Goddess Boot Camp omg-2

by Tera Lynn Childs

  "So?" Nicole asks, defiantly crossing her arms over her chest.

  "So," Mrs. Philipoulos replies, just as defiantly, "not every document the gods file is fit for student eyes."

  My shoulders slump. After all the racing my brain has done since I got that note, I half expected some kind of miracle in that call number. I'm not sure what kind of miracle, but I was sure there was some kind of mystery about my dad's death that might explain why he'd died. Why he'd done it. Why he'd decided that his football career was the most important thing in his life. Some clue to how I might avoid the same fate.

  Now I might never know.

  "That's all right, Mrs. Philipoulos," I say, defeated. Thanks for your help."

  Nicole gapes at me. "What?" she asks. "You're giving up? When you're this close"-she holds up her palms half an inch apart-"to finding the truth?"

  "What truth?" I throw back. "My dad died. The gods smoted him because he abused his powers to succeed in football. Nothing can change that."

  "How can you be-"

  Mrs. Philipoulos gasps, stopping Nicole midsentence. "You're Nicky Castro's daughter."

  "Did you know my dad?"

  "No, not personally." She gives me a sad. sympathetic smile. "But I knew of him." After a thick beat, she adds, "Everyone did."

  My eyes water. There's something in that beat, in that silence, that tells me the entire hematheosworld knows Dad's story. Like he's a warning. Careful how you use your powers or this will happen to you.

  "How did you get this call number?" she asks. "It's not student-accessible in ECHO."

  I shrug as I blink away the moisture. "Someone left that note at my door."

  "I always say there are exceptions to every rule, honey." She types another quick sequence, turns the monitor to face me, and says, "You have every right to see this."

  Nicole hurries around to look over my shoulder as I quickly scan the entry on the screen.

  Collection: Mt. Olympus Archives

  Title: Council Court Minutes

  Topic: Proceedings of the Trial of Nicholas Andrew Castro

  Copies: l

  Call Number: XI 597.11 FL76

  Location: B2-S18D

  My heart thuds into my throat.

  "The record of my dad's trial? I didn't even know there had been a trial. I thought the gods just decided among themselves to punishhim. If there was a trial, maybe there was testimony or interviews or some kind of documentation to prove that Dad hadn't just sacrificed everything for a sport.

  "Follow me, girls," Mrs. Philipoulos says, grabbing a set of keys from her desk drawer.

  "I can't believe it," I say to Nicole as we follow Mrs. Philipoulos through the doorway that leads to the stacks. The record of my dad's trial. I didn't know they kept that sort of record."

  I'd heard about the "secret" collection-everyone has, but I had no idea what they held.

  "Neither did I." Nicole's voice sounds strange.

  When I look, she's staring straight ahead, her eyes completely blank. Without question I know what she's thinking about: the trial where her and Griffin's parents got banished. The trial over something she and Griffin did. and for which their parents were punished. Though she and Griff are finally friends again after years of hating each other over it, I know it still kills them inside. I can see it sometimes when Griffin runs. His bright blue eyes get a faraway look and I know he's thinking about his parents. My heart breaks every time.

  As we reach the end of one row of stacks, Mrs. Philipoulos stops in front of a janitor's closet and whips around to face us.

  "What I am going to show you," she says, sounding very ominous, "you are not to breathe a word about to another living soul." She starts to turn around and then spins back. "Or a dead one."

  Nicole and I exchange raised eyebrows.

  Mrs. Philipoulos unlocks the janitor's closet and walks inside.

  When we don't follow, she leans her head back out and says, "What are you waiting for?" She waves us inside. "This way."

  Nicole raises her finger to her temple and makes the universal sign for nutso. But really, what have we got to lose?

  I shrug and take a step into the closet. As soon as we're both inside, Mrs. Philipoulos pulls the door shut. While we're surrounded by darkness I hear a bit of a shuffle. Something falls over, crashing to the floor.

  "Drat!" Mrs. Philipoulos snaps. "Who put that mop there? Ah, here we go."

  I hear a soft click. All at once the tiny closet is bathed in soft light. And it starts to move. Down.

