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

  "You're be­ing me­lod­ra­ma­tic," Ni­co­le in­ter­rupts. "No one's be­en cha­ined to a mo­un­ta­in in cen­tu­ri­es. And tho­se ru­mors abo­ut the tor­tu­re de­vi­ces in the dun­ge­on are comp­le­tely fab­ri­ca­ted."

  At my pa­nic­ked lo­ok, she re­lents. "I'm te­asing." She grabs a pil­low and smacks me over the sto­mach. "Ligh­ten up, will ya?"

  I try to re­lax with a de­ep bre­ath and a he­avy sigh. It do­esn't work.

  Ni­co­le is so much bet­ter at the who­le go-with-the-flow, le­ave-yo­ur-wor­ri­es-be­hind thing. Me? I'm li­ke a pos­ter child for stres­sing abo­ut stuff you can't cont­rol.

  I don't know what I'd do if she we­ren't sta­ying on Ser­fo­po­ula for the sum­mer. Of co­ur­se, she stays on Ser­fo­po­ula every sum­mer-it's one of the con­tin­gen­ci­es for al­lo­wing her back on the is­land to at­tend the Aca­demy af­ter her pa­rents we­re ba­nis­hed by the gods. She can't le­ave un­til she gra­du­ates.

  That sucks for her, but I'm glad she's he­re.

  "Do­es Pet­ro­las ha­ve a plan to bo­ost yo­ur tra­ining?"

  "Ye­ah, I sigh, wis­hing I was a lit­tle mo­re spiky-blon­de-ha­ired ext­re­mist girl, ins­te­ad of long-brown-pony­ta­iled worry girl. "He's sen­ding me to Dyna­mot­he­os De­ve­lop­ment Camp for the next two we­eks."

  "God­dess Bo­ot Camp?" she gasps. "Se­ri­o­usly?"

  God­dess Bo­ot Camp? My sto­mach knots at the tho­ught of a mi­li­tary-style tra­ining prog­ram. Mul­ti-mi­le marc­hes at dawn. Ro­pe climbs in the ra­in, inst­ruc­tors stan­ding on my back whi­le I do a mil­li­on push-ups. A far cry from the cross-co­untry and wil­der­ness camps I've ex­pe­ri­en­ced.

  "Is the­re so­met­hing wrong with that?"

  "No." Ni­co­le starts la­ug­hing un­cont­rol­lably, prac­ti­cal­ly rol­ling off my bed. "Not­hing"-la­ugh, la­ugh, la­ugh-"wrong"- la­ugh, la­ugh, la­ugh-"with that."

  "What?" I de­mand, sho­ving her sho­ul­der so she do­es roll off the bed. "I'm go­ing to be tur­ned in­to a go­at, aren't I? How can I tra­in for the Pythi­an tri­als with fo­ur legs?"

  I fol­low her off the bed and start pa­cing.

  The Pythi­an Ga­mes are a hu­ge de­al. Ap­pa­rently, the Olym­pics we­ren't al­ways the only ga­mes in town. When the last an­ci­ent Olym­pics we­re held in the ye­ar 393, the Pythi­an Ga­mes be­ca­me rest­ric­ted to he­mat­he­os com­pe­ti­tors and went un­derg­ro­und. They've be­en held every fo­ur ye­ars-except du­ring World Wars I and II-sin­ce fo­re­ver.

  Grif­fin and I we­re in­vi­ted by the co­ach of the Cycla­di­an te­am-who al­so hap­pens to be Co­ach Len­ny-to try out for this sum­mer's ga­mes.

  We're sup­po­sed to start tra­ining to­day. In fact-I check my watch-he's sup­po­sed to be he­re any se­cond.

  "Re­lax." Ni­co­le says as she pulls her­self off the flo­or. "It's not so much scary as…" She smi­les. "Emba­ras­sing."

  "Gre­at. That's just what I ne­ed." I flop in­to the gi­ant squ­ishy cha­ir Mom and Da­mi­an bo­ught for my birth­day, sin­king in­to the tur­qu­o­ise vel­vet soft­ness. "Anot­her re­ason for ever­yo­ne to ma­ke fun of me."

