Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp by Tera Lynn Childs

  After gi­ving Troy one mo­re who-is-this-guy? lo­ok, I plop in­to the desk cha­ir, and ac­cess my e-ma­il. A split se­cond la­ter, my in-box is on the scre­en.

  "That was fast," I say, imp­res­sed.

  "I ins­tal­led a sig­nal en­han­cer," Uri­an says, le­aning over my sho­ul­der to re­ad the scre­en. "It qu­ad­rup­led my con­nec­ti­on spe­ed."

  Fi­gu­res. He pro­bably spends all his ti­me down­lo­ading epi­so­des of Her­cu­les and Xe­na.

  Be­fo­re Uri­an the Cu­ri­o­us can re­ad all my ot­her mes­sa­ges, I click open the bloc­ked e-ma­il.

  "The­re it is," I say, nod­ding at the scre­en.

  Uri­an stu­di­es it for a mi­nu­te. His bushy eyeb­rows ke­ep scrunc­hing and unsc­runc­hing, as if he's physi­cal­ly pro­ces­sing with his fo­re­he­ad. We­ird

  "May I?" he asks, nod­ding at the cha­ir.

  I shrug and get up.

  "First, I ne­ed to ac­cess the Aca­demy ma­il ser­ver," he says. A new win­dow opens up on the com­pu­ter. "The ori­gi­nal fi­le might still con­ta­in the me­ta­da­ta from the-" he smacks his mo­use down on the desk. "Blast! It's bloc­ked, as well." Mo­re fu­ri­o­us typing. "The so­ur­ce fi­le didn't even log the ori­gi­na­ting IP ad­dress."

  Be­fo­re my eyes per­ma­nently roll back in my he­ad from trying to fol­low the com­pu­ter-spe­ak, I ask, "What do­es that me­an?"

  "In pla­in Eng­lish?" He glan­ces up at me. "Who­ever sent this is very, very smart."

  "Or very, very po­wer­ful," Troy says. "Bypas­sing Aca­demy e-ma­il se­cu­rity is anyt­hing but easy."

  "True." Uri­an squ­ints at the scre­en. "This isn't a simp­le hack job. It's go­ing to ta­ke me a whi­le."

  "So­me­ti­me be­fo­re mid­night Tu­es­day wo­uld be ni­ce," I say. "I'd li­ke to know who I'm me­eting."

  "You're not se­ri­o­usly go­ing?" Troy asks.

  As if the­re was any do­ubt?

  "Of co­ur­se I'm go­ing," I say. "What ot­her cho­ice do I ha­ve?"

  "Um… not go­ing."

  "Troy, I ha­ve to find out what hap­pe­ned to my dad."

  "We know what hap­pe­ned to yo­ur dad. He got smo­ted. End of story."

  "Not," I snap, "end of story. At le­ast, not any­mo­re. I can"t just let this go."

  "Fi­ne," Troy cros­ses his arms over his chest. "I'll go with you."

  "Chill, Tra­va­tas." Ni­co­le says. Then to me she says, "I think what Tar­zan he­re is trying to say is that who­ever pul­led off this e-ma­il stunt-and snuck in­to the sec­ret arc­hi­ves-has to be pretty po­wer­ful. And pretty de­vi­o­us. You sho­uldn't me­et this per­son alo­ne."

  "No." I can't be­li­eve she's si­ding with him. "The e-ma­il says I ha­ve to co­me alo­ne. I'm not go­ing to blow this."

  Troy gla­res at me, lo­oking li­ke he re­al­ly wants to say so­met­hing mo­re. But, ins­te­ad, he turns to Uri­an and asks, "Can you find out be­fo­re then?"

  "One hund­red and twenty ho­urs, gi­ve or ta­ke?" He lo­oks li­ke he's crunc­hing num­bers in his he­ad-my bra­in hurts just thin­king abo­ut it-and then fi­nal­ly says. That's cut­ting it clo­se. Fifty-fifty chan­ce."

  "Gre­at, I say.

  "I co­pi­ed the so­ur­ce fi­le in­to my e-ma­il ac­co­unt," Uri­an says. "But I may still ne­ed to ac­cess yo­ur-"

  "No way." He may be hel­ping me out, but I still only met him li­ke two mi­nu­tes ago. Be­si­des, a girl ne­eds her pri­vacy.

  "Not a prob­lem," he says with a grin. "My com­pu­ter re­cor­ded yo­ur keyst­ro­kes. If I ne­ed ac­cess, I ha­ve yo­ur co­des."

