Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp

by Tera Lynn Childs

  I lift the lad­der to set it aga­inst the cliff, and it falls apart.

  "Aa­argh!" All my work just eva­po­ra­ted.

  Cle­arly, I mis­sed so­met­hing. I qu­ickly re­pe­at my pro­ce­du­re. When I get to the po­int whe­re the­re is just one set of ho­les left, I stop to think. May­be the lad­der fell apart be­ca­use this set of ho­les was left empty. So I ne­ed to fill them, even tho­ugh the­re aren't any mo­re planks.

  I smack myself on the fo­re­he­ad. How co­uld I be so dumb? If the­re aren't any mo­re planks, then I ne­ed to ne­ofac­tu­re one!

  Se­conds la­ter, I'm plug­ging the plank I cre­ated in­to the lad­der, set­ting it aga­inst the cliff, and clim­bing to the ed­ge abo­ve.

  I to­tal­ly rock.

  I fe­el the he­at one rung be­fo­re I re­ach the top. It's scal­ding, li­ke so­me­one just ope­ned the oven do­or. Ig­no­ring the ur­ge to climb back down, I try to get a cle­ar pic­tu­re of what I'm fa­cing.

  Fla­mes.

  I see a hu­ge wall of fla­mes, bloc­king me from clim­bing up on­to the le­vel sur­fa­ce abo­ve. Fi­re. That has to do with-I cling to the lad­der with one hand whi­le I wi­pe at my swe­aty brow with the ot­her- pho­to­mor­p­ho­sis. Con­t­rol­ling light and fi­re.

  The he­at is get­ting wor­se, clo­ser. I ta­ke a de­ep bre­ath to cle­ar my he­ad, but my lungs fill with smo­ke. Figh­ting my ins­tinct to shimmy back down to the gor­ge-or to rely on Stel­la's pro­tec­ti­on- I con­cent­ra­te on cont­rol­ling the fi­re.

  I pic­tu­re the fla­mes shrin­king, re­ce­ding, bac­king away from the cliffs ed­ge. Slowly, the he­at fa­des. When I can no lon­ger see fi­re in my mind, I ha­ul myself up the lad­der and di­ve on­to the sa­fety of so­lid gro­und.

  As much as I want to lie on my back, suc­king in de­ep, smo­ke-free bre­aths, I want to fi­nish this co­ur­se mo­re. Clim­bing to my fe­et, I push for­ward.

  When I re­ach a bro­ad, open fi­eld, I stop. So­met­hing isn't right. Too easy. It lo­oks li­ke a big grassy spot, but so­met­hing tick­les at my bra­in.

  I cen­ter myself, fo­cu­sing all my energy on the fi­eld and what I'm not se­e­ing in my mind. As I fo­cus, my ima­ge chan­ges, and I see a se­ri­es of open pits, ho­les in the ot­her­wi­se le­vel earth.

  Aha! Vi­se­oc­r­y­p­ti­on. So­me­one must ha­ve clo­aked the ope­ning of the pits with an ima­ge of grass. Now that I can see the ho­les, I avo­id them as I na­vi­ga­te thro­ugh the fi­eld. The path ducks back in­to the wo­ods and winds aro­und un­til it re­ac­hes a shal­low can­yon with a de­cent-si­ze ri­ver run­ning thro­ugh. An old, ric­kety ro­pe brid­ge spans the can­yon. It lo­oks li­ke an over­we­ight but­terfly co­uld send it cras­hing in­to the cur­rent be­low. The­re's no way it will sup­port me-even at my tra­ining we­ight.

  The­re co­uld be anot­her way ac­ross, up­ri­ver or fart­her down. Even tho­ugh I can't see thro­ugh the sash, I turn my he­ad as I try to see if the­re is a mo­re re­li­ab­le-lo­oking brid­ge over the can­yon. From the cor­ner of my men­tal vi­si­on, I see the ima­ge of the brid­ge flic­ker. The ric­kety-lo­oking ver­si­on fa­des and a far mo­re subs­tan­ti­al wo­oden brid­ge ap­pe­ars in its pla­ce.