  Be­ing the new girl at a scho­ol full of des­cen­dants of the gods is no ca­ke­walk. You'd think on­ce I fo­und out I was a des­cen­dant, too, they wo­uld let up. But no. Most of them still tre­at me li­ke a to­tal out­si­der. An in­ter­lo­per who can't cont­rol her po­wers. An int­ru­der. Es­pe­ci­al­ly af­ter I "sto­le" Grif­fin-as if you can ste­al so­me­one who do­esn't want to be sto­len-away from che­er qu­e­en Ada­ra Spen­cer. And don't think she has ever let me for­get it. When we had to gi­ve our fi­nal spe­ec­hes in Oral Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons two we­eks ago, she ma­de every word I sa­id co­me out in pig la­tin.

  Partly, Da­mi­an says, it's that I'm clo­ser to Ni­ke than most of them are to the­ir gods. They're je­alo­us, he says. Right. And jerky Jus­tin dum­ped me be­ca­use I was too go­od for him.

  "Don't worry," Ni­co­le says, trying to be re­as­su­ring af­ter la­ug­hing her­self in­to hyste­rics. "May­be no one will find out you're in bo­ot camp."

  "Re­al­ly?" I ask, ho­pe­ful even if she's just trying to ma­ke me fe­el bet­ter.

  "Su­re." She ta­kes a se­at an my bed. "Usu­al­ly it's just a co­up­le of up­per-class co­un­se­lors, a fa­culty di­rec­tor, and abo­ut a do­zen, um, cam­pers."

  My ra­cing he­art calms down. A lit­tle.

  "Okay." I say, bre­at­hing a sigh of re­li­ef. "That sho­uld be okay. May­be the co­un­se­lors will be fri­end­li­es."

  Not that the­re are many. Be­si­des Ni­co­le, our go­od fri­end Troy Grif­fin, and a co­up­le of my cross-co­untry te­am­ma­tes, the­re aren't many kids at the Aca­demy I co­uld call fri­endly, let alo­ne fri­ends.

  With my luck, they'll be a co­up­le of Ada­ra's gro­upi­es who can't wa­it to ex­po­se my em­bar­ras­sment to the world. It's not li­ke I can do anyt­hing to ma­ke them li­ke me sin­ce I didn't do anyt­hing to ma­ke them ha­te me in the first pla­ce. My exis­ten­ce is re­ason eno­ugh for them.

  Be­si­des, the truth is I am a lit­tle fre­aked out abo­ut cont­rol­ling my po­wers, es­pe­ci­al­ly con­si­de­ring how my dad di­ed. I ha­ven't wor­ked out all the de­ta­ils yet, but he used his po­wers to imp­ro­ve his fo­ot­ball ca­re­er… and wo­und up smo­ted by the gods. I don't think I'll ever know exactly what hap­pe­ned. The gods frown on the mi­su­se of po­wers in the not­bos world and they co­uld just as easily smo­te me for using them ac­ci­den­tal­ly.

  Cont­rol­ling my po­wers is a go­od thing, and I'm lo­oking for­ward to the day when I can zap myself a Ga­to­ra­de wit­ho­ut wor­rying that I'll wind up wrest­ling an al­li­ga­tor.

  "Who knows?" I say. "Go­ing to God­dess Bo­ot Camp co­uld be fun."

  "God­dess Bo­ot Camp?" Grif­fin asks as he walks in­to my ro­om.

  "Hi!" I jump up and wrap my arms aro­und his neck. Sin­ce scho­ol let out Wed­nes­day, he's be­en in At­hens with his aunt Li­li, pic­king up an esp­res­so mac­hi­ne for the ba­kery. 1 know it's only be­en fo­ur days, but se­e­ing him aga­in-all tall, le­an, and dark, curly-ha­ired dre­amy-ma­kes me shi­very happy all over.

  Espe­ci­al­ly when he's we­aring track pants. Call me a run­ning ge­ek, but I lo­ve a guy in tra­ining ge­ar.

  He hugs me back and whis­pers in my ear. "I mis­sed you, kar­dia tis tar­di­as mou."

  And I lo­ve it when he calls me his he­art of he­arts. Le­aning back, I gi­ve him a soft kiss. We've be­en go­ing out for al­most ni­ne months, but I still can't get over kis­sing him. My re­al-li­fe he­ro.

  "Let me just la­ce up." I say, re­le­asing him and go­ing for my sne­akers un­der the bed. "and I'll be re­ady to go."

  "Hey, Nic." he says softly.

  She gi­ves him a lit­tle smi­le. "Hi Griff."

  "You do­ing all right?" he asks.

  "Always, jock­he­ad."

  She me­ans that af­fec­ti­ona­tely. I think.

