Oh My Gods

by Alexandra Sheppard

  “You’re so right,” said one of the girls in the group, nodding like Grandma Thomas at church. “I’m the one doing all the work with this boy.”

  Eros was playing agony aunt, and loving every minute of it. If there was one god I could trust around mortals, it was Eros. I left him to it.

  Yasmin made a beeline for Jayden (she wasn’t the only one feeling more confident in a new dress), and Adam found Daphne. It left Noor and me chatting. She gave me the dirt on all the people I didn’t know. She was like a human Wikipedia, but for gossip instead of homework facts.

  “That girl in the black jumpsuit? That’s Jessica Chambers. She works in her dad’s funeral parlour, which is why she smells a bit like embalming fluid,” Noor said.

  “And those two giving Yas the evil eye?” I discreetly turned to see a pair of girls who looked around twenty-five. “That’s Tanya and Georgia. They’re in our year. Georgia is Jayden’s ex-girlfriend,” Noor said. The venom in Georgia’s expression was Medusa levels. Yikes. I was definitely going to steer clear of her.

  The party swelled and the living room got hotter and hotter. The last thing I wanted to do was sweat to death in this dress (plus Aphrodite would definitely make me pay for the dry-cleaning bill) so Daphne, Noor and I grabbed our coats and stepped out in the garden for a few minutes.

  It was a cloudless night and music seemed to come from every direction. We sat on the swing bench as more of the party flowed outside, lured by the fresh air and the prospect of fireworks at midnight.

  That’s when I saw him.

  I told Daphne and Noor not to turn around. Immediately they turned around. Argh! Like me, they were looking at the fittie leaning against the garden fence. He was too busy scribbling in a notebook to notice the three pairs of eyes staring at him. Thankfully.

  “Ooh, mysterious,” Daphne said. “There’s no way he’s here alone.”

  “You don’t recognize him?” I said. “I thought he might be someone in a different year at school.”

  “I seriously doubt that he goes to our school, Helen. I bet he’s at college,” Noor said.

  It was dark, but I could make out a mass of black curls, wide lips and a mole on his chin. He didn’t look that much older than us, sixteen at the most, but he had an aura of maturity. Like taking notes in my back garden, at a party, was normal. When he stopped writing, he tucked his notebook away into the pocket of his black wool coat and we locked eyes. Uh-oh.

  “A super babe has landed in your lap! Maybe this is good karma for saving Yasmin’s party?” Daphne said.

  Even though it was cold I felt my cheeks flush red. I glanced up. He was still staring.

  Noor nudged me. “You should talk to him, Hels.”

  For the first time ever, the thought of talking to a guy with a face like that didn’t fill me with fear. Maybe it was the glamazon dress, or the fact that I was pulling off a house party, but I didn’t feel like the normal Helen Thomas. I could do this.

  Next step: approach the hottie. Could I compliment his notebook? His coat? His mole that I had the urge to nibble?

  No, Helen! Do not nibble the mole. Or anything else on his face.

  “What the heck do I say?” I had never been in this situation before and was going to need some guidance.

  “Relax. Just ask him how he knows Yasmin, and it’ll flow from there,” Noor said.

  “I need the loo. Noor, do you want to come with me?” Daphne asked.

  Noor giggled. “Yep. Good luck, Helen!” Then they both went back in the house, leaving me alone to talk to this mega-babe.

  With my traitorous friends inside, I had nothing to keep me busy. Even my phone battery had betrayed me, so I took an intense interest in Dad’s ornamental holly bush. As I reached over to see if the berries were fake or not, I became aware of someone next to me.

  I turned around. My tummy flipped 180 degrees. Because it was mystery notebook guy, sitting on the bench next to me, and he looked so gorgeous I didn’t think he could be human.

  Close up, he was mesmerizing. He had smooth, tanned skin, jet-black curls and deep brown eyes framed by eyelashes so lusciously thick they’d make Aphrodite weep. It was like the universe had worked out the algorithm for Helen’s Ideal Boyfriend.

  He was, quite simply, perfect.

  And he was sitting next to me.