  "Gre­at," I say, less ent­hu­si­as­ti­cal­ly than be­fo­re.

  "Let's me­et he­re on Tu­es­day night," Ni­co­le sug­gests. "Ele­ven o'clock?"

  "Excel­lent," Uri­an says.

  "Fi­ne by me," I say, still an­no­yed at Troy. Sin­ce when did he be­co­me my gu­ar­di­an and pro­tec­tor?

  "See you Tu­es­day," Troy says as we le­ave.

  "The co­unt­down has be­gun," Uri­an re­turns.

  Ge­ek me­lod­ra­ma. I roll my eyes.

  "And, Uri­an," Ni­co­le says, "you might try do­ing la­undry on­ce in a whi­le."

  As we step in­to the hall, she pulls the do­or shut with a slam.

  "Pho­ebe," Troy says as we walk back to his ro­om, his vo­ice low and se­ri­o­us, "if Uri­an hasn't fi­gu­red out who sent the e-ma­il in ti­me, I will go to the co­urt­yard with you." Be­fo­re I can ar­gue, he adds, "You're my fri­end and I co­uldn't stand it if you got hurt."

  My ar­gu­ment di­es on my ton­gue. It's hard to be mad at con­cern li­ke that. But that do­esn't chan­ge what I ha­ve to do.

  "If the com­pu­ter ge­ni­us hasn't fi­gu­red it out," I say, "you can walk me to the co­urt­yard. But I'm go­ing in alo­ne." When he starts to ar­gue, I say, "I ap­pre­ci­ate that you're wor­ri­ed abo­ut me, but I won't let anyt­hing je­opar­di­ze fin­ding out the truth abo­ut my dad."

  I can tell he still wants to ar­gue, but I can al­so tell that he gets how im­por­tant this is to me. He nods. Re­luc­tantly.

  I just ho­pe I'm not do­ing so­met­hing stu­pid. Aga­in.

  When Nic and I walk out of the boys' dorm, the sun is ri­ding low in the sky. I check my watch. It's six o'clock. If I'm qu­ick, I can run ho­me and grab so­me din­ner be­fo­re I ha­ve to me­et Grif­fin at the dock.

  As I step off the front sta­irs, abo­ut to say go­od-bye to Ni­co­le, mo­ve­ment to my left catc­hes my eyes.

  Grif­fin.

  I smi­le auto­ma­ti­cal­ly and am abo­ut to call out to him when I re­ali­ze so­met­hing very im­por­tant. It's Grif­fin. Go­ing in­to the girls' dorm. And Ada­ra is stan­ding on the front step to gre­et him.

  Sud­denly I'm not so hungry any­mo­re.

  Chapter 8

  ___________________________________________________________________________________________

  AUTO­POR­TA­TI­ON

  SO­UR­CE: ZE­US

  The abi­lity to mo­ve one­self to a dif­fe­rent lo­ca­ti­on thro­ugh nonpby­si­cal me­ans. Ma­xi­mum dis­tan­ce tra­ve­led de­pends on strength and skill of po­wers. Auto­por­ta­ti­on to a pre­vi­o­usly un­vi­si­ted pla­ce is pro­hi­bi­ted be­ca­use of the in­he­rent risk of ar­ri­ving in an un­de­si­rab­le, pe­ri­lo­us, or pub­lic lo­ca­ti­on.

  DYNA­MOT­HE­OS STUDY GU­IDE * Stel­la Pet­ro­las

  ___________________________________________________________________________________________

  WHEN THE LAST RAY of sun­light di­sap­pe­ars, I'm plan­ted on the co­uch re­ading last month's Run­ner's World. Well, I'm pre­ten­ding to re­ad last month's Run­ner's World. My eyes are skim­ming ac­ross the pa­ges and everyt­hing, but my mind hasn't ta­ken in a sing­le word. It's too busy scre­aming, Grif­fin is back to­get­her wth Ada­ra!

  Thro­ugh so­me ma­j­or act of wil­lpo­wer-or ho­pe­les­sness-my eyes aren't even full of te­ars.

  I he­ar gig­gling se­conds be­fo­re the front do­or opens. "You are so right," Stel­la says, lo­oking over her sho­ul­der as she walks in. I'll ha­ve to add that to my re­su­me."