  "Whoa," Nicole gasps. "There's a sub-sublevel?"

  Mrs. Philipoulos winks at her.

  Seconds later, the closet stops moving and Mrs. Philipoulos reaches for the handle. "Remember, girls." she says, turning the handle. "You were never here."

  "Oh. My. Gods."

  I can't believe what I'm seeing. It's a whole other level that spreads out beneath the school. With just as many rows and rows of bookshelves as the floor above. And every last shelf is full.

  "Are these all records from Mount Olympus?" Nicole asks, gaping just as seriously as I am.

  "Of course not," Mrs. Philipoulos says, as if that's the most ridiculous thing that's been said all day. "Most of these are from the Library of Alexandria."

  "The Library of Alexandria?" I ask. "Didn't that burn down?"

  Mrs. Philipoulus scoffs. "Damn fool Hypatia. Athena tried to convince her to install a sprinkler system. But no-o-o,no one was going to tell the librarinatrix how to run her library." As she starts stomping down one aisle, she adds. "Athena saved the collection before it turned to ash, but she couldn't exactly advertise the fact, could she? So, we keep it protected here."

  As we hurry past shelf after shelf of ancient books and scrolls and papers, bound in various earthy shades of leather and smelling like dirt and mold and century upon century of history, I try to catch a few titles. The Complete Plays of Sophocles. Plato's Early Writings. Chronicle of the Trojan War. Wow.

  Behind me, Nicole gasps. I notice her stop and stare at a book. She runs her fingertips reverently over the burgundy leather spine before tugging it out. Mrs. Philipoulus doesn't notice, but I have a feeling she would freak out a little if she saw Nicole grabbing something off the shelf. I try to distract her.

  "How do you keep track of it all?" I ask.

  "Hephaestus designed an amazing computer system that scans, categorizes, and keeps track of every document." She keeps hurrying down the aisle, getting farther and farther from Nicole. "He's not just the god of blacksmithing, you know."

  "Yeah," I say, picturing his computer-geeky descendants. "I know."

  "Aha!" she explains, pulling to stop. "Here we go. Shelf B2-S18D."

  She quickly skims a finger across a shelf of books, mumbling thecall numbers as she goes. "Chi Sigma 597.10. Chi Sigma 597.1099.

  Chi Sigma 597.121-wait a second." she says, skimming back a fewbooks and then ahead again. "Chi Sigma 597.1099 and then Chi Sigma 597.121. Where is Chi Sigma 597.11?"

  I look for myself. She's right. The book is gone.

  "That's not possible, she says. "This is a noncirculating collection. No one can check out an Olympic record. No one."

  My heart sinks.

  Great. The one and only record of my dad's trial is missing. That's like waving a bowl of cookies and cream under my nose and then telling me ice cream's off-limits. Almost having that record in my hands makes me even more desperate to know everything. All of a sudden I have a million more questions. What's in the record? Who took it? Why did they take it? And, most important at the moment, does whoever sent me that note know where it is?

  * * *

  "Afraid I won't catch you?"

  I look back over my shoulder at Xander, standing there looking all cool and passive. He's holding his hands out, palms up, but in a casual way.

  "You're not exactly inspiring confidence, I say, nodding at his hands. "Besides, I've done this same thing like a million times before. It's stupid."

 
; All around me, ten-year-olds are giggling. We're in the courtyard again, though I think we should really be on a softer surface. At the moment we're supposed to be doing that team-building trust exercise where you fall back and someone catches you. I'd muchrather crash on grass than on the hard-tile mosaic of the courtyard floor.

  All the giggly girls have been paired up, and one after another, they're falling back into one another's arms.

  "You almost let me fall!" one girl-Larissa, I think-squeals. She's a descendant of Hades, but with her golden blonde hair and dark green eyes, she doesn't look like any Hades descendant I've met.

  "I did not!" her partner, curly-haired Gillian, protests. "I was just softening your fall."

  While they argue, I turn my attention back to Xander, who is still watching me patiently.

  "You're right," I say. "I don't trust you."