  “Guuuh.” What was that sound? Oh yes, it came from MY MOUTH. Good job, brain. I thought we were in this together?

  Luckily, he ignored (or just didn’t hear) my mouth fart.

  “I’m Marco,” he said, and shook my hand. This, much like my mouth, didn’t do anything in response. It just hung limply. “Is there space for me?”

  “Sure, don’t mind me and my bush!”

  Oh. My. God. Why did my brain/mouth filter go into meltdown, tonight of all nights?

  “The bush. Not my bush. And there’s space for all of us,” I stammered.

  Did he think I was a complete freak? If so, he was doing the gentlemanly thing of not showing it.

  “Thank you. I didn’t catch your name?” he asked with an accented voice. Uh-oh. This guy sounded as delicious as he looked. This could be dangerous.

  “Helen,” I said. Thankfully I didn’t muck up saying my own name.

  “Helen? I like that name,” he said. “Are you having a good time?”

  “Yeah. I’m having fun,” I said, trying to give off an air of calm and nonchalance (even though I wanted to eat his face).

  He smiled slowly. “I’m glad you’re enjoying your own party. It would be a great shame if the hostess was tired of it.”

  All I could do was smile and nod in response. Why, oh why, couldn’t I will my brain to spit out complete sentences? It didn’t seem to bother Marco, though.

  “And what do you do with the rest of your time? When you’re not looking gorgeous at house parties, of course.”

  He was flirting. With me. I’d read about stuff like this in novels but never experienced it. How was this my life? Last New Year’s Eve, I was eating cake frosting and watching Clueless for the gazillionth time. Now I was throwing a house party in London, and making small talk with someone who could be a model or work in Abercrombie & Fitch. He really was that hot.

  I kept my answer simple. “I’m studying,” I said. He probably thought I was one step up from a goldfish in the IQ stakes. But at least it wasn’t a lie. I am studying. So what if it’s for my GCSEs and not, say, at college?

  Thankfully he did most of the talking from then on. Marco was taking a gap year to improve his language skills before going back to start his A levels in September. He’d been travelling all over Europe, and he planned to spend a bit of time in London during the winter with his uncle’s family. I didn’t catch where his accent was from, or why it seemed so familiar.

  “I would love for a native Londoner to show me the sights sometime. Can I have your email address?” he asked, getting his notebook out.

  Oh god oh god oh god. In my defence, I signed up for my email address years ago and barely use it. I obviously couldn’t give him my school email address – so saddo teachers can read my messages in the staffroom? No thanks.

  “Sure,” I said in the most nonchalant voice I could muster.

  I reached over to take the pen and notebook from him. And he flinched away from me! Did he think I was going in for a kiss and was completely revolted by the idea?

  Just my luck. I’d probably misread the whole situation. Maybe Marco wanted to make friends (and only friends) with people in a new city?

  “Would you mind reading it out? My notebook absolutely must not fall into the wrong hands,” Marco said with a wink.

  Ahhh. He didn’t want me to see his notes. I wasn’t revolting, after all! But I still had my email address to read out…

  I was going to have to say it. Why couldn’t he have asked for my phone number or Instagram handle, like any other normal guy?

  “It’s curlygirlypants05@hotmail.com,” I said as fast as I could. He raised an eyebrow b
ut didn’t say anything.

  I looked up and noticed that the garden was a lot busier. It was nearly midnight, and everyone wanted to get a good view of the fireworks. Suddenly, I heard people shouting.

  “Ten, nine, eight…”

  Marco put the notebook into his coat pocket.

  “…seven, six, five…”

  He put his hand on my waist.

  “…four, three, two…”

  He leaned in.

  “…one…”

  He kissed me gently on the lips. And I couldn’t tell if the sound of fireworks exploding was coming from the sky or inside my own head.

  I don’t know why I was so nervous about my first kiss. All those hours reading about techniques online and debating their various merits with my friends were pointless. Marco kissed me, I kissed back, and that was all it took to set my whole body alight. It didn’t feel like a sea monster on my face. I couldn’t taste what he’d had for dinner. My nose stayed in the right place. For a first kiss, I think we knocked it out of the park.