  Be­si­des, all the des­cen­dants of Ares are jock­he­ads. But the­re's mo­re to him. She do­esn't know he's a he­ro­ic des­cen­dant of Her­cu­les, too. No one do­es.

  I ta­ke a se­at on my bright yel­low rug and pull on my Ni­kes. Even tho­ugh Grif­fin and Ni­co­le wor­ked thro­ugh the­ir ma­j­or prob­lems last fall-they had be­en best fri­ends when they we­re lit­tle, un­til the­ir pa­rents got pu­nis­hed for so­met­hing the kids did-they're still a lit­tle awk­ward aro­und each ot­her. They both li­ke me, tho­ugh, and they ha­ve so­me se­ri­o­us his­tory be­hind them. I ha­ve fa­ith.

  "What we­re you sa­ying abo­ut God­dess Bo­ot Camp?" Grif­fin asks as I tie my la­ces in­to bows. "Why are you go­ing?"

  "Da­mi­an's ma­king me." I let out a ro­ugh bre­ath, "He's af­ra­id I won't be ab
­le to pass the test."

  "What test?"

  "The one the gods are ma­king her ta­ke." Ni­co­le exp­la­ins.

  Grif­fin scowls, his dark eyeb­rows scrunc­hing to­get­her over his bright blue eyes in an ado­rably con­cer­ned way. "I was af­ra­id so­met­hing li­ke this wo­uld hap­pen. What with yo­ur po­wers still so unp­re­dic­tab­le-"

  "Hey!" I smack him on the thigh. "It's not for lack of trying."

  "I know." he says, re­ac­hing down and pul­ling me to my fe­et. "It's not yo­ur fa­ult. Not with such la­te-onset po­wers."

  "And the fact that you're only three steps down from Ni­ke." Ni­co­le adds. "They're stron­ger than most."

  I fe­el a lit­tle bet­ter. I me­an, most of the kids at the Aca­demy are se­ve­ral ge­ne­ra­ti­ons or mo­re re­mo­ved from the­ir an­ces­tor god. The clo­ser yo­ur branch is to the trunk of the tree, the stron­ger the po­wers. Mi­ne are co­los­sal strong. Which ma­kes them co­los­sal hard to cont­rol.

  Cle­arly, the gods aren't ta­king that in­to ac­co­unt.

  "Sorry. I didn't me­an to snap." So­me­ti­mes I open my mo­uth and my emo­ti­ons spill out be­fo­re I can check them. "It's not yo­ur fa­ult I'm a comp­le­te fa­ilu­re at the who­le po­wers thing."

  "You're not a fa­ilu­re," Grif­fin in­sists. "Just… inex­pe­ri­en­ced. Li­ke tra­ining for the Pythi­an Ga­mes. Even tho­ugh you al­re­ady know how to run, you still ne­ed to tra­in hard and in a dif­fe­rent way for the ma­rat­hon-length ra­ce than you do for cross-co­untry. Right?"

  "Of co­ur­se."

  "You just ha­ve to ke­ep pus­hing yo­ur­self har­der, furt­her, un­til it be­co­mes as na­tu­ral as what you're used to."

  One of the re­asons I ado­re Grif­fin so much is his abi­lity to spe­ak my lan­gu­age. Run­ner-ese.

  "What do you think will hap­pen if I fa­il the test?" I ask. "Da­mi­an wasn't exactly forth­co­ming abo­ut the con­se­qu­en­ces."

  Grif­fin sha­kes his he­ad. "I don't know. Has an­yo­ne el­se ever ta­ken a test li­ke this?"

  "The­re arc ru­mors." Ni­co­le says. "No one's ever pro­ven them."

  "Da­mi­an told me the­re has be­en one ot­her stu­dent tes­ted sin­ce he be­ca­me he­ad­mas­ter. But he didn't tell me who it was or what hap­pe­ned-"

  Ni­co­le snorts.

  We all know Da­mi­an's big on sec­recy. The man ma­kes the CIA lo­ok li­ke a gab­fest. He is Mr. Ne­ed-to-know. As in, stu­dents ne­ver ne­ed to know.