  I don't fe­el li­ke fa­cing Stel­la right now. Wis­hing I'd ret­re­ated to my ro­om ear­li­er, I bury my fa­ce in my ma­ga­zi­ne, ho­ping I can blend in with the un­for­tu­na­tely whi­te co­uch. Why did the my SPORT IS YO­UR SPORTS PU­NISH­MENT tee ha­ve to be cherry red?

  "Pho­ebe," a re­bel-boy vo­ice says in gre­eting.

  I pe­ek over the top of an ar­tic­le abo­ut avo­iding knee inj­uri­es. The re­ci­pi­ent of Stel­la's gig­gling is no­ne ot­her than Xan­der. Gre­at. All I ne­ed is him ta­un­ting me at ho­me, too.

  "I didn't know you we­re ho­me," Stel­la says, lo­oking li­ke a kid ca­ught sne­aking an ext­ra co­okie. Ye­ah, a Xan­der-shapcd co­ok
ie. Her two-sha­des-dar­ker-than-her-ha­ir eyeb­rows draw in­to a frown. "I tho­ught you we­re me­eting-"

  "I'm not," I in­ter­rupt. She knows exactly whe­re I was sup­po­sed to be right now. I don't ne­ed the re­min­der. I don't even want to he­ar his na­me.

  She lo­oks surp­ri­sed, but do­esn't com­ment. Smart girl. In my pre­sent mo­od, I'm itc­hing to test my cur­rent po­wers cont­rol. She wo­uld ma­ke the per­fect gu­inea pig. In fact-

  "Xan­der and I we­re just tal­king abo­ut you ac­tu­al­ly," she says, gi­ving him a warm smi­le and dist­rac­ting me be­fo­re I ac­tu­al­ly try to turn her in­to a ro­dent. She is blis­sful­ly una­wa­re of how clo­se she ca­me to be­co­ming so­me­one's pet. "Dis­cus­sing that exer­ci­se I was tel­ling you abo­ut ear­li­er."

  I glan­ce at the obj­ect of her ado­ra­ti­on. He's stan­ding just in­si­de the do­or, li­ke he'd rat­her ke­ep out of the li­ne of fi­re, with his hands tuc­ked in­to the back poc­kets of his je­ans. Watc­hing me with tho­se unu­su­al la­ven­der eyes, he do­esn't mo­ve a musc­le. Li­ke a sta­tue. His fa­ce re­ma­ins un­re­adab­le.

  Typi­cal guy. Ke­eps everyt­hing hid­den so you ha­ve to gu­ess what he's thin­king. So a girl's ima­gi­na­ti­on can run ram­pant un­til conf­ron­ted with in­cont­ro­ver­tib­le pro­of of her sus­pi­ci­ons.

  "Go­od for you." I snap my ma­ga­zi­ne shut and get up from the co­uch. If they're go­ing to be he­re, gig­gling and tal­king abo­ut me, I'm loc­king myself in my ro­om. Fi­gu­ra­ti­vely, of co­ur­se, sin­ce my do­or do­esn't lock.

  "Actu­al­ly"-she glan­ces at Xan­der-"we co­uld try that exer­ci­se with the glass of wa­ter-"

  "Not," I say, my pent-up emo­ti­on ba­rely con­ta­ined, "to­night."

  I can prac­ti­cal­ly he­ar her mo­uth drop.

  She'll get over it. Or not. Eit­her way, pla­ying co­un­se­lor and cam­per is not on my agen­da for the night. The last thing I want is to be aro­und pe­op­le. So­li­tu­de and the com­fort of my bed are cal­ling. That, and a box of tis­su­es.

  I'm al­most to my ro­om when I fe­el a hand clamp over my sho­ul­der.

  "Run­ning away isn't go­ing to help," Xan­der says.

  "I'm not run­ning away from anyt­hing." I spin aro­und, shrug­ging off his hand. "I'm go­ing to my ro­om for so­me pri­vacy, thank you very much."

  He cros­ses his arms over his chest and cocks his brows, li­ke he da­res me to lie aga­in. "Den­ying yo­ur fe­elings can af­fect yo­ur po­wers."

  "Oh ye­ah?" I snap bril­li­antly. "You don't know anyt­hing abo­ut my fe­elings. Or my si­tu­ati­on."

  "I know mo­re than you think." He steps clo­ser, his vo­ice ba­rely a growl. "You men­ti­oned my ex­pul­si­on ear­li­er. Do you know why I was ex­pel­led?"

