Oh. My. Gods. (16 page)

“What bet?” I repeat.

“It’s nothing,” Griffin says—not that I believe him.

“Nothing?”Adara looks at Griffin, shocked. “I think this was a major coup.”

“And I thank you for it.” Stella gives Griffin the most evil looking smile I have ever seen.

“What bet!?”

Adara answers, “It’s quite simple, really.”

“Griffin said he could get you to fall for him,” Stella says, “even though he treated you like trash when you first got here.”

“I didn’t think he could,” Adara says. “I thought you had more self-respect than that.”

“But I knew he could.” Stella winks at him. “He’s charming and you’re weak. I was right.”

Griffin stands there, stiff and silent.

“We made a bet.” Adara links her arm through his. “A latte at Kaldi’s coffee shop to whoever was right.”

I stare at Griffin. “You knew about this? You started this?”

He makes no indication he even hears me.

“I must confess,” Stella coos, turning her attention to Adara. “I did cheat a little. I gave Phoebe some motivation to spend time with him—to befriend him. If you want to call the bet, I understand.”

“No,” Adara assures her. “You were right. Whether you urged her along or not, she still fell for him like a lead anchor.”

My head is spinning.

It was all because of a bet. He spent time with me, treated me like a friend, all because of some stupid bet. The whole Hercules thing was probably a total lie. And that garbage about breaking up with Adara.

Before I can stop myself, I take two steps toward Griffin, pull back my hand, and slap him as hard as I can. I don’t wait around to see if I leave a mark.

“Nicole was right about you. You’re a selfish bastard.” I barely have control of the tears trying to fill my eyes. “Stay away from me.”

Then I run all the way home.

Mom tries to get me to talk when I won’t even leave my room for dinner, but I tell her it’s just hormones and she leaves me alone. Even if she doesn’t believe me.

Spending an entire day locked in my room, avoiding all social interaction, gives me a lot of time to think. I go back over all the moments with Griffin, analyzing each one, and decide that I can’t tell when he was being straight and when he was playing me. Which only reinforces my decision to stay as far away from him as possible. I can’t trust myself to tell which Griffin I’m talking to.

Around ten o’clock I decide to check my e-mail.

I have been avoiding it all day—just in case there’s another drama/crisis/problem waiting for me in my inbox. After deleting all the spam—you would think the gods could develop some sort of supernatural spam-blocker—I have three new messages. I decide to open in the order of most likely to make me feel better—or rather, least likely to make me feel like worse crap.

The first is from Coach Jack at USC.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: Cross-Country Scholarships

Miss Phoebe Castro, I am pleased to announce that you are being considered for the Helen Rawlins Memorial Scholarship. Pending your successful admission to the University of Southern California, you will compete with three other candidates for this prestigious scholarship that will cover your tuition, books, fees, room and board for up to four years of undergraduate education.

Annual renewal of the scholarship is dependent upon maintaining an above-average academic record and participation in the USC cross-country team.

Best of luck,

Coach Jack Farley

This isn’t anything I didn’t already know. Coach Jack told me at camp that I was up for the scholarship, even though the official announcement wouldn’t be made until the fall. He also said that if I get through senior year with a B average and do well in cross-country meets then the scholarship is mine.

Six months ago that didn’t seem like a difficult task.

Today it seems impossible.

I move that message into my USC folder and go on to the message from Cesca.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: Jerk Alert

I’m sorry I’ve been acting like such a jerk, Phoebe. There has been so much going on and I don’t have you here to talk to about any of it. When you said you couldn’t tell me what that IM was about I guess I just took out all my frustrations on you.

Forgive me?

Cesca

I saved her message for second because I couldn’t tell what it was going to be like from the subject line. She could just as easily have been calling me the jerk.

I am massively relieved that she’s apologizing—not that she needs to. I’m the one with the secret. I should be apologizing, too.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Just As Jerky

Forgiven.

Now do you forgive me? I really, really, really wish I could tell you what I meant, but it’s not my secret to tell and it affects a lot of other people. Just know that there aren’t any important secrets between us and there never will be.