  By the time we stopped kissing, the fireworks display was in full swing, and my insides gently fizzed.

  Then I noticed something that made my stomach plunge in a very different way.

  There were people on my roof! Dad’s office window had a large window leading out on to a flat roof. It was the perfect spot for getting a better view of the fireworks.

  I pulled away from Marco and gasped.

  Strangers in Dad’s office! Climbing through windows! Fiddling with ancient junk! I had to get them out.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I’ve got to go!” I yelled “And thank you!” I said over my shoulder as I bolted inside (why did I thank him for kissing me?!).

  “Dad’s office. Now!” I barked at Eros while I ran up the stairs two steps at a time (not easy in such a fitted dress, let me tell you).

  I burst into the room. Several people sat on the roof, some taking videos of the fireworks.

  But that wasn’t what made my heart stop in my throat.

  A few people I didn’t recognize were rooting through the cardboard boxes left over from the house move. Why were they wearing white sheets as dresses? And vines on their heads? Then I realized. They were wearing togas and laurel wreaths. Dad’s togas and laurel wreaths. Something told me these outfits were not to be touched.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I screamed as one girl jammed her foot into a winged sandal.

  “Oh, we found this fancy-dress box,” said the girl. “Want to try some on?” She said, holding out a bundled-up toga.

  “Do you reckon this fur is real?” said another guy, hauling up a heavy cloak complete with the head of a lion.

  I gulped. Dad had kept this stuff secret for a reason. It wasn’t meant to be touched.

  “OUT!” I shouted, still breathless from my jog up the stairs.

  “Babe, chill,” said a girl taking selfies with her shiny new laurel wreath. “It’s just charity shop junk. Who else would want it?”

  Eros appeared in the room, a picture of calm. “Hey, guys, this room is kinda off limits, I’m afraid. Would you mind going back downstairs?”

  The effect was instant. The girl broke into a wide smile before Eros finished talking.

  “No, no, we totally get it,” she said. “Sorry if we messed up the room.”

  “And you’ll have to leave behind everything,” he added.

  They obediently put the winged sandals, togas and lion head cloak (the thought of which made my stomach turn – I couldn’t look the poor thing in the eye) back in the boxes.

  They filed out of the room with dazed smiles on their faces. The last guy to leave even hugged Eros, who had clearly inherited Aphrodite’s power to charm.

  We stopped at the top of the stairs. Why was it so quiet? “Is the party over already?” I asked.

  Then we heard something else. Guitar chords, maybe? Followed by a man singing along.

  “There’s always some jerk who brings out the guitar at a house party and kills the vibe,” Eros said. “If the party isn’t over already, it will be in about ten minutes.”

  Then I remembered where I had heard that voice before and my stomach sank. What the heck was Apollo doing here? The more gods that knew about the house party, the more likely Dad was going to find out about it.

  We burst into the living room to see him standing by the window with his guitar. We couldn’t get much further than the front door – the room was rammed. Dozens of people stood and sat on every available surface, entranced by Apollo’s music. As in, they looked literally entranced. I’d seen that dizzy smile before.

  Some swayed, some closed their eyes, but everyone looked peaceful and happy. A few recorded Apollo with their phones. It was so weird. Just fifteen minutes before, the thump of music and laughter rolled through the house. Now it was like naptime at nursery.

  Apollo wrapped up his last song. “That was ‘Your Golden Love’ by me, DJ Sunny. And now for my next track, called—”

  I caught his eye by waving frantically. “Give me one sec, guys,” he said, and left his guitar behind while he waded through the people on the floor to see me and Eros.

  “Hey, fam. How’s it hanging?” he asked, blue eyes wide and shining. Apollo was in his element when he performed, even if it was only our living room.

  “What on earth have you done to my party?” I hissed.

  “Relax, little one. I’m doing you a favour. A fight was this close to kicking off, but my music calmed everyone down.” Apollo leaned in closer and hushed his voice. “Forget Father, how do you think the Council would react if they heard about that?”