  He shrugs. This exercise isn't about trusting me."

  I scowl. "It's not?"

  "No." He shakes his head slowly. "It's about trusting yourself."

  "I don't get it."

  He just shrugs again and holds out his hands.

  Clearly, explanation time is over.

  I debate it for a minute longer. I mean, he's definitely strong enough to catch me-that's why I'm paired with him and not a ten-year-old-and definitely more likely than Stella or Adara to catch me. But the question is: Will he catch me? There's a dark spark of mischief in his lavender eyes that suggests he likes breaking rules no matter the consequences. He's trouble and likes it that way.

  "Tell me something about yourself first." I'm not about to riskbodily injury trusting someone who won't tell me more than his name and grade.

  He looks indifferent. "Like what?"

  "Like-" I almost ask why he got expelled, but then change my mind. That might be too personal for a first question. And after what Griffin said about some people being touchy about their ancestor god, that's not a smart choice, either. Instead, I go for something safe… ish. "Are you subjecting yourself to weeks of ten-year-olds just to spend time with Stella?"

  I am totally bluffing. I mean, he's shown no indication so far that he's interested in anythingabout this camp, let alone one of the counselors. But she's definitely interested in him. I'm looking out for my girl, testing the waters to see if her crush might be reciprocated. Maybe plant the seed of interest in his mind.

  I don't expect an admission.

  His dark blond brows lift just the tiniest bit, betraying his surprise. Then, shocking the crap out of me, a flush of pink crawls up his neck.

  Gotcha!

  He grumbles, "Let's just get on with the exercise."

  "Fine," I say, satisfied with my victory.

  Besides, if he drops me. I'll have an excuse to skip out on the rest of these stupid exercises. I'll be bleeding from the head, but I'll be doing it at home.

  Holding my arms straight out to the side, I close my eyes and fall.

  Halfway to the ground, my eyes fly open. He's not going to catch me. He's not going to-

  A split second before I hit the ground, his hands slip under my pits. My heart racing, I scramble upright and whirl around. "You almost let me drop!"

  "You did not trust."

  "Of course not!" I smack him on the shoulder. Hard. "You were going to let me fall."

  "No."

  "No?" My jaw drops. "My skull was inches from tile."

  "Did it hitthe ground?"

  Well, no," I stammer. "But if you had-"

  "Everything all right here?" Stella chirps. She's been making her rounds of the partners, checking on the whole I-trust-you-you-trust-me status.

  "No," I snap. "It's not all right. He sucks as a partner."

  Stella glares at me. Right, like she'll listen to any words against Xander.

  "This exercise," she says slowly, "is not about your partner."

  I just cross my arms. As if anything I say is going to convince her that Xander's at fault here.

  "Hold this for me." She hands Xander-who spears me with a nervous scowl-her clipboard. Holding out her hands, she says, "Try with me, Phoebe."

  "Yeah, right."

  Her jaw clenches so tight I can see it.

  "Just try," she practically growls.

  Fine. Whatever. I spin around, fling out my arms, and hesitate. My heart is still pounding from my almost crash with Xander.

  "This time., Stella says, her voice soft and reassuring, "don't think about trusting me to catch you."

  "Good," I retort. "Because I don't."

  "Instead," she continues like I didn't snap at her, "think about trusting yourself not to fall."

  "What?" That doesn't even make any sense.

  "Just try it."

  Fine, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.,I think, I. Will. Not. Fall.

  I fall back.

  She catches me yards before I hit the ground.

  I hear clapping.

  When I open my eyes, I see Stella and Xander on either side of me, standing over me.

  "Congratulations," Stella says, beaming. "You just earned your first merit badge."

  I stare at her clapping hands. "You're not holding me," I say stupidly.

  She shakes her head.

  "Then who-"

  I twist my head back. No one is there.

  "You are," Stella says triumphantly.

  I crash to the ground in a heap.

  Chapter 6

  __________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  PSYCHODICTATION

  SOURCE: ATHENA

  The ability to communicate telepathkally, whether in words, feelings, orother ways, with another hematheos. Communication should not beattempted without proper training, because of rare but serious risk ofbrain aneurism.(See Psycbospection for the ability to read another'sthoughts.)