  When I turn back, I see the ric­kety brid­ge aga­in. So­me­one must ha­ve clo­aked it, too. I re­ach for­ward, ex­pec­ting to fe­el the so­lid brid­ge un­der my fin­gers. Ins­te­ad, I fe­el fra­ying ro­pe.

  The sturdy brid­ge must ha­ve be­en al­te­red, not clo­aked. Vi­se­omu­ta­ted.

  It only ta­kes a se­cond to re­ver­se the vi­si­omu­ta­ti­on, and then I'm scur­rying ac­ross the brid­ge.

  I'm star­ting to think not­hing can surp­ri­se me. Un­til I turn a cor­ner and sen­se Stel­la, Ada­ra, and Xan­der bloc­king my path.

  "What?" I ask. "Did I do so­met­hing wrong? I didn't use the pro­tec­ti­on."

  Why el­se wo­uld they be he­re?

  When they don't ans­wer, I say, "Okay, guys. If I ha­ven't scre­wed up, then get out of my way so I can fi­nish."

  They just stand the­re, im­mo­bi­le and si­lent. May­be this is so­me kind of men­tal mi­ra­ge. But when I re­ach for­ward, half ex­pec­ting my hand to go right thro­ugh Stel­la, my palm hits her sho­ul­der.

  "What?" I ask, lo­uder this ti­me. As if may­be they didn't he­ar me.

  Not­hing. Ab­so­lu­te si­len­ce.

  But the­re is so­met­hing abo­ut the lo­oks I'm sen­sing on the­ir fa­ces, li­ke they're con­cent­ra­ting re­al­ly hard, that ma­kes me think I'm mis­sing so­met­hing. I can prac­ti­cal­ly fe­el Stel­la's gray eyes burn in­to mi­ne, and not in her fa­vo­ri­te I'd-smo­te-you-if-I-co­uld way. It's li­ke she's trying to tell me so­met­hing.

  What on earth is she trying to say? I sta­re right back at her. May­be if I con­cent­ra­te hard eno­ugh I can re­ad her-

  Cho­ose.

  I he­ar the word as cle­arly as if she'd sa­id it out lo­ud. Only, she hasn't spo­ken-not out lo­ud or in my he­ad. This was out­si­de my he­ad, if that ma­kes any sen­se.

  She smi­les, li­ke she's glad I fi­gu­red it out. Fi­gu­red what out? Cho­ose. What on earth do­es that me­an?

  I turn to Ada­ra, li­ke she might ha­ve ans­wers. She's still con­cent­ra­ting. I try my trick aga­in, of sta­ring back at her and con­cent­ra­ting-

  Do­or.

  I de­fi­ni­tely he­ard that. And it was de­fi­ni­tely out­si­de my he­ad. May­be I re­al­ly did re­ad the­ir minds.

  Duh! Psychos­pec­ti­on.

  I turn my at­ten­ti­on on Xan­der and re­ad his tho­ught.

  Three.

  Cho­ose. Do­or. Three.

  Cho­ose do­or three?

  Be­fo­re I can ask any qu­es­ti­ons, Stel­la, Ada­ra, and Xan­der shim­mer away. Ap­pa­rently I cle­ared that obs­tac­le.

  Aro­und anot­her cor­ner, I find the ans­wer to my qu­es­ti­on. The­re are three do­ors-very Ali­ce in Won­der­land-each with a big gold num­ber on the front.

  "Do­or num­ber three, then," I mut­ter to myself as I pull the do­or open.

  As so­on as I step thro­ugh the do­or, I can't mo­ve. I'm fro­zen mid-step. It's li­ke so­me­one tur­ned on a fre­eze mac­hi­ne, but my bra­in do­esn't know it's sup­po­sed to be fro­zen. I can still think and he­ar and see my sur­ro­un­dings, but I fe­el li­ke so­me­one shut off all my musc­les.

  Help. I try to scre­am. But I can't open my mo­uth. No so­und vib­ra­tes in my thro­at. I can't call out for help.

  I start to pa­nic. My he­art is be­ating fas­ter than it ever has. Te­ars well in my eyes.

  Help, I try aga­in. Help, help, help.

  That's not wor­king. May­be so­me­one is still clo­se by, watc­hing out for me. May­be they'll see that I cho­se the wrong do­or-or wha­te­ver sent me in­to this trap-and co­me sa­ve me.