  I sha­ke my he­ad.

  "Be­ca­use three ye­ars ago," he whis­pers, "I had to ta­ke the test." His mo­uth is right next to my ear when he adds, "And I didn't pass."

  My he­art thwacks aga­inst my chest. Xan­der is the ot­her stu­dent who had to ta­ke the test. Xan­der fa­iled the test. Xan­der got ex­pel­led for a ye­ar.

  "What did you-" I sha­ke my he­ad and start over. "What hap­pe­ned when you fa­iled?"

  He le­ans back, his la­ven­der eyes comp­le­tely blank.

  "I ho­pe you ne­ver find out," he says. Then he turns and stalks thro­ugh the kitc­hen and out the back do­or.

  Stel­la sta­res at the do­or for se­ve­ral se­conds, be­fo­re tur­ning on me. "What did you-"

  "You co­uldn't ha­ve told me ear­li­er?" I snap.

  Her che­eks flush and I think, for the first ti­me sin­ce we met, she's ac­tu­al­ly em­bar­ras­sed abo­ut so­met­hing. Go­od.

  "You li­ed," I ac­cu­se. "Abo­ut yo­ur stu­dent pas­sing the test."

  "I didn't," she in­sists. "I was Xan­der's tu­tor af­ter he fa­iled. I hel­ped him pass on his se­cond at­tempt."

  "Wha­te­ver."

  I spin and he­ad for my ro­om.

  The rol­ler co­as­ter is fi­nal­ly get­ting to me. Thank­ful­ly, I ma­ke it to the sa­fety of my ro­om and col­lap­se on my bed be­fo­re the te­ars start. I think I'm go­ing thro­ugh what the­ra­pist Mom wo­uld call an emo­ti­onal re­le­ase. Mo­re li­ke an emo­ti­onal flo­od. Bet­we­en the lo­oming test and my dad's mis­sing re­cord and Grif­fin, it's ama­zing my emo­ti­ons are hol­ding to­get­her at all. I wo­uldn't be surp­ri­sed if they just ga­ve up on me al­to­get­her and-

  Knock, knock.

  Over the po­un­ding be­at of my he­art, I wi­pe at my te­ars and say, "I'm not he­re."

  Who­ever it is do­esn't wa­it for a res­pon­se.

  "Pho­ebe?" Grif­fin asks. "I tho­ught we we­re me­eting at se­ven."

  His vo­ice so­unds per­fectly nor­mal.

  Of co­ur­se it do­es. He do­esn't know what I know-what I saw, what I felt. Why sho­uld he even sus­pect that I know he's back with his ex-girl fri­end? He must think he's kept it a pretty tight sec­ret.

  I squ­e­eze my eyes to­get­her for a se­cond, wil­ling-beg­ging-my uns­hed te­ars to di­sap­pe­ar. They are a we­ak­ness I can't af­ford.

  "Ye­ah, well," I say, pus­hing up to my fe­et whi­le ke­eping my back to him, bu­ying myself a few mo­re se­conds. "You tho­ught wrong."

  "What's the mat­ter?" He co­mes up be­hind me and puts his hands on my sho­ul­ders, trying to turn me aro­und. He has the ner­ve to so­und con­cer­ned. "What hap­pe­ned?"

  I stif­fen aga­inst his to­uch. "Not­hing."

  "Are you crying?" When I sha­ke my he­ad, not trus­ting myself to spe­ak aga­in, he says. "You are crying."

  Des­pi­te my best ef­forts, he half turns me aro­und and half sli­des aro­und so we're facc-to-fa­ce. I clo­se my eyes, I just can't lo­ok at him right now. Not when all I see is him tal­king to Ada­ra, go­ing in­to the bo­oks­to­re with Ada­ra, me­eting Ada­ra at her dorm. It's too much.

  "Talk to me," he de­mands.

  I fe­el his fin­gers on my checks, wi­ping my sad ex­cu­se for te­ars away. Which only ma­kes them fall har­der.

  His fo­re­he­ad to­uc­hes mi­ne and he whis­pers, "Ple­ase."

  I ta­ke se­ve­ral long, de­ep bre­aths.

  "Whe­re we­re you this af­ter­no­on?" I fi­nal­ly ask.

  He he­si­ta­tes for a split se­cond. "I told you. I-"

  My eyes fly open. "Do. Not. Lie to me."

  I step back, ne­eding spa­ce to think cle­arly.