Love and kisses,

Phoebe

After clicking send I stare at my inbox, wondering whether I want to open the third message. It’s from Griffin. Curiosity gets the better of me.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: If I could do it over . . .

. . . I wouldn’t treat you so badly.

I’m sorry.

Today wasn’t about the bet.

Give me another chance.

G

Just like him: brief, cryptic, and full of crap.

I’m tempted to delete the message—he certainly has no place taking up bytes in my mailbox—but can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I make a folder named “Liars” and move his message there.

For the first time since running out of the tunnel this morning I actually smile. All this introspection time today makes me realize that I have to

stay focused on my goal. I can’t let USC out of my sights for even a second. No matter what Mom, Damian, Griffin, or anybody else on this stupid island thinks or does, I have to get that B average, stay on the cross-country team, and count down the days until I go back to California.

I don’t want to be away from Cesca and Nola any longer than absolutely necessary. I’ve only been gone a few weeks and look what a mess my life has become.

No, from now on I’m single-focus-Phoebe.

Nothing can deter me.

“Mom, I’ve made my decision,” I say when I find her in Damian’s office, scanning wedding websites. “I’m going to USC and that’s final.”

She turns away from the computer, a surprisingly neutral look on her face. I expect her to yell and scream and ground me until I’m twenty-five. Instead, she smiles and says, “If you’ve considered this carefully as I asked, then I support your decision.”

Wow. Where did that trust in my decision-making abilities come from? What happened to nothing but dictates and unilateral decisions?

I’m not going to question my good fortune.

Who knows when the rug will be pulled out from under me.

“Yes, I have,” I explain. “I don’t fit in here and I am only making things difficult and uncomfortable for myself and everyone else.”

She steeples her hands over Damian’s desk.Uh-oh, therapist mode.

“That sounds like you’re running away from your problems.”

“No,” I insist as I drop into one of the chairs in front of the desk. “It’s more than that, really. I miss Cesca and Nola and Southern California. I even miss . . .” I pull out the surefire family card. “. . . Yia Yia Minta. I bet she misses me, too.”

Mom smiles. “Nice try.”

Can’t I get anything past the adults in this house? Mom might as well read minds like Damian.

“Fine, it’s not about Yia Yia Minta. It’s about me.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not happy here. I’m not going to be happy here. I’m counting the days until I can go home—something this place will never be for me.”

She watches me for a long time, like she’s evaluating me for a psych report. I’m used to this. She’s been shrinking my head since I was a baby—and it’s not going to work any better now than it did then.

I just lie back and relax until she reaches her conclusion.

What she says surprises the crap out of me.

“I’m sorry for putting you through this.” She actually looks sad. “If there had been any other way—I feel so selfish for turning your world upside-down, just so I could be happy.”

Her voice kinda cracks at the end, and I see tears form in her eyes. Can she really be this heartbroken? After all, she’s the one who brought me here. I tried to tell her I didn’t want to—

She sobs. A big gasping sob backed up by a whole lot of tears.

As she reaches for a tissue from the nearest bookshelf, I feel super guilty for making her feel so rotten.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mom,” I soothe. “You deserve happiness as much as anybody. More, on most days.”

“I should have waited,” she says, shaking her head. “Damian and I could have married next summer.”

I wince as she blows her nose with a big honk.

“I’m over that,” I say, handing her the box of tissues.

“I’m going to miss you so much when you go off to college.” The tears start again with more force. “After your father died you were the only thing that kept me going. I want to hold on to you for a little longer, is that so wrong?”

“Aw, Mom.” I jump out of my chair and hurry around to her side. Pulling her into a big bear hug, I promise, “I’ll still come back on holidays and maybe even summer vacation. I’ll be the only kid on campus who gets to spend all her off time on a Greek island. Everyone will be so jealous.”

She laughs through her sniffles and squeezes me back.

We are still clutched in a tight hug when Damian walks in.

“We have a problem,” he says, his voice tight and flat. “A big problem.”

Chapter 9

“OUR WEB SCANNERS flagged another search,” Damian says.

I can practically hear his teeth grinding. Letting go of Mom, I stand up straight to defend my friend.