  I clo­se my eyes. It's eit­her that or gi­ve in to the des­pa­ir. Of co­ur­se I'm one of only two he­mat­he­os in re­cent his­tory for­ced to ta­ke a po­wers test-and li­kely to fa­il that test. Li­fe wo­uld be too go­od if I we­ren't abo­ut to be ma­de a hor­rib­le out­cast. I me­an mo­re of a hor­rib­le out­cast. It's bad eno­ugh I'm al­re­ady the girl who didn't know abo­ut her po­wers-and the en­ti­re he­mat­he­os wor­ld-until she was se­ven­te­en, and the girl who is so clo­se to Ni­ke she ma­kes the ot­her kids ner­vo­us and re­sent­ful. Now I'll be the girl strung up on the rack for the next se­ven or so cen­tu­ri­es.

  Rat­her than fo­cus on so­met­hing I don't ha­ve cont­rol over at the mo­ment-exactly my prob­lem, by the way-I fo­cus on so­met­hing I can cont­rol. Run­ning.

  "I can't think abo­ut this any­mo­re right now," I an­no­un­ce. I ask Grif­fin. "Are you re­ady to run?"

  "Of co­ur­se." He flas­hes me a bril­li­ant grin.

  Tur­ning to Ni­co­le. I of­fer. "You're wel­co­me to jo­in us."

  "No thanks." She climbs off the bed and grabs her mes­sen­ger bag from the flo­or. "I'm al­ler­gic to exer­ci­se."

  "So I've no­ti­ced." I te­ase. She and Troy ha­ve that in com­mon.

  "I was thin­king we co­uld run the north sho­re to­day," Grif­fin says. Then to Ni­co­le, "You co­uld walk with us as far as the vil­la­ge." He dips his he­ad a lit­tle and lo­wers his vo­ice. "If you're he­ading that way."

  My fe­ars of smo­ting and em­bar­ras­sment and be­ing tur­ned in­to a go­at are ins­tantly go­ne. I'm so pro­ud of Grif­fin for ma­king in­ro­ads with Ni­co­le. They'll be back to best fri­ends in no ti­me.

  "Thanks." she says. "But I'm he­ading to the lib­rary for a lit­tle ext­ra­cur­ri­cu­lar re­se­arch."

  Or may­be the­ir fri­ends­hip will ta­ke a lit­tle mo­re ti­me to he­al back to pre-inci­dent le­vels. I'm not con­cer­ned. They've go­ne from mor­tal ene­mi­es to fri­end­li­es in un­der a ye­ar. It will all be be­hind them by the ti­me we gra­du­ate.

  "We can walk with you to the scho­ol." I say, snag­ging an elas­tic off my dres­ser and pul­ling my ha­ir in­to a pony­ta­il. "Sin­ce it's on the way to the vil­la­ge."

  As we he­ad thro­ugh the li­ving ro­om. I he­ar Da­mi­an's vo­ice co­ming from the mas­ter bed­ro­om. "We will be go­ne for less than two we­eks, Va­le­rie," he says. "Is it re­al­ly ne­ces­sary to ta­ke three su­it­ca­ses?"

  "I've ne­ver be­en to Tha­iland be­fo­re." she rep­li­es. "I'm not su­re what to pack. Be­si­des…" Her vo­ice ta­kes on a kind of pur­ring to­ne. "We only ha­ve one ho­ney­mo­on and I want to ma­ke it spe­ci­al."

  Mom and Da­mi­an ha­ve be­en mar­ri­ed for months now, but the­ir lo­vey-do­vey talk is still go­ing strong. An ima­ge of what exactly my mom is pac­king in tho­se three su­it­ca­ses is abo­ut to pop in­to my mind. It has la­ce and se­qu­ins and-I shud­der-fe­at­hers.

  "Let's go," I say, grab­bing Grif­fin and Ni­co­le by the arms and hur­rying them out the do­or. "With any luck, they'll be do­ne pac­king when I get ho­me."

  * * *

  As Grif­fin and I ro­und a rocky outc­rop­ping on Ser­fo­po­ula's north-sho­re be­ach, I'm thin­king abo­ut Dad. That's not so unu­su­al. I think abo­ut Dad a lot when I run. La­tely, tho­ugh-ever sin­ce I fo­und out I was a des­cen­dant of the god­dess of vic­tory and exactly how Dad di­ed-my tho­ughts ha­ve be­en a lit­tle dif­fe­rent.

  Be­fo­re I fo­und out, run­ning usu­al­ly bro­ught back me­mo­ri­es of tra­ining with him. Of run­ning on San­ta Mo­ni­ca be­ach in the early-mor­ning ho­urs and get­ting ice cre­am when we we­re do­ne. Of him sho­uting en­co­ura­ge­ments: "Fe­el the vic­tory in­si­de you. Pho­ebes­ter." (Ye­ah, vic­tory has a comp­le­tely dif­fe­rent me­aning now.)