  After what fe­els li­ke se­ve­ral tor­tu­ro­us ho­urs-but was pro­bably li­ke two mi­nu­tes-I re­ali­ze no one is co­ming. Stel­la and her pos­se aren't go­ing to res­cue me. I can't scre­am to let them know I'm in tro­ub­le.

  The­re has to be anot­her way.

  If they can't he­ar my vo­ice, may­be they can he­ar my mind.

  Help, I say with my mind. I fo­cus my men­tal com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on, my psycho­dic­ta­ti­on, on Stel­la be­ca­use I know her best. That might ma­ke my ef­forts easi­er. Ple­ase, I beg. Help. I'm trap­ped. Set me free.

  Instantly, I'm free and stumb­ling for­ward on­to my hands and kne­es.

  All you had to do was ask, Stel­la rep­li­es.

  "Aa­argh!" I scre­am at no one. I sho­uld ha­ve known it was just anot­her obs­tac­le.

  I ta­ke a mi­nu­te, al­lo­wing my he­art ra­te and ad­re­na­li­ne le­vels to re­turn to the vi­ci­nity of nor­mal, be­fo­re mo­ving on. Right now I just wa
nt this stu­pid obs­tac­le co­ur­se do­ne.

  I te­ar ahe­ad, fo­cu­sed on fi­nis­hing to the exc­lu­si­on of everyt­hing el­se. I al­most don't see the bar­ri­ca­de of bri­ar bus­hes un­til it's too la­te. At the last se­cond, the­ir ima­ge flas­hes in­to my mind-thanks to self-pre­ser­ving cor­pop­ro­tec­ti­on, pro­bably. I don't ha­ve ti­me to do anyt­hing but re­act. Ins­tinct and so­me cor­pop­ro­mo­ti­on su­per­s­t­rength send me high-jum­ping over the bar­ri­ca­de, and lan­ding sa­fely on the ot­her si­de.

  For the lo­ve of Ni­ke," I grumb­le, "How many ti­mes do I ha­ve to al­most die or get se­ri­o­usly inj­ured?"

  Okay, I ha­ve to ad­mit that, even wit­ho­ut using the pro­tec­ti­on, I ha­ven't ac­tu­al­ly got­ten inj­ured. And may­be, just may­be, that's part of the exer­ci­se.

  De­ci­ding that ca­uti­on is mo­re im­por­tant than spe­ed, I set out at a walk. I try to men­tal­ly list the obs­tac­les I've do­ne so far. If you co­unt the bri­ar bar­ri­ca­de for two po­wers, then I've comp­le­ted ele­ven. Ele­ven (dan­ge­ro­us) obs­tac­les wit­ho­ut inj­ury. My po­wers ha­ven't fa­iled me on­ce, gu­iding me over, aro­und, and thro­ugh as if my eyes we­re wi­de open. Bet­ter, even. If I co­uld see what I had to fa­ce, I'd pro­bably be too sca­red to at­tempt it.

  Con­si­de­ring the twel­ve dyna­mot­he­os po­wers, I ex­pect just one mo­re obs­tac­le. No big de­al. I'm in the ho­mest­retch.

  When I ro­und a bend in the co­ur­se and find myself up aga­inst a so­lid wall, I stop in my tracks.

  In my mind I can see the wall per­fectly. It's tall, may­be ten or twel­ve fe­et, spans the en­ti­re width of the path and in­to the wo­ods be­yond, and is comp­le­tely smo­oth. Fo­cu­sing my po­wers, I se­arch for a fo­ot­hold or a ro­pe or anyt­hing that will get me over. Not­hing. It might as well be a wall of ice.

  May­be my men­tal ima­ge is wrong. May­be it's not as tall as I think.

  I walk for­ward un­til I'm abo­ut a fo­ot away, bend down, and jump as high as I can, re­ac­hing for a led­ge to grab on­to.

  My body smacks full-on in­to the wall. As I sli­de back down to the gro­und, I won­der how on earth I'm sup­po­sed to get over this obs­tac­le.