“It wasn’t Cesca this time,” I say. “I’m certain.”

Mom looks back and forth between us like she has no clue what’s going on. Maybe Damian hasn’t told her anything.

“The scanners also caught a blog post titled Secrets of Serfopoula.” A muscle just below his left eye starts twitching. “We suppressed the post, but the entry was . . . imaginative.”

“How?” I ask.

“What’s going on here?” Mom asks.

Damian answers my question. “The author proposes that Serfopoula is the secret base of operations for an elite force of superheroes.”

“Well,” I say, relieved, “at least it isn’t accurate.”

“No,” Damian replies, “but it suggests that the origins of the superheroes date back to ancient mythology.”

“Oh.” That’s a little closer to home. “Well, I know it’s not Cesca, because she doesn’t have a blog. Besides, that’s a huge leap of imagination from supernatural powers to Greek mythology. Maybe this is completely unrelated to my slip-up.”

Mom stands up and smacks her hand on the desk. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

Damian raises his brows at me—a clear indication that I should be the one to tell her. Taking a deep breath, I explain, “I let half a detail slip in an IM chat with Cesca last week.” Turning to Damian, I add, “Not enough for her to jump to this conclusion. Besides, Cesca wouldn’t do this. She couldn’t. Her computer literacy does not extend far beyond turning it on and opening IM.”

“The fact remains,” he says, “that someone is looking into the island and that is jeopardizing our security.”

Mom gasps. “Are the children in danger?”

“Not yet,” he assures her. “But if the perpetrator outwits our web scanners, they could be. We all could be.”

“Well,” I insist, “it’s not Cesca.”

“I know that.” Damian unfolds a piece of paper from his pocket. “The author of the blog is using the name JAM Freak.”

Oh no! I gasp and both Mom and Damian turn to look at me.

“Do you know who that is?” he asks.

My mind racing, I can only nod.

“Who is it?” Mom asks.

I shake my head, not believing it.

He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Damian hands me the paper.

Blog entry: Secrets of Serfopoula

Results: suppress

Location: Los AngelesCounty

Author: JAM Freak

He did.

Crumpling up the paper, I drop it on Damian’s desk. I can feel my ears overheating and I see red all around the edges of my vision.

“If we know who the author is,” I ask, “can we, like, erase his memory, or something?”

“His?” Mom parrots.

Damian takes a step closer. “Yes.”

My lips spread into a Stella-worthy evil grin. This boy is going to regret ever messing with me, my family, and this stupid island. I feel excitement bubbling up inside. I’ve been waiting two years to say, Payback ain’t pretty. “Justin Mars.”

Damian writes down Justin’s name on a sticky note.

“I’ll dispatch someone immediately to shroud his memory of the island and anything peripherally related.” He looks at me, questioning. “He might forget you, as well, Phoebe.”

I smile bigger. “Good.”

That dark stain on my dating record is going to pay for trying to harass me from two thousand miles away.

The only question is: How did he find out about my IM slip-up?

Remembering some of the strange phrasing in Cesca’s last e-mail, I’m afraid I know the answer.

“Mom,” I say, “I need to make a phone call.”

She looks confused, but nods. “All right.”

When she and Damian make no move to leave, I add, “In private.”

Damian seems to understand what I’m about to do. He takes Mom by the shoulders and leads her out. “Come, Valerie. Let’s leave Phoebe to her phone call.”

He waggles his eyebrows at her. She giggles in return and they hurry out of the office—headed for their bedroom, no doubt.

I wait until my gag reflex relaxes before dialing Cesca’s number—burned into my memory since she got her private line in sixth grade—careful to add the international dialing code first.

She answers on the third ring.

“Hi, Cesca.”

“Phoebe?” She sounds shocked. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Mom felt sorry for me,” I say. “She approved an international phone call for therapy purposes.”

Which would be partly true, if I had asked for a therapy call. The other part is my having to find out if my suspicions of who she told about my “immortal powers” comment are right. And if my suspicions about why are way off base—which I hope they are.

“What’s wrong?” Now she sounds more nervous than shocked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say. “I just wanted to talk to you. To ask you a question.”