  Sin­ce fin­ding out, run­ning ma­kes me think abo­ut how he di­ed.

  Abo­ut how, even tho­ugh he knew the­re wo­uld be con­se­qu­en­ces for using his po­wers, he lo­ved fo­ot­ball so much he was wil­ling to risk it. To risk us."

  I still can't be­li­eve he lo­ved fo­ot­ball mo­re than me and Mom.

  "How we do­ing?" Grif­fin asks, pul­ling me out of my tho­ughts.

  I sha­ke my he­ad back in­to the mo­ment.

  "That's our half­way mark for to­day." I po­int at a low-han­ging ta­ma­risk tree at the ed­ge of the be­ach.

  "What's our ti­me?"

  Lif­ting my wrist. I check my watch. It re­ads 1:42 PM. Not go­od

  "Crap." How co­uld I be so stu­pid? "I for­got to start the stop­watch."

  "No prob­lem." He flas­hes me a qu­ick smi­le. "We can start log­ging our pa­ce to­mor­row. To­day can be a warm-up."

  "I don't know what's wrong with me," I say, matc­hing his stri­des with every step. It's not li­ke me to mess up a tra­ining ses­si­on li­ke this. "Every ti­me I get to the star­ting li­ne la­tely, it's li­ke my bra­in go­es to mush."

  "You're wor­ri­ed abo­ut yo­ur po­wers," he says as we re­ach the tree and turn to run back the way we ca­me. "Unders­tan­dab­le."

  "Ye­ah," I ag­ree, alt­ho­ugh he's only half right. "I know."

  I am wor­ri­ed abo­ut my po­wers… but not for the stu­pid test. Wha­te­ver con­se­qu­en­ces I'll ha­ve to fa­ce if I fa­il the test are pud­ding play
com­pa­red to smo­ting. That's ir­re­ver­sib­le.

  "You'll pass," he in­sists. "Just li­ke you ma­de the cross-co­untry te­am last ye­ar. Just li­ke you got yo­ur B ave­ra­ge. Just li­ke you mas­ter everyt­hing you go af­ter with yo­ur who­le he­art."

  "This isn't exactly the sa­me." It's not at all the sa­me. "I can't pass this test by run­ning fas­ter or stud­ying har­der."

  "You'll find a way."

  "But what if I-" Aargh. I'm ti­red of wor­rying abo­ut this. "For­get it. Let's just fo­cus on the run­ning, okay?"

  He's si­lent for a long ti­me and I think he's go­ing to let it go. Which is what I want. Right? Ex­cept so­met­hing in­si­de me is wil­ling him not to for­get it. Then he asks, "What's re­al­ly bot­he­ring you, Pho­ebes?"

  Not­hing, I-"

  "It's yo­ur dad, isnt it?"

  My sho­ul­ders ten­se. I ha­ven't re­al­ly tal­ked abo­ut this with an­yo­ne sin­ce I fo­und out. Not even Mom. She se­ems just as wil­ling to ke­ep the to­pic bu­ri­ed as I am. But may­be I ne­ed to talk abo­ut this. Abo­ut him.

  Fi­nal­ly, af­ter what fe­els li­ke ho­urs of ten­si­on, I say, "Ye­ah. Kind of."

  "Tell me."

  As our sne­akers push in­to the pris­ti­ne sand, I try to form the sen­ten­ce. Try to fi­gu­re out how to exp­ress what I'm fe­eling. How can I tell him that I'm ter­ri­fi­ed every se­cond that I'll cross so­me in­vi­sib­le li­ne and pay the ul­ti­ma­te pri­ce for my mis­ta­ke? Everyt­hing I co­me up with so­unds wrong, chil­dish. Li­ke a sca­red lit­tle girl.

  "I-" I want to tell him. Re­al­ly I do. I want to ba­re my so­ul and ha­ve him tell me everyt­hing will be all right and I won't get smo­ted to Ha­des if I screw up. But what if? What if he can't re­as­su­re me?

  What if he can't ma­ke a pro­mi­se he knows he can't ke­ep? I don't think I can fa­ce a con­fir­ma­ti­on of my fe­ars. "I can't."

  "That's okay." His vo­ice is soft and qu­i­et, li­ke our fo­ot­fal­ls in the sand. "I'm he­re when you're re­ady."