Goddess Boot Camp

by Tera Lynn Childs

  “Sounds good.”

  I’m glad Griffin and I are going through this together. Even though I’ve been running all my life, the idea of actually racing those 26.2 miles is a little scary. That’s like running a race from downtown L.A. to Malibu. It feels less intimidating knowing he’s by my side.

  “Wanna stop by the bakery on our way back?” he asks. “Aunt Lili made some loukoumades she wants you to try.”

  “Mmm,” I say, my mouth watering at the thought of the decadent little doughnut balls. “I think your aunt is trying to fatten me up.”

  Griffin’s aunt is a descendant of Hestia and, true to her goddess-of-the-hearth heritage, operates an amazing bakery in the village. She makes more varieties of bread every day than most people have ever even heard of. Walking into the store is like walking into a fresh-baked dream.

  Lately I’ve been her favorite taste tester.

  “She’s just relieved that you eat,” he explains. “Adara wouldn’t even go near the bakery in case the carbs could seep into her body by osmosis or something.”

  I fall silent.

  Adara is still a dangerous subject. Not only has she not forgiven me for “stealing” her boyfriend—go figure—but Griffin is still friends with her. I’m not jealous or anything, I just don’t understand how he can actually like her. She’s never been anything but an evil harpy to me.

  Griffin, clearly unaware of my mood swing, says, “Aunt Lili is excited that our nutrition plan requires lots of carbs. She thinks that means we’ll be in there to taste-test every day.”

  “Hmm,” I grunt noncommittally.

  “I didn’t have the heart to tell her we need complex carbs, like pasta and potatoes.” He sounds completely unconcerned by my silence. “Breads, maybe. If she uses whole grains. But sugars and sweets are not exactly ideal training fuel.”

  When Coach Lenny asked us to try out for the Pythian Games, we agreed to divide up the training prep work. I’m in charge of physical training sessions—running, weight training, stuff like that. Griffin is in charge of our nutritional program. Which is probably a good thing, because I have a major weakness for things like Aunt Lili’s treats, the occasional Twinkie shared with Nicole, and—the worst weakness of all—ice cream. I’d eat ice cream at every meal if I could.

  It’s definitely a good thing Griffin’s the diet dictator.

  More silence as we both fall into a contented run.

  My mind drifts back to the Adara comment. I realize I’m being hypersensitive about the whole ex-girlfriend thing. I mean, I’m not jealous. Really. He’s totally, one hundred percent into me. And the fact that he’s still friends with his on-again-off-again girlfriend of like five years is not completely surprising. They have a history.

  That doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  “You’ll pass the test,” Griffin says as we get within sight of the village.

  I sigh. It’s better to let him think I’m stressing about the test than confess that I’m really dwelling on his relationship with his ex.

  “I know,” I say, trying to sound convincing.

  “I mean it,” he says, slowing our pace to a light jog. “If anyone can learn to control insanely strong powers in the next two weeks, you can. You can do anything.”

  I love that he’s my strongest supporter, my own personal Phoebe cheerleader. He sounds totally certain that I’ll succeed . . . but I’m not.

  “Listen,” he says, pulling me to a stop as we reach the outer edge of the village. “Think about how much you’ve accomplished in the last few months. A weaker girl would have collapsed under the pressure of starting over at a new school populated with descendants of the gods. Not you. You thrived and proved to every last one of us that you deserve to be here. And you do.”

  His blue eyes are practically glowing with sincerity. My own feel a little damp. My only pre-Griffin experience with a boyfriend was jerky Justin Mars—a total sleaze who treated me like dirt and dumped me for an easy squeeze when I wouldn’t put out. Having a boyfriend so fully and totally supportive is an experience I’m still getting used to.

  “All you have to do is take all the energy you focused on winning that race last fall”—he reaches up and wipes at the tear that escaped down my cheek—“and focus it on controlling your powers. No problem.”

