An image-a memory-flashes into my mind. Of Griffin. Of me watching him across the crowded school cafeteria while he is locked in exactly this embrace. With Adara.
I jerk back.
It feels like a bucket of ice water emptied over me.
Removing myself from Griffin's arms, I take a step back.
"I. uh.,." The stabbing pain around my heart is worse than any lactic-acid buildup. I know it isn't fair, holding something from the past against him. But is it really in the past? I can't think. I need to get away from him so my brain can return to seminormal function. "Gotta go."
"Yeah," he says, breathing heavy. "You'd better hurry if you're getting a shower before camp."
Right. Camp.
I glance down at my sweat-soaked I RUN THEREFORE I AM CRAZYT-shirt and shorts. For a second I consider going as is-and taking every opportunity to brush my stinky self up against Adara. But then I remember my dignity-and her e-mail last night about not wearing shorts. As much as I'd like to completely ignore her instructions, I don't want to wind up bit by a snake or a hydra or some other creepy-crawly just to spite her. With my luck, today would be fight-a-mythological-monster day.
"You're right," I say before I get sucked into those bright blue eyes for a lifetime or two. "I need a shower." Pressing a quick kiss to his mouth, I ask. "Maybe you can come by after you get back from Serifos?"
"I'll have to help Aunt Lili put everything away." He gives me a lopsided grin. "But I'll try to steal away. Why don't we meet at the dock at seven for a sunset walk on the beach."
"We could always fit in another training run." I tease.
Griffin groans. "Are you trying to kill me?"
I glance at my watch and realize just how late I am.
"Of course not," I say, backing away across the quad. "If you were dead, who would I train with?"
* * *
"Today we are going to do a team exercise called Navigator," Stella explains as I try to slip unnoticed into the group assembled behind the maintenance shed. She glares at me. I'm not thatlate. A minute or two. Five at the most.
"We have divided you into four teams-three teams of three andone team of four." Adara throws me a glare of her own, like I intentionally ruined her even division of teams. She gives me too little credit for inventiveness-like giving her an odd number of campers is the worst thing I could think of-and too much credit for interest in her. I have better things to do with my mental faculties than make her life miserable. It may be a bonus effect, but I have plenty of my own miseries to worry about.
"Each team will be assigned a supervisor, either Miss Orivas, Stella, Xander, or myself." She flips over a page on her clipboard and reads aloud. "The teams are as follows…"
As Adara reads the names on the list of teams, I glance around at the ten-year-olds. They are all dutifully wearing pants and either sneakers or hiking shoes. She lists the members of the first three teams, those supervised by Stella, Adara, and Miss Orivas. The girls line up behind their assigned leader.
"The remaining four campers-Tansy, Muriel, Gillian, and Phoebe," Adara says, with an extra-sugary-sweet grin at me, "are assigned to Xander."
"Each supervisor will now explain the exercise," Stella says. "The teams are not allowed further communication until Navigator is over."
As Stella, Adara, and Miss Orivas lead their girls in separate directions for the debriefing or whatever, Xander doesn't move from the spot where he's comfortably leaning against the maintenance shed. My three teammates settle into the grass at his feet.
He glances at me and raises a brow.
The rebel thing doesn't do it for me. I move to stand behind theolder girl-I think her name is Tansy-and cross my arms. As if I'm going to sit at his feet.
"Navigator," Xander begins, "is an exercise in strategy, teamwork, and most of all, trust."
Again with the trust thing? We've already done that.
He pushes away from the shed and jerks some pink papers from his back pocket. As he hands them to Gillian he says, "Hidden in the woods behind us are a dozen team flags. Three for each team."
Tansy twists around to hand me one of the papers. It's an odd-looking map, with a series of twisting trails, bushy kindergarten-looking trees, and a dozen A's marked in evenly distributed spots. There's a map legend at the bottom and the I's are dotted with little hearts. Adara's handiwork, no doubt.