  "You can't de­fe­at this obs­tac­le so easily," Stel­la says from so­mew­he­re to my left. "Even if we re­mo­ved the blind­fold, you co­uldn't suc­ce­ed thro­ugh physi­cal me­ans alo­ne."

  "This is the ul­ti­ma­te test," Ada­ra adds. "You can only get thro­ugh by using yo­ur po­wers."

  What on earth do­es that me­an? Be­fo­re I can ask them to exp­la­in, I fe­el a soft bre­eze and know that they're go­ne.

  Okay, I can fi­gu­re this out. I've ma­de it this far trus­ting not­hing but my po­wers-and my sen­se of self-pre­ser­va­ti­on. Su­rely get­ting over a wall can't be that hard.

  "It's not abo­ut go­ing over the wall," a dis­tant-yet-fa­mi­li­ar vo­ice whis­pers wit­hin my mind. "Fe­el the vic­tory in­si­de you, Pho­ebes­ter."

  Dad?

  That is not pos­sib­le. I gi­ve my he­ad a bra­in-rat­tling sha­ke. I must be suf­fe­ring from sen­sory dep­ri­va­ti­on af­ter be­ing blind­fol­ded so long. My sub­cons­ci­o­us is pla­ying tricks on me. That's all.

  "Co­me on," Ada­ra sho­uts from the far si­de of the wall. "We ha­ve to start camp so­on. I'd ha­te to le­ave you out he­re on the co­ur­se."

  She grunts, li­ke so­me­one just el­bo­wed her in the gut.

  "We be­li­eve in you, Pho­ebe," Stel­la says. "You just ha­ve to be­li­eve in yo­ur­self."

  I roll my eyes be­hind the blind­fold. As if that's not a che­esy, mo­vie-of-the-we­ek li­ne. Still, I want to fi­nish this co­ur­se, to pro­ve that I can hand­le anyt­hing they throw at me-the co­un­se­lors and the gods.

  "Okay," I say to myself. Think this thro­ugh. If the­re's no way aro­und the wall. And I'm not abo­ut to ma­ke it over the wall. Then the­re's only one ot­her op­ti­on…"

  Sud­denly I know exactly what I ha­ve to do.

  I ma­na­ged it that night on the be­ach, when my emo­ti­ons to­ok the re­ins, and on the cross-co­untry co­ur­se the ot­her day. Now I just ne­ed to use my mind to ac­hi­eve the sa­me re­sult cons­ci­o­usly.

  Pla­cing my palms to the wall, I pic­tu­re myself on the ot­her si­de.

  I fo­cus all my energy on ha­ving got­ten myself thro­ugh the ex­pan­se of two-by-fo­urs. My mind shuts out all ot­her sti­mu­li. No so­unds, no to­uc­hes, no tas­tes, no smells. Just me, on the ot­her si­de of this wall.

  The ha­irs on the back of my neck stand up.

  So­me­one's arms wrap aro­und me.

  "You did it!" Stel­la sho­uts. "Omi­gods, you we­re so awe­so­me!"

  I re­ach up and rip off the blind­fold. Su­re eno­ugh, I'm on the ot­her si­de of the wall, at the end of the obs­tac­le co­ur­se. Stel­la's hug­ging me and sho­uting. Ada­ra cros­ses her arms over her chest and smi­les smugly. As if she's the re­ason I ma­de it thro­ugh. Xan­der is clap­ping and smi­ling.

  "We knew you wo­uld ma­ke it, Pho­ebo­la."

  Twis­ting out of Stel­la's emb­ra­ce, I turn to find Mom and Da­mi­an stan­ding off to the si­de. Lo­oking as pro­ud as I've ever se­en them.

  I run in­to Mom's arms. "You're not sup­po­sed to get ho­me un­til to­night."

  "When Da­mi­an told me what they we­re go­ing to put you thro­ugh this mor­ning," she says, squ­e­ezing me clo­se, "I in­sis­ted we catch an ear­li­er flight so we co­uld be he­re to sha­re in yo­ur tri­umph."

  She so­unds so cer­ta­in, li­ke the­re was ne­ver a do­ubt that I wo­uld ma­ke it thro­ugh this obs­tac­le co­ur­se. I was ne­ver that su­re.

  "I'm glad you're he­re," I whis­per.