“Oh.” Nervous, nervous, nervous. “What’s that?”

I take a deep breath, hoping I’m wrong. “Who did you tell what I said about immortal powers?” Silence from the other end. Then,

“I thought you couldn’t talk about that.” “I’m talking about it now.”

“Oh.” More silence.

“Cesca?”

“No one,” she whispers into the phone. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

Now, I can tell when Cesca’s lying—not that she does it very often—and she isn’t lying to me now. She honestly didn’t tell anyone about my comment.

“Are you sure?” I ask, just in case I missed something.

“Yes,” she whispers.

Why is she whispering, I wonder—

“Who you talking to?” a male voice asks in the background.

A male voice I recognize.

“Just, um . . .” Cesca’s voice is muffled, like she’s holding her hand over the receiver. “. . . a friend.”

“Who?” he repeats.

“A fr—”

“He’s there,” I demand, “isn’t he?”

“What?” She’s talking to me again. “Who?”

Now she’s lying. To me. Her best friend.

“Justin.” I had so hoped it wasn’t true.

“Why is he in your room?”

“He, uh . . .” She sounds resigned. “Phoebe, I wanted to tell you. Really I did.”

“But?” I ask.

“There just never seemed a good time.”

“For what, Cesca?”

“To tell you that Justin and I have been seeing each other.”

My last hope that this was all some big misunderstanding—that I was totally wrong—vanishes. My best friend and my worst ex are dating.

“You’re right,” I say. “There is no good time to tell me that.”

“Phoebe, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” I say, stunned. “I’m sorry you didn’t learn from my mistake. You’re too good for him, Cesca.”

“I . . .” Her voices drops to a whisper again. “. . . I know. I just don’t know how to end it.”

“If it’s already over for you why did you tell him what I said?”

“I didn’t.”

“He found out somehow,” I explain. “He tried to post about it in his blog.”

“Well, I didn’t—” She gasps, then shouts—thankfully not at me— “Why you rotten, sneaky bast—”

“What?” I interrupt.

“Hold on,” she says into the phone. Then I hear the click of the receiver being set down on her desk. “How dare you read my private IM chat? You went on my computer and read my personal files, didn’t you?”

“I, uh,” Justin stammers in the background. “No?”

Bad move, Justin. If you’re going to lie, at least do it with conviction.

“Get your privacy-invading stinky ass out of my room.” Cesca is screaming so loud it sounds like she is talking directly into the receiver. “I never want to see you again. When you see me walking down the hall you’d better step out of my way!”

Two seconds later a loud thwack echoes through the phone.

That, I think, is the sound of Cesca slamming the door after kicking Justin out of her room.

“You still there, Phoebe?”

“I’m here.” I’m relieved she sounds back to normal. “You all right?”

“Ugh, yes.” She sighs into the phone. “Can you believe how stupid I was? It’s not like I thought he would change. Can you still be friends with someone so stupid?”

“Hey,” I say, trying to rally her spirits, “you forget you’re talking to the girl who went out with him first. I think I get the stupidity crown.”

We laugh and I’m just thankful that our friendship is back on track. I don’t know what I’d do without Cesca to go to when I have a problem. I can always count on Cesca to set me straight. I mean, I love Nola, but she’s not the most grounded cookie in the jar.

 “So,” she says hesitantly, “did he cause major problems for you?”

“No, not major.”

“Oh.”

“Look, Cesca. I really, really, really wish I could tell you what this is all about, but—”

“I understand. Just like I wouldn’t expect you to break my confidence if I had a secret, so I wouldn’t ask you to break someone else’s, either.”

Huge sigh of relief. It’s so much better to talk through things like this on the phone. E-mail is so impersonal—and so open to interpretation. We chat awhile longer—not too long because I know international calls can be astronomically expensive—before hanging up, promising to e-mail at least every other day. And to not keep any more secrets unless they’re somebody else’s.

Mom is waiting for me when I emerge.

“Is everything all right?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “We just had some stuff to talk through.”

“I know how much you miss your friends.” She wraps an arm around my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll see them again soon.”

Not soon enough.