  I give him a watery smile. I am so not a girl who cries. And it’s not what he’s saying that makes me weepy, but the way he’s saying it. Like he believes I’m capable of conquering the world. He believes in me. Unconditionally.

  My heart thuds. I’ve never felt more supported, more confident, more—his eyes glance over my shoulder and focus on something behind me—forgotten?

  “Hey, Adara,” he says, smiling. “We were just heading for the bakery. Wanna come?”

  I turn just in time to see her scoff.

  “No. Thanks.” Her vapid blue eyes rake over me in an especially-not-if- she’s-here way. “I’m meeting Stella at the bookstore. We have plans to discuss.”

  “No problem,” Griffin says.

  As much as I can’t stand Adara, I can’t stand the way she just shot Griffin down even more. He’s nothing but nice to her and does not deserve to be dismissed like that.

  Still, I’m going to let it go. She’s nothing to me—as inconsequential as air. Except for the occasional run-in like this, I won’t have to see her all summer.

  But then, as I step around her to pass by, she whispers, “You don’t deserve him, kako.”

  Oh. No. She. Didn’t.

  I whip back around.

  “Too bad you can’t join us,” I say, in a totally fake voice. “Want us to save you some loukoumades?” I glance pointedly at her hips with a pseudo-sympathetic look. “Better not.”

  I give her an equally fake smile and then saunter off down the street, taking Griffin by the hand and pulling him with me.

  “You didn’t have to do that, Phoebe.”

  “Do what?” I should feel better for putting her in her place—after all, she’s the one who dismissed Griff and called me “bad blood.” But instead I just feel . . . wrong.

  “Be so mean to her.” He looks disappointed.

  “Why not?” I snap, taking my hand away from his. His disappointment only reinforces the empty feeling in my gut. “She’s always mean to me.”

  “Because it’s beneath you, and . . .” His voice takes on that serious, descendant-of-Hercules hero tone. For a second, it seems like he’s going to tell me something earth-shattering. Then he says, “You need to look beneath the surface.”

  That clears everything up. I know exactly what lies beneath Adara’s shallow, superficial surface—a shallow, superficial inside. I’m still standing there, confused, as he heads off into the village.

  I definitely have the feeling that I just failed some kind of test.

  Great, another test I didn’t know I was taking.

  CHAPTER 2

  NEOFACTION

  SOURCE: HEPHAESTUS

  The ability to create an object out of nothing. Knowledge and understanding of the makeup of desired object is necessary for an accurate manifestation. Attempts to create new or unknown objects may yield surprising and/or dangerous results.

  DYNAMOTHEOS STUDY GUIDE © Stella Petrolas

  “AUNT LILI SENT THESE for you.” I show Mom the bag from the bakery.

  Mom is standing at the foot of her bed, staring at the three open—and beyond full—suitcases and ticking things off on her fingers. She looks totally zoned out. She’s a bit of an obsessive-compulsive when it comes to packing—which is exactly why I was hoping she’d be done when I got home.

  “I don’t think I have enough bras,” she says, giving one of the suitcases a despairing look.

  Since they’re going to be gone for under two weeks, I’m guessing she has . . . twelve. And will end up packing fifteen. Just in case.

  “One more,” she says. As she digs a bra out of her dresser—I turn away because I don’t want to see anything lacy or sequin-y or fea
thery—she adds, “Ten should be just enough.”

  “I’m impressed,” I say, making my way to the head of the bed and carefully avoiding the suitcases as I flop back across the pillows. “I expected you to take a dozen.”

  She spins quickly toward me. “Do you think I need more?”

  “No!” I backpedal. “Of course n—”

  “You’re right.” She heads back to the dresser. “Two more. Just in case.”

  I could groan in frustration, but: (a) I’ve been through this whole packing enterprise dozens of times before; (b) I’m too exhausted from the training run; and (c) I’m still dwelling on Griffin. I mean, how can he not see that palling around with his ex-girlfriend might be undesirable to his current girlfriend?

  “What is that?” Mom asks, pointing at the brown paper bag sitting on my stomach. “Do I need to pack it? Where will it go?”

