Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp

by Tera Lynn Childs

  "What hap­pe­ned to you?"

  I flick Stel­la a glan­ce over my glass. Her ge­ne­ral­ly su­pe­ri­or lo­ok gra­du­al­ly fa­des as I just sta­re at her.

  When I fi­nish the last drop in my glass, I set it in the sink and start to le­ave the kitc­hen. Stel­la steps in front of me. She grabs my sho­ul­ders with both hands, dips down to lo­ok in my eyes, and an­no­un­ces. "You auto­por­ted."

  "What?"

  "Auto­por­ted," she re­pe­ats. "You shim­me­red yo­ur­self ho­me, didn't you?"

  "How can you tell?" Then I re­mem­ber she can re­ad minds. "Ne­ver mind."

  "No," she says, sha­king her he­ad. "Yo­ur mind's too much of a mess for me to re­ad right now. You ha­ve a re­si­du­al glow in yo­ur eyes. That only hap­pens when so­me­one has re­cently auto­por­ted."

  I shrug. I'm in no mo­od to be analy­zed or cri­ti­qu­ed or jud­ged or wha­te­ver she's trying to do right now.

  "I know you're hur­ting," she says, her vo­ice soft with un­ders­tan­ding. "but auto­por­ta­ti­on is the most ad­van­ced of all dyna­mot­he­os po­wers. We ne­ed to fi­gu­re out how this hap­pe­ned."

  "Stel­la, I-"

  She squ­e­ezes my sho­ul­ders. "I wo­uldn't ask you to do this right now un­less I tho­ught it was re­al­ly im­por­tant."

  Her pa­le gray eyes are ste­ely with re­sol­ve. Cle­arly, I'm not es­ca­ping this ses­si­on. "Just let me splash so­me wa­ter on my fa­ce."

  Stel­la nods and lets me go fres­hen up.

  When I get back, she's in the di­ning ro­om with a bunch of pa­pers spre­ad out over the tab­le. She glan­ces up when I walk in.

  "Fe­eling bet­ter?"

  "A lit­tle," I ans­wer ho­nestly.

  "Go­od," she says, "be­ca­use I ne­ed you to tell me everyt­hing abo­ut the si­tu­ati­on that led to yo­ur auto­por­ta­ti­on."

  As I sink in­to the cha­ir op­po­si­te hers, I me­et her eyes stra­ight on. I don't re­al­ly want to tell her what just hap­pe­ned-we may be fri­endly at the mo­ment, but that do­esn't me­an I'm abo­ut to sha­re per­so­nal de­ta­ils of my lo­ve li­fe. But, the truth is, I'm a lit­tle fre­aked out by the who­le auto­por­ta­ti­on thing. It's not li­ke I cont­rol­led it. I didn't even see it co­ming.

  What if I ac­ci­den­tal­ly auto­port myself to the Go­bi De­sert? Or the bot­tom of the oce­an? Or the mid­dle of a Mary-Kay con­ven­ti­on? I shud­der at the tho­ught of all the ma­ke­up and pep.

  Con­si­de­ring the risks of not un­der­s­tan­ding what hap­pe­ned, it's far less frigh­te­ning to tell Stel­la the truth.

  "Well, I went for a run," I be­gin. "To cle­ar my he­ad…"

  For the next thirty mi­nu­tes, I spill every last de­ta­il of the last few days, everyt­hing from the ins­tant I tur­ned Da­mi­an in­to a sur­fer du­de up un­til I auto­por­ted back to my ro­om. I even trash on Ada­ra and her boyf­ri­end-ste­aling ga­mes, des­pi­te the fact that she and Stel­la are fri­ends.

  Stel­la do­esn't say a word. Just scrib­bles no­tes in a pink spi­ral-bo­und whi­le I bab­ble on. And on. And on.

  "All I co­uld think of was be­ing away from the­re and then…" I ges­tu­re to­ward my ro­om. "I was."

  Fi­nis­hed, I ta­ke a de­ep bre­ath and slump back aga­inst my cha­ir.

  Wow. I fe­el a lot bet­ter just get­ting that off my chest.

  "I'd li­ke to try an ex­pe­ri­ment," Stel­la fi­nal­ly says. She pla­ces her pen in the cen­ter of the tab­le. "Simp­le te­le­ki­ne­sis. Pick this up."