“At least they’re flying out for the wedding,” she adds.

I force a grin. “Only three months away.”

“Don’t worry.” She gives me a good squeeze before releasing me. “Your friendships will survive the hurdles of time and space.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, not meaning it.

Three months and seven thousand miles is more than I’m willing to put between my friendships.

“Nervous?” Nicole asks as she slides in next to me at our lunch

table. “The big race is only days away.”

“Nah.” I shrug.

On the inside, I’m boiling with nerves at the mere mention of the race. Sure, I’ve competed in dozens, maybe hundreds of races in my lifetime. This one is different.

There is more riding on the outcome. I’m used to racing for myself, trying to beat my time or beat my opponent. This time I’m racing for my racing future. Not just my slot on the team is at stake. If I don’t race well this year then no scholarship. No scholarship, no USC.

Talk about pressure.

But there’s more to this race than staying on the team. In all my years of running I’ve had a pretty easy time. Make a little effort and win the race. This time I’m going to have to exert myself—run all-out. I’m racing against some of the best high school athletes in the world, grounded powers or not. This is my first real opportunity to see what I’m made of on the racecourse.

I’m afraid to find out I’m made of nothing more than some talent and very little grit and determination.

Like my T-shirt says, NO GUTS, NO GLORY.

Still, I’m not about to let anyone know how nervous I am.

“No big deal,” I say, then take an I’m-totally-calm bite of my hamburger.

Troy walks up while my mouth is full and drops into the seat across from me. Ever since he finished Chemistry tutoring he’s been in the dumps.

“Hi,” he says.

I try to say, “Hi,” around my hamburger, but it sounds more like, “Mrff,” so I add a wave.

“I can’t stand this vortex of gloom anymore, Travatas,” Nicole blurts. “What’s your problem?”

“Yeah,” I say after taking a big gulp of pineapple Fanta to wash down the hamburger. “You seem so, well, not you.”

He shrugs, “I don’t know. I guess it’s just that, ever since I passed that test my dad has been pressuring me to apply for the Level 13 pre-med program.”

It kills me to see Troy so torn up. He obviously doesn’t want to be a doctor, so I don’t know why his parents are forcing him to try. Music is his passion and they should support that. Just like Mom supports my running.

“You have to tell them,” I venture.

“Tell them what?” he asks.

“About your dreams,” I explain. “That you want to be a musician.”

He laughs out loud. “Yeah right. I like my powers, thank you very much, and I’d prefer to keep them.”

“They can take them away?” I ask. Maybe, if I push Stella enough, Damian will strip her powers.

“No,” Nicole answers, rolling her eyes at Troy. “Only the gods can revoke powers.”

“But my parents could ground them until I’m twenty-one.”

“Come on, Travatas,” Nicole says. “Grow some courage and confess. I hear it’s good for the soul.”

“I appreciate that you guys care,” he says in a way that suggests he doesn’t appreciate it at all, “but I have to handle this my way.”

“Fine,” Nicole says with a shrug. “Don’t say we didn’t try. Now, can we talk about how we’re going to get back at Blake and the evil twins?”

I knew this was going to come up again. Ever since I told her what happened she’s been pressing me to go after revenge—a revenge that I know wouldn’t be just about me.

But revenge is hollow. I’d prefer amnesia.

“I don’t want revenge,” I tell Nicole for like the fiftieth time. “I just want to forget about it and never talk about them again.”

Just because I live in the same house as Stella doesn’t mean I have to talk to her. The last few dinners have been blissfully silent. It doesn’t hurt that I threatened to tell Damian what she did. The thought of another week without her powers is apparently enough to keep her quiet.

Though she did leave an empty latte cup outside my door.

“I can understand not bothering with Stella and Adara. . . .” Nicole lifts up her hamburger bun and gives the contents a wary look. “. . . they’ve been hideous harpies since the day I got here.”

She drops the bun and pushes her plate away.

“Longer,” Troy adds. “Those two have been up to no good since they were five. We can’t expect them to change now.”

“But Griffin,” Nicole says.

“Yeah.”Troy’s eyes light up. “Blake deserves to be taken down a notch or two.”