  I can see him thin­king. Be­ne­ath his dark curls, his bright blue eyes don't bud­ge from mi­ne; he do­esn't blink. Then, af­ter se­ve­ral long se­conds, he clo­ses his eyes, sucks in a de­ep bre­ath, and says, "Aunt Li­li and I got back and do­ne with the stoc­king early. I was vi­si­ting a fri­end in the dorms."

  "Ada­ra."

  He he­si­ta­tes, then says, "Yes."

  "What?" I'm shoc­ked he ad­mit­ted the truth.

  "Yes." He lo­oks li­ke he is af­ra­id to say mo­re. "Yes, I was vi­si­ting Da­ra."

  "Why ha­ve you be­en lying to me?" I can he­ar the icy ed­ge in my vo­ice and I don't li­ke it. I don't li­ke how he's ma­king me fe­el right now. Je­alo­us. With a ne­on ca­pi­tal J. "You've be­en spen­ding all yo­ur ti­me with her. Li­ke yes­ter­day. At the bo­oks­to­re."

  He do­esn't show any signs of shock that I didn't buy his story abo­ut lo­oking for a tra­ining bo­ok.

  "You're right," he says, and my he­art tri­es to po­und out of my chest. "I met Ada­ra at the bo­oks­to­re yes­ter­day."

  And li­ed abo­ut it.

  "But it's not what you think"

  "Then tell me what it is," I de­mand.

  Gods, I ha­te how I so­und li­ke such a je­alo­us girlf­ri­end, but it's not li­ke he's not gi­ving me a re­ason to dist­rust. I clo­se my eyes and sud­denly I'm re­l
i­ving the last ti­me I felt li­ke this. Juni­or prom. Mo­re than a ye­ar ago now, but I re­mem­ber li­ke it was yes­ter­day.

  I had known so­met­hing was wrong when Jus­tin didn't show to pick me up. A smar­ter girl might ha­ve ta­ken that as a sign, but I be­li­eved in him. Trus­ted him. So­met­hing must ha­ve co­me up. Rat­her than curl up with a bo­xof tis­su­es and a cup of self-pity, I cal­led Ces­ca and got a ri­de with her and her da­te. When I clim­bed in­to the li­mo and saw the lo­ok of pu­re sympathy in her eyes, that's when I knew.

  By the ti­me we pul­led up at the gla­mo­ro­us Sun­set To­wer Ho­tel, I was re­ady for the conf­ron­ta­ti­on. I stor­med in­to the dan­ce, scan­ned the ro­om un­til I fo­und Jus­tin at a tab­le in the far cor­ner, and marc­hed right up to him.

  "Whe­re we­re you?" I de­man­ded.

  "Let's not do this he­re, Pho­ebe," Jus­tin had sa­id. "Why don't we go out to my car and-"

  "No," I sho­uted, hands fis­ted on my hips, on the sil­ver sa­tin of the bus­ti­er dress that had ta­ken me we­eks to find. The per­fect dress. "I de­ser­ve to know."

  He'd he­si­ta­ted, de­ci­ding whet­her to lie.

  Just li­ke Grif­fin did to­night.

  Only to­night fe­els in­fi­ni­tely wor­se. Be­ca­use I lo­ve Grif­fin in­fi­ni­tely mo­re.

  That re­ali­za­ti­on clenc­hes aro­und my he­art.

  "I-" He jams his fin­gers thro­ugh his curls. "Pho­ebe, I can't tell you."

  Everyt­hing in­si­de me stills.

  At le­ast Jus­tin had the de­cency to con­fess dum­ping me for Mit­zi Busch be­ca­use her kne­es we­ren't Su­per Glu­ed shut li­ke mi­ne. Grif­fin wasn't even pre­ten­ding to ad­mit the truth.

  "Then I don't be­li­eve you." My he­art splin­ters a lit­tle with every word.

  "I can't ma­ke you be­li­eve me," he says, drop­ping his hands and ta­king a step back. "I tho­ught we we­re past the dist­rus­ting sta­ge. I tho­ught you knew me bet­ter than this. Bet­ter than an­yo­ne."

  I can't lo­ok away from his blue eyes, a lit­tle less bright thanks to the bet­ra­yal I see the­re. But the truth is, he li­ed to me. Mo­re than on­ce. And now, even tho­ugh he's ad­mit­ted to lying to me, he won't tell me the who­le truth. He's not the only one who fe­els bet­ra­yed.