Although, with Stella's crazy crush on rebel boy, she might have sunk to heart-doodling, too.
"Are we to find the flags?" the third girl on my team-what was her name?-asks.
"Let him finish, Muriel." Gillian says.
"Yes, Muriel," Xander says, not a flicker of emotion in his lavender eyes, "we will find the flags. The trick is finding the rightflags."
Whatever that's supposed to mean.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm traipsing through the woods behind the ten-year-olds, with Xander bringing up the rear. This is the dumbest game I've ever played. Like I don't have better things to do than hunt for stupid flags in a stupid forest. I could be visiting Serifos with Griffin or helping Nicole with her research project or figuring out who is sending me mysterious messages.
"You're falling behind."
I don't have to glance over my shoulder to know Xander is right behind me. "And your point is?"
"This is a team effort." Twigs crack beneath our steps. "Maybe, since running is an individual sport, you're not familiar with the concept."
Like he has a clue. Sure, each race is an individual runner against other individual runners, but there's also the overall competition. Every race is worth team points. A different number of points for each scoring place-the number of scoring places determined by how many runners are in the race. If there are thirty runners, then usually the first three finishers get points for their team. These points accumulate over the course of the meet, and the team with the highest total at the end wins the overall.
I'm never racing only for myself.
But I don't expect him to understand. Stomping harder across the forest floor. I retort. "And just what teams have you been on?"
"I never said I was a team player."
"Then why are you here?" I ask. He seems more like the type to take a solo motorcycle trip across China than to spend his summer babysitting tweens and dynamotheosrejects. "You're not exactly oozing enthusiasm."
"Let's just say I owe Petrolas a favor."
"Because Damian readmitted you after your expulsion?"
I slap a hand over my mouth. The question slipped out before I knew it was coming. I totally want to know, of course, but I totallydon'twant to get zapped to Siberia. Xander definitely gives off a cross-me-and-you'll-never-be-heard-from-again vibe.
I brace myself for subarctic temperatures.
"Not exactly," he says as we reach a wide spot in the trail-if the barely visible, less dense path is a trail. Picking up his pace, he passes me. "And I didn't say whichPetrolas."
I'm left watching his back as he catches up with my team. He has definitely cornered the market on enigma. I hope Stella goes for the deeply layered type.
"I found one!"
The piercing little-girl shriek echoes through the woods. I follow the sound of yelps and giggles to where my team and Xander have gathered. They're pointing at a white flag hanging from a low tree branch.
"This is one of ours," Tansy insists. "I'm sure of it."
"Remember," Xander says, "if you choose the wrong flag, then you'll lose a point and give the rightful team a two-point bonus."
Note that rebel boy said "you," not "we." And he thinks I don't understand the team concept.
Though no one appears interested in my opinion, I evaluate the flag.
According to Xander's instructions, all the flags on the course took identical. White. We can't trust appearances to know which one is ours. As soon as we touch the flag, it will change colors-to black if it belongs to us, to red, blue, or yellow if it belongs to Stella, Adara, or Miss Orivas. But we can't know for sur
e until we touch it.
"You have to feelthe flag." Xander leans casually against a tree. "See beyond the surface." He looks at me. "If you can."
I scowl at him. In a perfect world, the tree would be swarming with ants.
Maybe if I concentrate, I can-
"I think we should grab it," Gillian says, taking a step toward the tree.
Out of the corner of my eye I see her reaching… for a redflag.
"Wait!" I dive in front of her, pushing her hand out of the way inches before she could touch the still-white flag.
"What are you doing?" Gillian cries.
Muriel crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me.
"What, Phoebe?" Tansy asks, seeming truly interested in my opinion. From the murderous looks on Gillian and Muriels faces and the total disinterest on Xander's, she's the only one who wants to hear what I have to say. "Don't you think this is our flag?"
I glance at the flag again. It's still white. I have no reason to think Gillian's wrong-especially since I'mthe one with the defective powers. She's probably decades ahead of me in the whole powers-control thing. But for that instant I was so sure it-
Red. For another split second the flag was red.