  “Relax, Mom,” I say, handing her the bag without sitting up. I knew she hadn’t heard me. “It’s goodies from the bakery. You and Damian can eat them tonight. Or in the morning.” I close my eyes and sigh. “Or never.”

  The bed shifts as Mom sits next to my head.

  “What’s wrong, Phoebola?”

  Her hand smoothes a stray lock of hair across my forehead and behind my ear. Eyes firmly shut, I slowly shake my head. If I talk about it, then therapist Mom might make an appearance. And the last thing I need right now is a shrunken head.

  “Nothing.” I force a smile as I open my eyes. “Just a hard run today.”

  “Ooh, your first training session for the trials. How did it go?” Mom asks, proving she really has been paying attention to something other than honeymoon plans. “You’re not overworking yourself, are you?”

  “We did a beach run,” I say, not answering the “Mom” question—like there’s such a thing as overworking when it comes to running? “We’re increasing gradually, but on an accelerated scale. Don’t want to wear out our sneakers.” I force a little laugh.

  “That reminds me.” She gets off the bed and crosses the room. “I almost forgot our running shoes.”

  While she tries to shove two pairs of Nikes—as if anyone in my family could own anything else—into an overstuffed bag, I go over to her vanity and sit on the little upholstered stool. The table is bigger and older than the one she had in L.A. but it’s covered with the same collection of bottles and potions. Pulling the little stand mirror over in front of me, I check out my face. It’s not a bad face. My skin is pretty clean and it’s got kind of an athletic glow. Decent lashes and—my best feature—nice brown eyes. Puckering my lips, I wonder what I would look like in full face paint. I am not much of a makeup girl, but sometimes I envy those cover-model types. Those Adara types.

  I push the mirror away and instead grab one of Mom’s perfumes. I love the shapes of all the bottles, but this one is my favorite. The bottle is this long teardrop shape with a gold neck and a crystal ball on top. Dad gave it to her the day before he died.

  Pulling off the crystal ball, I spritz a little on my left wrist.

  The heavy scent of orchid and plum fills the air around me. Taking a deep inhale, I’m immediately filled with memories of Dad. His smile. His wink. His dirt- and grass-stained football jersey. Him waving to us from the grass-green-perfect turf of Qualcomm Stadium.

  It’s amazing how a scent memory can make seven years ago feel like yesterday.

  As I rub my wrists together, I ask, “Do you still miss him?”

  In the vanity mirror I see Mom freeze.

  I didn’t mean to ask the question. We haven’t talked about him since finding out he and I are descendants of Nike. Since finding out he died for football.

  I should have kept my mouth shut. Talking about Griffin and Adara would be better than this edgy silence.

  “Of course I miss him,” Mom finally says. “Every minute of every day.”

  She walks up behind me and puts her hands on my shoulders.

  “Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean he isn’t still with us.”

  Her voice is so quiet and full of emotion I regret saying anything. She doesn’t need me making her cry the day before her honeymoon. And I don’t need another reason to cry today.

  “I know.” I force a bright smile. “Running makes me think of him.”

  That’s one of the reasons I love running so much.

  “He’s with you all the time.” She presses a kiss into the top of my head. “Not just when you run.”

  Great. More tears. Today has been a roller coaster, and I am so not used to being that girl. I’ve never felt as emotional as I do right now.

  “I just—” My throat tightens, but I make myself say the words that have been churning inside for nine long months. The question I’m afraid to ask, but that just won’t stay locked away anymore. “W-why did he do it?”

  Her arms squeeze around my shoulders. I cover them with my own and squeeze back. For several long seconds we just hold each other, not moving, not saying a word. Like she’s absorbing my pain, and I’m taking hers. We haven’t shared such an intense moment since the day he died.

  “I can’t answer that, baby.” Her voice sounds small and quiet and a little lost. “No one can.”

  Sometimes I forget Mom is going through this, too.

