But whether he ran into Adara or was actually meeting her, the truth is Griffin did lie to me. I try to convince myself that he wouldn’t. Maybe they got back early. Maybe there was a change of plans. Maybe Aunt Lili decided to go another day. Or alone. Or maybe she didn’t want the berries after all. For the moment I am not going to jump to condemn Griffin. After everything we’ve been through, he deserves the benefit of the doubt.
As we stroll past the bookstore, I resist the urge to look inside. Because with all the mounting evidence, it’s getting harder and harder to accept that Griffin and Adara are nothing more than friends. I’m not ready to believe the worst. And the benefit of the doubt is hard to hold on to.
“You never told me you worked at the library,” I say when I get home. My voice, cool and collected, echoes in the silent kitchen.
Stella freezes, the refrigerator door open and an ice-filled glass in her hand, for a full five seconds. Straightening, she clears her throat—just like Damian does when he’s nervous—and asks, “Should I have?”
I shrug, playing it cool. If I’ve learned anything from years of Mom headshrinking me, it’s that if you want to find out everything, keep your mouth shut. Guilty people love to fill a tense silence.
Grabbing the refrigerator-door handle from her, I pull it wide open. When I lean past her to grab a Gatorade from the stock Hesper keeps in the fridge for me, she says, “I worked there Levels 10 and 11.” She fills her glass with water. “I needed some legitimate work experience. I can’t exactly put Hera’s Personal Assistant on my résumé.”
I ignore her awkward laugh.
We face off, her leaning against one counter sipping ice water, me leaning against the opposite counter chugging my Gatorade. We just watch each other. I’m waiting for her to crack. Zeus only knows what she’s waiting for.
As I drain the last drop of Gatorade, I decide to break the silence.
She beats me to it.
“Mrs. Philipoulos called me.” Her French-manicured fingers tighten around her glass. “She asked me about the stolen record.”
I toss my empty bottle into the recycling bin under the sink. “And?”
“And nothing,” she says, looking affronted. “I don’t know anything about it. Why would I?”
She looks pretty innocent, but then again Stella’s the queen of looking innocent. I can’t count the number of times in the last year she’s skated on stuff she did. Me? I always get caught. (Not that I ever do anything, of course.)
“But you do know about the secret archives.” I don’t ask it as a question. “You know how to access them.”
“Of course,” she says. She finishes her water and sets the glass in the sink. “Everyone knows about the ‘secret’ archives. Mrs. Philipoulos deludes herself into thinking no one knows. It’s the worst-kept secret on the island.”
That’s true. There’s still a lot about this island—about this world—that I don’t know, and even I knew about them.
“You could access them,” I repeat. “If you wanted.”
“Of course,” she replies. At least she didn’t deny it. “If I wanted. I don’t want, and I didn’t access. Anyone who’s ever worked in the library could access if they wanted. Are you going to accuse the entire former payroll staff? Better start with Daddy. He was an aide back in the day. Why don’t we give him a call? I’m sure he and Valerie won’t mind the interruption on their honeymoon.”
I roll my eyes at her melodrama.
Though I haven’t got the best record for trusting people, I believe her innocence. Besides, if she’d done it, she’d be gloating about it all over my face. She would still deny it to the authorities, but she’d be taunting me to the ends of the earth.
Where does that leave me? If Stella didn’t steal the record, then who?
That brings me back to the list. As soon as I’d seen Stella’s name, I’d fixated on that. The rest of the list was pretty much a blur. I need to check out the other names.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” I say, turning to go to my room and do a little research into my fellow students.
“Phoebe.” Something in her voice—something sad—stops me. “Nothing in that record will change what happened. No one can reverse an Olympic decree.”
“I know that.” I keep my back to her. She doesn’t need to see my tears. “But it might give me some answers.”
I hear her sigh. “Then I hope you find them. Everyone deserves answers.”
Her voice wavers with sympathy, like she understands where I’m coming from. Whatever. She has no idea what I’m going through.
Without responding, I rush to my room. I hate it when she acts like a human—it’s so much easier to think of her as a vicious harpy.
At my desk, I pull the folded printout from my back pocket and smooth it out over my closed laptop. I scan the names on the list. Besides Stella, I only recognize three of them.
Katara, Xander
Roukas, Zoe
Martin, Christopher
I can’t imagine why any of the three would do this to me. Sure, there are still some—a lot of—lingering ill feelings about me being at the Academy. Students who don’t care that I’m one of them now, who hate outsiders or runners or Californians or whatever. Or that are resentful because I went from being nothos to being a third-generation hematheos and therefore pretty powerful and apparently enviable.
But this seems kind of extreme. I mean, it’s not like whoever it is won’t get in trouble for stealing the record. Damian would probably put them in detention for a year.