  As she tucks a lo­ose clump of ha­ir be­hind my ear, she says, "It kil­led me to be so far away whi­le you we­re strug­gling." She smi­les pa­in­ful­ly. "But you're such a strong, in­de­pen­dent girl, I knew you ne­eded to pro­cess this on yo­ur own."

  "I know." Be­si­des, it's not li­ke she co­uld ha­ve hel­ped me or anyt­hing. This is kind of be­yond the re­alm of her psycho­analy­ti­cal ex­per­ti­se. And if I'd re­al­ly ne­eded her, she wo­uld ha­ve skip­ped out on her ho­ney­mo­on in a flash.

  I hug her a lit­tle tigh­ter.

  "Co­me on," Da­mi­an says, clap­ping a hand to my sho­ul­der. "Let's go ce­leb­ra­te. I think you can skip camp for to­day."

  Emo­ti­ons are bo­iling thro­ugh me. I can't be­li­eve I ma­de it thro­ugh the who­le co­ur­se blind­fol­ded. I can't be­li­eve I auto­por­ted thro­ugh the wall. But most of all, I can't be­li­eve I he­ard Dad's vo­ice in my he­ad.

  * * * *

  After ever­yo­ne has go­ne to bed, I sit down at my desk and po­wer up my lap­top. Whi­le I'm wa­iting, I dig in­to my poc­ket and pull out the me­rit bad­ges Stel­la ga­ve me af­ter din­ner. I pin them on­to the bul­le­tin bo­ard abo­ve my desk, next to the ones I've al­re­ady ear­ned. A do­zen lit­tle bad­ges of ho­nor. I'm still get­ting used to the idea that my po­wers might ac­tu­al­ly be un­der cont­rol.

  The be­eping and whir­ring stops and I click open my IM. I don't re­al­ly ex­pect my girls to be on­li­ne-it's crazy early in LA. and I ha­ve no idea if Ces­ca even has In­ter­net ac­cess in Pa­ris-but ama­zingly eno­ugh, the smi­ley fa­ces next to both the­ir user na­mes are bright yel­low.

  Ces­ca starts chat­ting be­fo­re I can even say hel­lo.

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: abo­ut ti­me!

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: Hi!!!

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: I only ha­ve a few

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: ha­ve to me­et Fran­co­is in twenty

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: Fran­co­is?

  Gra­no­laGrrl: new French bf

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: you've only be­en the­re li­ke a we­ek! />
  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: not my bf

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: but he is de­li­ri­o­usly yummy

  I can't help la­ug­hing. Le­ave it to Ces­ca to find a hot French boyf­ri­end in re­cord ti­me. She ne­ver se­ems to ha­ve tro­ub­le at­trac­ting a guy-she just ne­ver se­ems to want to hold on­to them for very long. May­be this one will be dif­fe­rent.

  Gra­no­laGrrl: spe­aking of bfs, what hap­pe­ned with yo­urs?

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: we're to­tal­ly back to­get­her

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: I can't be­li­eve I tho­ught he was che­ating on me

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: wa­it, what? you and G bro­ke up?

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: only for a we­ekend

  Gra­no­laGrrl: I don't be­li­eve in sa­ying I told you so

  Gra­no­laGrrl: but I told you so!

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: I know

  Prin­ces­sCes­ca: a girl ma­kes one lit­tle trip to Fran­ce and all hell bre­aks lo­ose

  I can just pic­tu­re Ces­ca, cros­sing her arms over her chest and pur­sing her per­fectly glos­sed lips in an­no­yan­ce. It's be­en too long sin­ce I've se­en her and No­la.

  Los­t­P­ho­ebe: any up­da­tes on vi­si­ting Ser­fo­po­ula?

  Pri­ne­es­sCes­ca: my sched is pretty busy

  Pri­ne­es­sCes­ca: but I can al­ways sne­ak away for a we­ekend

  Gra­no­laGrrl: the grant com­mit­tee met

  For se­ve­ral long, tor­tu­ro­us se­conds I sta­re at the blin­king cur­sor. Wa­iting. Ho­ping. Wa­iting. It's not li­ke No­la to ma­ke us swe­at li­ke this.