  When I start to re­ach for it, she says. "No. Not with yo­ur hands."

  Okay. Con­cent­ra­ting all my energy on the pen, I try to mo­ve it to­ward me. Ins­te­ad of sli­ding in my di­rec­ti­on, tho­ugh, it spins in circ­les for se­ve­ral se­conds be­fo­re flying off the tab­le and he­ading po­int first in­to the ne­arest wall.

  "I know what yo­ur prob­lem is." she an­no­un­ces.

  "Gre­at," I'm glad so­me­one do­es. Tell me."

  "You we­re trying to mo­ve the pen."

  "Well, duh." I hold her ga­ze to ke­ep from rol­ling my eyes-she is trying to help me, af­ter all. That's what you told me to do."

  "The ap­pro­ach is all wrong." She pus­hes back from the tab­le and ret­ri­eves the pen from the wall. "You we­re thin­king abo­ut mo­ving the pen-which you did-when you ne­ed to think abo­ut ha­ving the pen in yo­ur hand."

  I sha­ke my he­ad. "I don't get it."

  Stel­la rep­la­ces the pen on the tab­le. Fo­cus yo­ur tho­ughts on the pen be­ing in yo­ur hand al­re­ady. Ima­gi­ne it the­re. Be­li­eve it is al­re­ady in yo­ur-"

  Whi­le she is tal­king, I try what she sug­gests. I pic­tu­re the pen in my hand, li­ke I can al­re­ady fe­el the co­ol plas­tic in my palm. And then, whi­le Stel­la is still tal­king and I'm still skep­ti­cal­ly ex­pec­ting the pen to zip in­to the li­ving ro­om. I fe­el a gent­le we­ight in my hand.

  When I glan­ce down, Stel­la's pen is lying ac­ross my palm.

  "I did it," I say, stun­ned. Lo­oking up at her, I re­pe­at, "Omi­gods. I did it!"

  She ta­kes her pen back and starts scrib­bling mo­re no­tes.

  "Do­es that me­an I'm cu­red?"

  Glan­cing up, gray eyes spark­ling, she says, "Not yet." Be­fo­re I can slump in de­fe­at, she adds. "But it's a start."

  We sha­re a smi­le of suc­cess. For the first ti­me in my li­fe, a suc­cess off the cross-co­untry co­ur­se fe­els al­most as go­od as win­ning a ra­ce. Al­most. But, li­ke Stel­la sa­id, it's a start.

  Chapter 9

  _________________________________________________________________________

  TE­LE­KI­NE­SIS

  SO­UR­CE: ARES

  The abi­lity to mo­ve obj­ects thro­ugh nonphy­si­cal me­ans. Abi­lity va­ri­es de­pen­ding on si­ze and we­ight of obj­ect and dis­tan­ce mo­ved. May be com­bi­ned with Aero­ki­ne­sis to mag­nify strength of abi­lity. Ge­ne­ral­ly the first po­wer to ma­ni­fest in yo­ung he­mat­he­os.

  DYNA­MOT­HE­OS STUDY GU­IDE * Stel­la Pet­ro­las

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  MON­DAY MOR­NING I show up on the Aca­demy steps early. Not that I'm eager for camp or anyt­hing, but af­ter spen­ding all last night-and the three pre­vi­o­us nights-trying to get to sle­ep, I just co­uldn't sta­re at my ce­iling a mi­nu­te lon­ger. At first I tho­ught the In­ter­net co­uld be my di­ver­si­on. But I fi­nal­ly dis­con­nec­ted Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on af­ter anot­her unp­rin­tab­le bloc­ked mes­sa­ge and af­ter mo­ving the fifth e-ma­il from Grif­fin, un­re­ad, in­to the "Li­ars" fol­der. Even run­ning myself to the po­int of ex­ha­us­ti­on three days in a row hadn't hel­ped.

  At le­ast camp will be a wel­co­me dist­rac­ti­on.

  "Ne­ver tho­ught I'd see you he­re early."

  I turn at the so­und of Xan­der's vo­ice.

  "Ye­ah. I co­uld say the sa­me abo­ut you," I say, le­aning my he­ad back aga­inst the cold marb­le co­lumn.