Besides, no one on the list seems a likely candidate.
Xander didn’t know I existed until camp started, so I doubt he’s masterminding the wild-goose chase. Zoe and Christopher are both on the track team. Christopher is one of the nicest guys in school—before I found out about my Nike heritage, he was the only one who would willingly pair up with me in practices. He would never do this. Zoe is one of Adara’s minions—translation: she hates me—but she’s off the island for the summer, visiting her family in Sweden or Switzerland or something.
I sigh, folding the list back up and slipping it into my desk drawer. No use beating my brain up against a brick wall. I’ll have to do some investigating. Maybe Troy and Nicole know something about the other kids on the list. I can ask tomorrow. For tonight I’ll do a quick search on the Academy Web site.
I power up my laptop and decide to check e-mail first.
Twelve new messages. And not one of them is spam. Maybe the gods finally developed a functioning spam blocker for the Academy e-mail system.
I quickly skim through my in-box.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Training Tomorrow
Phoebes,
Can we run in the morning again tomorrow?
Griff
No explanation. No apologies. No confession that he spent the afternoon at the bookstore with his ex. I take a deep breath. Benefit of the doubt, I tell myself. Benefit of the doubt. I shoot back a quick message saying I’ll meet him in the stadium at eight in the morning. I’m sure there is a perfectly rational reason.
I click to the next message.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Good News
The grant committee reconvened early. No decision yet, but I’ll
find out sooner rather than later whether I get it.
Peace and love,
Nola
Crossing my fingers and toes, I send a silent plea that the grant committee gives Nola her research grant. Just the thought of hanging out for a couple of weeks—instead of the couple of days we’ve spent together since I left L.A.—makes me forget all the craziness of the day.
If Nola comes to visit, then all will be right with the world.
Or half right anyway. If she and Cesca both come it will be perfect.
To: [email protected]
From: princesscesca@pacificpark
.us
Subject: Paris Is Calling
Hey hot stuff. Just a quick e-mail to update my sched. I’ve got to be
in Paris, like, yesterday. I’m on a plane tomorrow and have to report
to work at six the next day—that’s six in the *morning*! Ugh. I’m busy packing. Don’t know when I’ll be able to e-mail, but I’ll get in touch
as soon as I can. Want anything from the city of lights?
XOXO Cesca
Cesca is even less of a morning person than I am, but I know that she’ll do anything to spend the summer traipsing around after fashion designers in her personal holy city. One day her designs will grace the covers of every major fashion magazine.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: We’ve Got Mail
Phoebola,
Sorry we haven’t called. International rates from Bangkok are phenomenally expensive. But e-mail is not. They have a business center in the hotel lobby, so here I am. We arrived safely and will stay in Bangkok for two more days before setting out on the guided tour of the rest of the country. We’re actually going to be in Phuket for their international marathon. We’ll get you a souvenir t-shirt.
Is everything going alright at home? You and Stella haven’t strangled each other, have you? How were your first days of boot camp? Make any new friends?
I know that controlling your powers is an unfamiliar challenge, but you are the strongest, most dedicated, strong-willed young woman I’ve ever known. You have your father’s drive to succeed, and that more than anything else will see you through this trial. I have absolute faith in you.
Damian and I are on our way to a traditional Thai dance performance, a style called khon. I will write more when I can. Call if you need anything.
Have fun and don’t murder your stepsister. Love, Mom
That’s pretty cool that they’ll get to see an international marathon. I wish I could go. Before we moved to Serfopoula, I never had a burning desire to be anywhere but Southern California. Now I wish I could go everywhere. It’s like if being in Greece changed my perspective on the world so much—for the better—then I can only imagine how different I would be if I saw even more of it.
I send Mom a quick reply—mainly because I think she’ll brave the cost of a phone call if I don’t. My mind is such a mess right now I know she’d pick up on it and the last thing I need is her turning into therapist Mom from thousands of miles away.
I don’t want to open the next e-mail, but know I should.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Boot Camp Update
Greetings Campers
PROPER CAMP ATTIRE: Please wear closed-toe shoes and long pants every day. NO SHORTS or SANDALS!!! This is for your own protection.
Tomorrow’s boot camp will be something SPECIAL! Meet in front of the maintenance shed at the north end of the quad at 10 A.M.! Latecomers will be left behind and this is a day you will not want to miss!
~ Adara ~
I roll my eyes. Besides her overuse of exclamation points and her tendency to yell, the idea that we’re doing “something special” in camp tomorrow is not exciting. It’s terrifying.
Next is an administrative message from Ms. T, the Level 13 coordinator.