"No," I shake my head. "This isn't ours. This flag is red."
"Whatever," Gillian says, reaching for the flag again.
Tansy gasps. "I see it, too."
Gillian and Muriel stare at her like she's betrayed them.
She points at the flag. "Look."
They both turn and squint. Gillian's mouth drops. Muriel huffs and stomps away. "Let's go find our flags." She ducks under a pine branch. "I am notlosing to Tressa Boyd."
Gillian hurries after her. As Xander passes me, he says, "Nice catch, Castro."
I just keep blinking, not quite believing what I just did. When I looked at the flag, I saw the white mask or whatever. When I was thinking about something else, though, only catching sight in my peripheral vision, I could see the true color.
"That was amazing," Tansy says, her voice laced with a sense of awe. "You didn't even have to concentrate or anything."
No. I didn't. In fact, concentrating made it worse.
Stella's exercise the other night proved that my powers come from my mind. But how am I supposed to control them if focusing doesn't help?
"We'd better hurry up," Tansy says. "I bet Gillian tries to grab the wrong flag again. If you're not there to stop her, we'll lose for sure."
I let Tansy lead me up the path, but my mind is still thinking about my powers. And how I only have less than two weeks to figure out how to control them when trying to control them sends them out of control.
At this point, I really shouldn't be surprised by being tossed into such a vicious circle. Try to control my powers, and they go berserk. Train more, control less. Stay on at the Academy to learn how to use my powers, but be forced to pass a powers test first. Lately, my whole life is one big exercise in contradiction.
* * *
"Congratulations, Phoebe," Stella says when camp breaks up for the day. "Xander says you found two of your team's flags, and saved them from choosing three wrong ones."
I shrug. It's not like I actually did something to succeed. "No big."
"It is a big," she insists. "Most neos are lucky to find one. They almost never identify enemy flags. You've earned your second merit badge."
She hands me another round patch. This one has a red outer ring, a black background, and the center picture looks like a magician's wand with little sparks coming out the end. I guess it has something to do with masking appearances or making something invisible. Making the colored flags look white.
Big whoop.
I glance around to make sure everyone else is gone. I don't want to get caught confessing to the evil stepsister.
"But what good does it do me?" I ask when I'm sure we're alone. "If I try to use my powers, they go wacky. It's only when I'm not thinking about it that they come out right."
"Hmm." Stella taps a french-manicured finger on her lips. "There has to be a way to reverse that. Or at least harness it."
I can see the gears turning, her mind working to figure out the solution.
"Maybe you're overthinking, overanalyzing." she suggests. There's an exercise designed to-"
"Forget it," I say, walking away. I'm so not up for Stella's full attention right now. After six hours of indirect powers usage in the company of ten-year-olds-except-as I found out, Tansy…she's twelve-my mind is fried. "I can't think about this anymore right now."
"We can try that exercise tonight," she calls out.
Following the path around the quad, I pass the girls' dorm. I'm thankful I don't have to live there. Sharing my bathroom with Stella is bad enough. I can't imagine sharing with an entire floor full of girls. Like Adara. I feel sorry for Nicole-she is so not the slumber-party type, but she's on the same floor as the cheer queen and three of her cheer minions.
As Nicole puts it, she's trapped in cheerland. This is her fourth summer in the dorms. Maybe she's built up a defense against Aphrodite's descendants.
Or, knowing Nicole, maybe she's placed some kind of curse on her door so they can't get into her room.
I'll have to ask her.
Detouring from the path, I decide to see if she's home. Maybe she can shed some light on the anonymous e-mail.
Her room is at the end of the first floor, with a great view out over the quad. Even if I didn't know which one was hers, I'd be able to guess-it's the only one with a sign that says KNOCK AT YOUR OWN PERIL just below a skull and crossbones. Braving the warning-but making sure to knock on the door itself, and notthe sign-I rap my knuckles on the smooth wood surface.