  Great, now I feel like a selfish cow on top of everything else. The last thing Mom needs is my emotional mess the night before her honeymoon. She deserves her happiness with Damian.

  I straighten up and pat Mom gently, signaling my return to my senses. She gives me one more squeeze before releasing me and turns back to her suitcases. I quickly wipe at the residual tears.

  “So, are you all packed?” I ask, spinning on the stool.

  She looks nervously at the bed. “I think so.”

  “Great,” I say, hopping to my feet. “Let’s zip these up so we can go eat Aunt Lili’s loukoumades.”

  As we close up the suitcases I try to keep my mind from drifting back to Dad. Or Griffin. Or anything else that might call back the tear patrol. Between Griffin and Adara and Dad and the powers test, it’s a wonder I can go five minutes without breaking down.

  “All done,” I say, pulling the last zipper tight.

  Mom frowns. “Maybe I need another pair of sandals.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I promise. “Besides. If you take everything you need, how will you justify buying even more when you get there?”

  “I never thought of it that way.” Mom looks at me, a huge smile on her face. “When did you get so devious?”

  “Well, I have been hanging out with a bunch of gods,” I say. “Maybe it’s rubbing off.”

  “Come on,” she says, giving me a teasing nudge toward the door. “Let’s go see if we can sneak some ice cream past Hesper to go with the loukoumades.”

  “Uh-oh,” I say, leading the way. “I think you’re having delusional fantasies again.”

  She just laughs and follows me to the kitchen. The day we can sneak anything past Hesper is the day Dad knocks on the front door.

  After being shooed out of the kitchen—not only without ice cream, but also without our loukoumades, which Hesper confiscated to serve with dessert (for a housekeeper, she’s got skills that would make an army general proud)—Mom and I join Damian in the dining room.

  “Phoebe,” he says as I take my seat at the ancient table, “here is the information you need for tomorrow.”

  I take the pale blue paper from him. It looks like one of those back-to-school shopping lists you get from an office-supply store. What am I? In kindergarten? Do I need to be sure to bring crayons and safety scissors?

  “What’s tomorrow?” Mom asks.

  “Goddess Boot Camp,” I say absently, reading the introductory note.

  Welcome campers!

  Dynamotheos Development Camp (colloquially known as Goddess Boot Camp) is a life-changing experience that’s also lots of fun. In the next two weeks, you will learn how to harness and control your powers and you will also bond with your fe
llow hematheos campers. We hope you will come away with not only a firm grip on your powers, but also firm friendships with the other girls.

  “What is Goddess Boot Camp?” Mom asks.

  “Dynamotheos Development Camp,” Damian explains. “A training intensive for students who have not yet mastered control over their powers.”

  “And you think Phoebe needs this camp?”

  Where has Mom been the last few months? I mean, I know she’s been wrapped up in honeymoon planning and the idea of starting a part-time therapy practice in the village, but she can’t have missed all of my powers-related disasters. Especially not the one that involved her bedroom turning into a Roman bath for a day and a half.

  Next on the paper is a supplies checklist.

  All campers will need to bring the following items:

  comfortable athletic clothing

  Not a problem since that’s pretty much all I own.

  spiral notebook

  writing utensil (pen or pencil only, no markers or crayons)

  positive attitude

  I roll my eyes. A positive attitude? What is this, cheer camp? And what’s up with the no-crayons thing? Is that really a problem? I don’t think I’ve even seen a crayon since elementary school.

  “Her control has not progressed as quickly as I’d hoped,” Damian says. “I think she will benefit from the intense training of the camp.”

  “What do you think, Phoebola?” Mom asks.

  I look up, startled. It’s been so long since someone actually asked me my opinion on something that affects my own life that I’m not sure how to answer.

  “Um . . .” I say, buying time to come up with a response. “I think Damian’s right. I’m a danger to society. My lack of control pretty much sucks. Unless you like waking up to a bedroom snowstorm.”

  That taught me a lesson about wishing for air-conditioning. An island breeze through an open window will do just fine.