To: Level 13 Students
From: [email protected]
Subject: Upcoming School Year
Attention all returning Level 13 students:
Summer is not too early to begin planning your academic future. You will meet in individual sessions with your assigned adviser at the end of August, but I encourage you to review the course catalog and make a list of those you would like to schedule. Because many Level 13 classes have restricted enrollment, you should also list second and third choices for every period. Any advance preparation will make your advising session go far smoother.
I appreciate your efforts in this endeavor.
Tanya Tyrovolas
Level 13 Coordinator
Professor of Literature
The Academy
Serfopoula, Greece
Ms. T is a bit of a nutcase. She wears togas to school and I think she’s a strong advocate of reinstating trial by combat—as in gladiatorial combat, which was banned in the sixth century. I make a reminder in my Academy calendar to look at the course catalog before August. The last thing I want is to spend my (second) senior year enrolled in classes I hate.
I skim through the next few messages.
An automated system message reminding students that Academy e-mail is rigorously scanned and violators of the terms of use will be required to take a forty-hour “Responsible Electronic Communications” course.
Three e-mails from school clubs, encouraging new members to join now to beat the fall rush—yeah, like Mock Government is going to be turning them away at the door.
An e-mail from the maintenance staff, asking students to remove personal items from lockers before the buildingwide clean-out next week.
The last e-mail—with no sender and no subject—piques my curiosity.
To: [email protected]
From: [Blocked]
Subject: [No Subject]
Curious about the contents of the missing Olympic record?
Be in the courtyard at midnight on Tuesday.
Come alone.
My heart starts racing. My mind starts racing. So whoever sent me the note already knew the record was missing? Then why did they send the note? Is this the same person who stole it? Or do they know who did?
What if they are just trying to mess with me? Or hurt me? It wouldn’t be the first time someone at the Academy went out of their way to make me look and feel like an idiot. Would I be totally stupid to agree to this meeting?
And if I don’t, will I ever find out what really happened to Dad?
CHAPTER 7
VISIOCRYPTION
SOURCE: HADES
The ability to hide, mask, or cloak an object. Duration of effect and size of object affected varies depending on strength of power. Effect is temporary and does not affect the physical characteristics of the object. (See Visiomutation for permanent changes of appearance.)
DYNAMOTHEOS STUDY GUIDE © Stella Petrolas
WHEN I WALK THROUGH THE TUNNEL and out onto the stadium field the next morning, Griffin is waiting for me next to the soccer goal—sure, in Greece they call it football, but my dad played football. The sport with a round, black-and-white ball will always be soccer to me. Griff smiles that heart-melting smile, gives me a quick kiss, and says, “I missed you, kardia tis kardias mou.”
Until that moment I have every intention of letting the whole Griffin-and-Adara-in-the-bookstore thing go. Not every guy is a cheating jerk like Justin.
But when he says he missed me, I wonder, Did he really?
I can’t stop myself from asking, “How was the trip to Serifos?”
“Oh,” he says. “We had to reschedule. The freezer malfunctioned and flooded the cellar. Aunt Lili and I spent the morning rearranging the stockroom.”
So he hadn’t left the island yesterday. “Is that why we’re running in the morning again?”
“Didn’t I say that?” He bends over, reaching for his toes.
No, he didn’t say that.
Joining him in the stretch, I ask, “What did you do in the afternoon?”
I feel like the Inquisition.
He’s not avoiding eye contact, I tell myself. He can’t exactly look me in the eye when he’s hanging upside down and pulling himself into deeper extension.
“I stopped by the bookstore.” He spreads his feet and twists to reach for one ankle. “Wanted to see if they had anything on endurance conditioning and nutrition.”
Of course it was something innocent—he was researching our training.
I smile as I mimic his stretching, mentally whipping myself. Clearly, I need to get a handle on that jealousy monster—which Nicole in
sists has red eyes, not green. Sometimes I wonder how she knows so much about mythological beasts. Other times I don’t want to know.
“Did they?” I lift my foot behind me and grab my ankle, stretching my quads.
“No.” He smiles and says, “But Iona said they would order some for us.”
Why am I so eager to assume the worst about Griff ?
As the daughter of a psychiatrist, I do not go in for the therapy thing. After a lifetime of psychoanalysis, I’m immune. But I’m starting to think that maybe I need some help on my trust issues. I mean, I shouldn’t be so quick to doubt Griffin. Especially not after what we went through to get together.
We’re fated by an oracle, after all.
If the prophecy says Griffin will “find his match in a daughter of victory”—aka the goddess Nike, aka my great-grandmother—then our relationship, our future is secure, right?
The red-eyed monster needs to take a hike.
“So what’s our training plan for today?” he asks, interrupting my self-exploration.
I give him a wicked grin. “Steps.”
“Excuse me?”
I nod in the direction of the stadium stands. “We’re going to run steps.”
He looks warily up at the stands.
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