  Eros chimed in. “Helen, he has a point. Cranus despises us as it is. If a mortal got hurt in our home and the Council found out, it’d be game over.”

  “You see, Helen, as well as being a musical virtuoso, I’m a skilled clairvoyant,” Apollo said, folding his arms. “And those two –” he pointed to a couple of Isaac’s friends, who were now sitting cross-legged on the floor “– were minutes away from getting into a punch-up.”

  “Fine,” I muttered. Apollo may have saved us from certain punishment, but he’d killed my party. Not only that, but my chance to find Marco slipped further away by the minute. I don’t know much about boys, but surely he wouldn’t stick around after I ran away mid-kiss?

  “You’re welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me, my fans await,” Apollo said, walking back to the living room. He picked up his guitar. “My next tune is called ‘Sound of the Sirens’. Peep my mixtape on SoundCloud: I’m DJ_Sunny.”

  I hated to admit it, but Apollo did the right thing. By the time he’d finished his guitar set, the crowd was so chilled that they practically floated out of the house. No noise, and hardly any mess. It was a miracle.

  As I washed my face and brushed my teeth, my head swam with the thought of Marco (well, his face, hands and lips). The kiss couldn’t have lasted longer than 7.5 seconds, but I’d relived the memory millions of times. My last “kiss” was in Year 2 and, much like this one, came out of nowhere. But the similarity starts and ends there, let me tell you. Duncan Prior’s whelk-like kiss in the playground couldn’t compare to Marco’s.

  I gargled mouthwash, spat it out and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Some sort of transformation that would show the world that I, Helen Thomas, had lost my snog-virginity, maybe? But I didn’t look any different.

  While the memory was fresh in my mind (it might have faded by the morning!), I needed to tell Mum. I went to my room and got out the shoebox tucked away in my wardrobe. I was too tired to write a full letter, but I had to scribble something down before bed:

  Dear Mum,

  Guess what?! I had my first kiss tonight!!!

  His name is Marco, I think he’s from somewhere in Europe and his face is so pretty it makes me drool a little.

  Wherever you are, please cross your fingers that I’ll see him again.

  Love
for ever,

  Helen xxx

  FIFTEEN

  “Rise and shine!” Someone was whispering in my ear and shaking me awake. I looked up to find Eros’s face staring down at me.

  I groaned and rolled over on the sofa. I wasn’t in the mood for Eros’s chirpiness. Not at this hour.

  “If I were you, I’d get up now and sort the house out before Father returns. And I come with treats,” he said with a wink (unlike 99% of men, Eros can wink without looking creepy or corny).

  Now I was awake. I woke up my friends with the promise of milky coffee and glazed doughnuts.

  “Your cousin’s so thoughtful, Hels,” Daphne said.

  “And fit too,” Noor whispered.

  “What’s his name again?” Yasmin asked whilst reaching for her second doughnut.

  “It’s Eros. Strange, right?” I said in response to the expression on their faces. “My family has this thing for old-school Greek names. I got off lightly with Helen!”

  “Hels, I meant to ask!” Daphne shrieked. “How did it go with Garden Hottie last night?”

  Noor’s eyes widened. “Oh yeah! Did you speak to him?”

  I smiled and felt a blush creeping over my face. “I did more than speak to him.”

  “Shut. The. Front. Door. Tell us everything,” Yasmin said.

  I told my friends about last night’s encounter with Marco. They wanted every tiny detail, and telling them all about it was nearly as fun as the real thing.

  “Helen, this is ridiculously exciting,” said Yasmin. “Most people have their first kiss behind the bike shed at school. But yours? With a mystery guy under fireworks at the stroke of midnight.”

  Noor clutched her chest. “I know, right? It almost makes my cold, icy heart believe in the power of love.”

  I talked about Marco while we cleaned up the last of the party debris – paper plates, cups, that sort of thing.

  “So what I don’t understand is, why didn’t he ask for your number?” Daphne asked, wiping the kitchen table.

  “Maybe his phone isn’t registered in this country yet. He’s been travelling all around Europe, remember?” I said.