  I he­ar his fo­ots­teps ap­pro­ach and then the so­unds of him sit­ting next to me, but don't open my eyes. With exactly ze­ro ho­urs of sle­ep and co­ming down from a we­ekend-long emo­ti­onal rol­ler co­as­ter, I'm not in the mo­od.

  Appa­rently, tho­ugh, he's not sen­sing my go-away vi­bes.

  "Tro­ub­le in pa­ra­di­se?" he asks. Des­pi­te the clic­he, he so­unds se­ri­o­us.

  "What do you ca­re?"

  "I don't."

  I fe­el him le­an back next to me aga­inst the co­lumn.

  "Go­od," I say.

  For a mi­nu­te I think he's not go­ing to say anyt­hing el­se. "Unless it's af­fec­ting yo­ur po­wers tra­ining."

  Prying an eye open, I ask, "I beg yo­ur par­don?"

  "If yo­ur
prob­lems with Bla­ke are go­ing to get in the way of yo­ur de­ve­lop­ment, then we ne­ed to de­al with this."

  "My prob­lems with Bla­ke-" I sha­ke my he­ad, "with Grif­fin ha­ve not­hing to do with my po­wers."

  "You don't think so?" He so­unds all su­pe­ri­or. May­be he and Stel­la ha­ve mo­re in com­mon than I tho­ught. "Let me tell you from ex­pe­ri­en­ce that ever­y­t­hing that af­fects yo­ur emo­ti­ons af­fects yo­ur po­wers."

  Right, I al­most for­got abo­ut his ex­pe­ri­en­ce.

  My spi­ne stif­fens as I turn my full at­ten­ti­on on him. "Which re­minds me," I snap. "You co­uld exp­la­in a lit­tle mo­re abo­ut the test- and the con­se­qu­en­ces of fa­iling it-sin­ce you've, you know, do­ne that."

  His la­ven­der eyes burn brigh­ter for a se­cond, but he do­esn't bet­ray any ot­her re­ac­ti­on.

  "My ex­pe­ri­en­ce has not­hing to do with yo­urs," he says, his vo­ice sin­ce­re. "The gods play the­ir ga­mes as they see fit, and what hap­pe­ned to me is comp­le­tely re­mo­ved from wha­te­ver will hap­pen to you. It is in­ten­sely per­so­nal."

  "It co­uld still be use­ful," I in­sist, "if I had so­me hint of what to ex­pect."

  I me­an, se­ri­o­usly. The sols­ti­ce is just days away. And even tho­ugh I ear­ned a hand­ful of me­rit bad­ges last we­ek-mostly by ac­ci­dent-I fe­el comp­le­tely unp­re­pa­red. My mi­nor suc­cess with Stel­la's pen isn't exactly a gu­aran­tee of suc­cess. Af­ter Xan­der's cryptic I-ho­pe-you-ne­ver-find-out-abo­ut-the-con­se­qu­en­ces com­ment, get­ting smo­ted for ac­ci­den­tal po­wers usa­ge is lo­sing gro­und on the fe­ar sca­le in the fa­ce of suf­fe­ring so­me unk­nown pu­nish­ment for fa­iling the test.

  "Fi­ne," he says with a sigh. "But it won't help you."

  "We'll see."

  "It was an unim­por­tant Thurs­day in Le­vel 10." His eyes get a fa­ra­way lo­ok, and it's li­ke he's not he­re any­mo­re. "The girl I'd be­en da­ting for three ye­ars wal­ked up to me in the ca­fe­te­ria and, in front of the en­ti­re scho­ol, an­no­un­ced she was dum­ping me for so­me des­cen­dant of Ze­us be­ca­use he was bet­ter-lo­oking."

  I blink at him a few ti­mes. When he do­esn't con­ti­nue. I say, "And… "

  "And thirty se­conds la­ter, she and the new guy we­re de­ep in the he­art of King Mi­nus' laby­rinth."

  That se­ems li­ke a bit of an over­re­ac­ti­on.

  "As I sa­id, the test is in­ten­sely per­so­nal." He rubs a hand over his fa­ce, li­ke he's sud­denly very ti­red. "For an­yo­ne el­se, that wo­uldn't ha­ve be­en a big de­al. For me… well, let's just say my fa­mily his­tory ma­kes me kind of sen­si­ti­ve abo­ut su­per­fi­ci­al stuff."