  DYNAMOTHEOS STUDY GUIDE * Stella Petrolas

  __________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  WHEN I PUSH THROUGH the glass door of the ice-cream parlor, the owner waves. "Afternoon, Phoebe."

  I tell myself Demetrius knows my name because he prides himself on knowing everystudent's name-not because I have an ice-cream problem or anything.

  "How was camp today?" he asks.

  Demetrius, a descendant of Clio-the muse of history-and a major throwback to the fifties, keeps the place in perfect Happy Daysstyle. Chrome and sky-blue vinyl everywhere. A long bar with round, counter height stools. A pair of cramped booths in the back with mini-jukeboxes on the tables. And just about any ice-cream flavor you could ever imagine.

  I shrug. "Fine."

  "Phoebe," Nicole calls out from one of the booths.

  Troy waves and says, "Hey!"

  "Be right there," I say, then turn to Demetrius to place my order. "I'll have my usual."

  My mouth starts salivating at the thought of that perfectly spherical scoop of mint chocolate chip perched on a crunchy brown sugar cone. Knowing Griffin is going to crack down on our training nutritional plan any minute now makes the indulgence even more enticing. Allure of the forbidden and all that.

  "Not today," Demetrius says. "I've got something better."

  Better? What could be better?

  "Try this," he says. "On the house."

  I take the cone and eye it suspiciously. It looks like pretty average ice cream-vanilla colored with little white flecks.

  "Thanks," I say, a little defeated. But it's not like I can resent free ice cream.

  "Try it."

  With a shrug, I dart out my tongue for a quick sample. My taste buds explode with a long-forgotten flavor.

  "Oh my gods," I gasp, staring at Demetrius. "You didn't!"

  Me smiles smugly. "I did."

  Nicole, tired of waiting for me, shouts out, "He did what?"

  I stare, wide-eyed, at my new favorite person on the planet.

  "This ice-cream genius," I say between licks, "re-created Ben
Jerrys White Russian. Perfectly." I shake my head in awe. "My all-time favorite."

  Demetrius winks at me. "You're welcome."

  "I could just jump over this counter and hug you." I take another lick.

  He actually blushes. "Go on," he says, gesturing me away. "Your friends are waiting."

  "Thanks."

  As I slide into the sky-blue booth next to Nicole, Troy asks, "Why are you getting apoplectic over ice cream?"

  "This isn't just any ice cream," I explain. "This is the best flavor ever invented. BJ discontinued it years ago and I haven't had a taste since. "Here," I say, holding out the cone, "try it."

  Troy turns kind of green and shakes his head adamantly.

  "What's wrong?" I ask, jabbing the ice cream in his direction.

  "Oh gods," Troy yelps, then claps one hand over his mouth and the other over my wrist, shoving me away.

  "What's wrong with him?" I ask Nicole.

  "When he was in Athens last week," she says, giving Troy a sympathetic look, "he finally told his parents he wants to be a musician."

  "Good for you!" I congratulate Troy, who still looks more green than not. We've been trying to get him to come clean for months. He's from a long line of doctors-like millennia long-so of course that's what his parents want him to be. But music is in his soul. He'd be miserable as a doctor, and I know his parents would understand that. "What does that have to do with ice cream?"

  "It's not the ice cream, exactly," she explains. "It's the sugar."

  I give her a look that repeats, so?

  "His parents were not exactly thrilled by the news."

  "That's putting it mildly," Troy adds, returning to a mostly normal, mostly pinky-tan color. They hit the roof." He shudders. "Literally."

  "I still don't-"

  "They cursed my taste buds."

  That sounds rotten. "What does that mean?"

  "Until I agree to become a doctor," he explains, "every time I eat something sweet, it tastes like… something notsweet."

  "That sucks." If this were anything other than White Russian, I'd toss it out in Friendship solidarity. But, as I said, it's Wbitc Russian'.I ignore my guilt, trying to be as discreet as possible about my icecream ecstasy.