No response. If she were here, I'd at least get a threatening "Who is it?"
I'm not ready to go home and I don't want to be alone. Classes should be out for the day. Maybe Troy is in his room.
I head back out and toward the boys' dorm and climb the front steps and the two flights of stairs to his third-floor room. My quads cry out a little at the climb, reminding me that recovery time is a good thing. When I reach the room with a giant foam guitar on the door, I knock. Three seconds later, Troy pulls it open.
"Phoebe," he says with huge smile. "What are you doing here?"
"Camp just ended," I say. "I was heading home and thought I'd stop by."
"Get your butt in here, Castro," Nicole barks.
Troy swings the door wide so I can see Nic lounging on the bean-bag in the corner. She's just sliding a big leather book into her messenger bag.
She waves me in. "We've been waiting for you to show up."
"What's up?" I ask
"I don't know what Nic's doing here," he teases. When she casts a scowl his way, he grabs the guitar off his bed and sets it on the stand next to his desk. "I was just about to play for some stress relief. My brain was not made for organic chemistry."
"I don't want to interrupt." I do, actually, but it seems way rude to say that. Even if I'm desperate for some reprieve from my own troubles.
"No worries." He drops into his dorm-issue desk chair and motions me to the bed. "You're stress relief, too."
"Thanks," I say, sinking onto his black-and-white-checkered comforter. "I don't feel much like stress relief today."
"Hard day at camp?" Nicole asks, pulling a bag of butterscotch candies out of her bag. She thrusts the bag in my direction.
Troy growls a little and frowns at the candy.
I lean over and take one. "Yes. No. I don't know." I twist open the cellophane wrapper. "It's more than camp, I guess."
Popping the butterscotch between my lips, I let the smoothly sweet taste melt over my tongue.
"Like what?" Nic asks.
Oh, everything. It's that I can only control my powers when I'm not trying to. It's that I'm afraid my boyfriend is getting back with his ex-or that I'm having an overreaction of jealousy. It's that I'm stuck at home with Stella, with her taking me on as her pet project. It's that I'
m suddenly doubting what I learned about my dad's death, my boyfriend's loyalty, and my own sanity. It's a million things and nothing.
Not that I say any of that. Don't need to expose my friends to the insane ramblings of my brain. They might never recover.
"Like this." I lift one hip and pull two pieces of paper from my back pocket.
Nicole snatches them from my hand.
After unfolding them, she says, "They're blank."
"I know," I slide the butterscotch against my cheek so I can talk. They're not supposedto be blank. They're supposedto be e-mail printouts. I slip the butterscotch back onto my tongue and mutter, "Thtupid, curthed e-mails."
"They wouldn't print?" Troy asks.
I shake my head. When I received the second e-mail last night,almost identical to the first, I wanted a printout so I could I analyze them. Maybe find a clue to who sent them.
Forty-seven attempts later, all I had was blank paper.
"Huh." Troy's brows scrunch together. "Who were they from?"
"The same person who sent the note," Nicole suggests.
"Probably." Unable to resist, I crunch the butterscotch. Someday my teeth will be dust. "The sender's address was blocked."
"Blocked?" Troy's eyes get all wide. This was to your Academy e-mail?" When I nod., he shakes his head. "The Academy e-mail system doesn't allow blocked senders."
I shrug. As if I can change what happened.
"Show me." He leaps up from his desk chair and waves me over. "Log on to your e-mail."
With a heavy sigh, I push off the bed. It's not that I don't want to find out who sent the message, and how they managed to block the sender andkeep it from printing. I am just running low on motivation.
When I'm slow to move, Troy takes my shoulders, urges me into the chair, and shoves me closer to the desk. Grabbing the mouse, I click the Academy e-mail logo and enter my user name and password.
"See." I point at the blocked messages, still at the top of my inbox.
Troy leans over my shoulder, squinting at the screen. "I can't believe it. Academy e-mail is impenetrable. No one can bypass the security system without major repercussions."
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