  "Oh-kay…-

  "My emo­ti­ons got the bet­ter of me that day," he says. "And I spent the next ten months pa­ying for the lap­se. Wit­ho­ut Stel­la's help, I'd pro­bably still be the­re. If Bla­ke is mes­sing with yo­ur emo­ti­ons, we ne­ed to ta­ke ca­re of it."

  The­re is so­met­hing omi­no­us in his to­ne.

  "I don't ne­ed yo­ur-or any­body el­se's-help when it co­mes to Grif­fin."

  "I'm not trying to pro­vo­ke you, Pho­ebe," he says, le­ve­ling his hypno­tic la­ven­der ga­ze on me. "Just ke­ep in mind that so­me­ti­mes when you tell yo­ur­self things are fi­ne, you're re­al­ly just dri­ving the to­ugh stuff even de­eper."

  "Go­od mor­ning, Xan­der," Stel­la's ext­ra-che­er­ful vo­ice calls out, bre­aking the spell of his mes­me­ri­zing eyes. As she re­ac­hes our spot at the ba­se of the co­lumn, she lo­oks at me. "Pho­ebe."

  "Stel­la," Xan­der says as he climbs to his fe­et. Af­ter a qu­ick nod, he stri­des off thro­ugh the Aca­demy's gol­den do­ors.

  She watc­hes him walk away with a sad, pup­py-dog lo­ok in her eyes.

  I must be fe­eling ge­ne­ro­us or so­met­hing, be­ca­use I say, "You sho­uld ask him out al­re­ady.''

  "What do you me­an?" Start­led, she lo­oks at me. "What ma­kes you think I'm in­te­res­ted in Xan­der?"

  "Puh-le­ase," I say, pus­hing up from the cold marb­le. "Don't play in­no­cent with me. I le­ar­ned yo­ur tricks months ago."

  She pur­ses out her lips, li­ke she wants to re­fu­te my cla­im. Then her gray eyes flick to the do­or Xan­der just wal­ked thro­ugh and her who­le fa­ce sof­tens.

  "Do you-" Stel­la has ne­ver lo­oked this vul­ne­rab­le be­fo­re. "Do you re­al­ly think he might…"

  "You ne­ver know un­til you try."

  For se­ve­ral long se­conds she watc­hes me, eva­lu­ating me. Then she turns on her he­el and hur­ri­es af­ter him.

  As so­on as she's go­ne, I'm thin­king abo­ut what Xan­der sa­id. And won­de­ring if he's right. Eit­her way, I ne­ed to sort out my fe­elings.

  What if I am just ma­king as­sump­ti­ons abo­ut Grif­fin? What if I'm ma­king a big hu­ge de­al out of what he's do­ing with Ada­ra, when the­re's re­al­ly a to­tal­ly in­no­cent exp­la­na­ti­on? But if the­re we­re, he wo­uld ha­ve told me. When he told me the­re was not­hing ro­man­tic go­ing on bet­we­en him and Ada­ra, he wo­uld ha­ve told me what was go­ing on. Wo­uldn't he?

  An ima­ge of Ces­ca flas­hes in my mind. A me­mory of last ye­ar, when I had a sec­ret of my own that I co­uldn't tell my best fri­ends.

  What if it's so­met­hing li­ke that?

  My he­ad is go­ing to spin off my neck if I ke­ep go­ing in circ­les li­ke this.

  "Hi, Pho­ebe!" Tansy bo­unds up the steps.

  "Hey, Tansy," I reply, still a lit­tle dist­rac­ted by my tho­ughts, but re­li­eved to ha­ve so­me­one non­con­fu­sing to talk to. "What's up?"

  "Re­ady for camp," she says. "Actu­al­ly, I wan­ted to ask you a qu­es­ti­on."

  Sha­king off my tho­ughts of sec­rets, I say, "Sho­ot."

  "How do you be­co­me a run­ner?"

  I lo­ok at her and smi­le. "I don't think a per­son be­co­mes a run­ner," I say. "You eit­her run or you don't."

  She bi­tes her lo­wer lip, li­ke she's wor­ri­ed abo­ut what to say next.

  "Do you run?" I ask.

