is a one-in-a-bil­li­on long shot. The gods are as un­yi­el­ding as they are fick­le, if that ma­kes any sen­se. They've had mil­len­nia to ho­ne the­ir skills at wri­ting unb­re­akab­le dec­re­es. The chan­ce that they mes­sed up in one of ours-" He sha­kes his he­ad. "I don't want to get yo­ur ho­pes up, just to see you get hurt all over aga­in."

  His blue eyes are full of the sa­me pa­in I felt at lo­sing Dad. Mo­re, sin­ce he lost both his pa­rents at on­ce. But at the sa­me ti­me, de­eper than the pa­in is his lo­ve for me. I don't know how I let myself be­li­eve that wasn't the­re.