  Gre­en eyes wi­de, she lo­oks up at me and nods. Even tho­ugh she's only twel­ve-not fully de­ve­lo­ped physi­cal­ly or anyt­hing- I can tell she's got the body of a run­ner. Long pro­por­ti­ons, a lit­tle gawky. If she's got the dri­ve, she co­uld be an ex­cel­lent run­ner.

  I smi­le big. "Then you're a run­ner."

  As so­on as I say that, she po­si­ti­vely be­ams. "I want to be just li­ke you."

  "No you don't," I reply. No one wants to be li­ke me. Not on this is­land, any­way. At first it was be­ca­use I wasn't one of them. Now it's be­ca­use I am, but I'm still dif­fe­rent. Hig­her up on the fa­mily tree. Clo­ser to Olym­pus. Li­fe was so much easi­er when I was not­hing mo­re ex­ci­ting than a dis­tan­ce run­ner. "I'm not that gre­at."

  "I think you are."

  Her vo­ice is qu­i­et and se­ri­o­us, li­ke she just sa­id the most im­por­tant thing ever.

  I study her, lo­oking at me with a lit­tle he­ro wors­hip in her eyes. It's be­en so long sin­ce so­me­one-anyo­ne-lo­oked up to me that I al­most don't know how to re­act. Back at Pa­ci­fic Park, I'd be­en kind of a men­tor to a co­up­le of the yo­un­ger girls on the te­am. They lo­oked to me for ad­vi­ce and en­co­ura­ge­ment. That fe­els li­ke a li­fe­ti­me ago.

  As I lo­ok in­to Tansy's se­ri­o­us eyes, my long-lost big sis­ter ins­tinct kicks in.

  "I'm kin­da lo­oking for a tra­ining part­ner," I say as we he­ad in­to the bu­il­ding. "You in­te­res­ted?"

  "Re­al­ly?" she says, her vo­ice full of awe.

  Sin­ce the po­si­ti­on of my cur­rent tra­ining part­ner se­ems to be in qu­es­ti­on, then ye­ah. I wo­uldn't mind ha­ving so­me­one el­se to run with. She might ke­ep my mind
off all the ti­mes Grif­fin and I ran to­get­her.

  "Ye­ah," I say, trying to play it co­ol so she do­esn't think I'm des­pe­ra­te. "I'm tra­ining for the Pythi­an Ga­mes tri­als and co­uld use a buddy."

  We he­ad thro­ugh the halls of the Aca­demy, to­ward the co­urt­yard, with her sta­ring wi­de-eyed and mo­uth ga­ping. It's a mi­rac­le she do­esn't walk in­to a trash can.

  "Is that a yes?"

  "Omi­gods, yes!" she squ­e­als. "When do we start.?"

  "I've be­en tra­ining in the mor­ning." I push thro­ugh the do­or le­ading to the co­urt­yard. "Why don't you me­et me at eight to­mor­row on the cross-co­untry co­ur­se."

  Tansy gasps, "Gre­at!"

  "Wel­co­me, cam­pers," Ada­ra calls ac­ross the co­urt­yard. She spe­ars me with a vi­ci­o­us glan­ce. "We'll be part­ne­ring for to­day's first exer­ci­se. Pho­ebe, you'll be pa­iring up with me."

  Ye­ah, gre­at.

  * * * *

  "You're not even trying."

  I gla­re at Ada­ra. "Of co­ur­se I'm trying."

  I'm just not suc­ce­eding.

  "I know how hard it is for you to ac­cept that ot­her pe­op­le might know so­met­hing mo­re than you." she snaps, and if I co­uld see her fa­ce I know she'd be sne­ering. "But be­li­eve me when I tell you, you're not trying."

  We've be­en stan­ding back-to-back for the last half ho­ur, with me trying to ma­te­ri­ali­ze a ha­zel­nut lat­te in­to her hands. So far I've co­me up with a co­co­nut, a jar of pe­anut but­ter, and-on my most suc­ces­sful at­tempt-a glass of milk.

  I've tra­ined my who­le li­fe. Physi­cal tra­ining-run­ning, we­ight lif­ting, nut­ri­ti­onal plan­ning-that's all se­cond na­tu­re to me. But this men­tal tra­ining is to­tal­ly dif­fe­rent. I'm not used to cons­ci­o­usly exer­ci­sing my mind and my emo­ti­ons. Is it any won­der this isn't go­ing well?