Oh. My. Gods. (19 page)

And just in time, too.

“Racers, to your positions,” Coach Lenny—referee of the day— calls.

The five girls from the Academy and I line up in our box. The girls from Lyceum Olympia, Academia Athena, and HestiaSchool line up in theirs.

Coach Lenny holds up the starting pistol and my heart jumps.

Then he fires the go shot and everything else fades away.

Halfway through the eight kilometer—five mile—race I’m in the lead pack with four other girls. Jackie Lavaris is a few paces ahead of me.

My eyes are trained on her back. I’ve read her number—thirtyseven—about a million times. At least once for every step since we left the starting line.

I turn it into my mantra.

Thir-ty-sev-en.

Over and over and over again.

Thir-ty-sev-en.Thir-ty-sev-en. Thir-ty-sev-en.

If someone asked me my age right now I’d tell them thirty-seven.

I wish I could know what Jackie is focusing on. She’s like a machine. Same rhythm, same pace over every terrain. Every slope. Every turn.

I’m starting to wonder if I’ll be able to catch her.

One mile from the finish line I hit the wall.

My legs feel like melted Jell-O. Every breath I manage to suck in sends sharp pain through my lungs and radiating out to the rest of my body. I can’t feel my feet anymore.

But my eyes are glued to number thirty-seven.

Thir-ty-sev-en.

Jackie is only two paces in front of me now. The other girls from the lead pack faded half a mile ago, so we are alone in the lead. In the four miles I have been watching her, Jackie hasn’t shown a single sign of weakness. No slip or stumble. No surreptitious glance over her shoulder to see who’s close.

Nothing.

The only sign that she’s actually exerting herself is the sweat soaking her shorts and tank top. That keeps me going—at least she’s working hard.

But I can feel myself weakening.

Like I’m using the very last of my energy reserves and am not going to have anything left for a strong finish. In fact, I might not have anything left at all.

Suddenly, Jackie moves ahead three paces.

No, she doesn’t move ahead. I drop back.

I’m fading.

Crap! I’ve worked too hard the last three weeks—my entire life— to lose now. All those extra hours and lack of sleep weren’t in vain. I won’t let it be for nothing.

And I’m not letting four miles worth of thir-ty-sev-ens go to waste.

Digging deeper than I’ve ever dug before, I scrape up the last shreds of my energy from the furthest reaches of my soul and—just as I pass the four-and-a-half-mile mark—step up my pace a notch. I close in two paces.

I feel myself burst through the wall, demolishing it with a mental sledgehammer. Energy—or adrenaline or endorphins—flows through me and all my pain fades away.

My leg muscles tighten for a second to let me know they’re back in action. I feel my feet pound the dirt path. My lungs fill with oxygen and I’m not racked with crippling pain anymore. It’s like I’m just starting the race instead of almost finishing.

I’ve pushed through the wall before, but it’s never felt like this. Like I’m racing fresh. Fully recovered.

We pass the four-and-three-quarter-mile mark.

I close in another pace.

Only one pace separates me from victory.

I can see the finish line—and the small sea of people waiting—in the distance. It’s a straightaway from here.

The onlookers catch sight of Jackie and send up a cheer.

Spurred on, I close in another pace. We’re neck-and-neck. For the first time in the entire race, she glances to the side. I grin at the shocked look on her face—until she speeds up and I have to match her pace to catch her.

The finish line is closing in, so I turn up the fire and try to take the lead. Jackie keeps my pace easily. I give it more. So does Jackie. I can’t get ahead.

I take a deep breath and—for a split-second—close my eyes. I think of my dad, wanting to win this race, like every other one, for him.

When I open my eyes I’m ahead.

I don’t look to see where Jackie is. I’m ahead and I’m not going to lose the lead.

Thinking of Dad, I put every ounce of my being into closing the last hundred yards. I see everyone cheering for me—Coach Lenny, Mom, Damian, Stella (yes, even Stella), Troy, Griffin, Nicole, and—

Oh my god!

Nola and Cesca are standing at the finish line.

A bright glow surrounds me as I pound the dirt. Something’s not right, but my mind is mush and all I can think about is getting to the finish line—first—before collapsing. My best friends and my new friends are all there waiting for me and I have to get there or die trying.

Then, all of a sudden, I’m across the line.

The crowd around me is cheering.

Everyone rushes me, surrounding me, hugging me. I struggle to breathe and remain upright. The endorphins are failing me now.

The last thing I remember before collapsing is Troy’s smiling face and that’s when I know. I didn’t win this race without help.

Which means I didn’t win at all.

Chapter 11

“I CAN’T BELIEVE you guys are here,” I repeat for, like, the millionth time, as we walk back across campus. After my race, we had stayed to watch the boys run. Griffin won by nearly two minutes and, even though he was a sweaty mess when he met Nola and Cesca, they were suitably impressed. It feels so good to have my girls at my side.

“We thought you needed a little . . .” Cesca grins. “. . . extra support.”

Nola hugs me. Again.

“Damian and I made the arrangements with their parents,” Mom says. “They have to return on the ferry tomorrow, so they don’t miss any more days of school.”

“Only one day,” I cry. It’s not enough. But it’s way better than nothing.

Damian walks up next to me. “We also thought it might be easier for you to . . . explain your situation in person.”

“Explain my—” I stop cold. Is Damian saying what I think he’s saying? “You mean?”

He nods.

I’m floored by how much trust he just put in me. He doesn’t know Nola and Cesca from anyone, but he trusts me enough to trust them.

“Thanks,” I say. Then, I can’t help it, I fling my arms around him and give him a big hug.

“You are more than welcome,” he says in his typical, formal voice. But there is a warmth in there that I never noticed before.

I can’t believe he’s really letting me tell Nola and Cesca about the school, the island, everything.

Now, all I have to do is figure out how to tell them.

“First, however,” he says in full on principal mode, “we need to have a discussion.”

Right. I knew this trust thing was too good to be true. My shoulders slump. I glance ahead at Mom and the girls who are getting ahead of us.

“Phoebe,” he says, laying a hand on my shoulder, “this has nothing to do with your friends.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. “All right.”

“Why don’t we go to the school and your friends can look around while we talk?”

I nod, sensing that what he wants to tell me is a pretty big deal. Considering all the major life-flipping news I’ve gotten lately, I’m a little nervous about what more he could possibly have to talk to me about. Maybe he knows that Troy cheated to help me win.

“Hey girls,” I shout, running to catch up with them. “Wanna see my new school?”

We detour across the central lawn toward the front steps.

“PacificPark hasn’t been the same without you,” Cesca says.

“Did she tell you what she did to Justin?” Nola asks.

“No,” I say, grinning at my girls. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” Cesca says with a wink. “Really.”

Nola rolls her eyes at the understatement. “She pantsed him in front of the whole school at the homecoming assembly.”

I’m so not surprised. Cesca is not the sort of person whose bad side you want to be on. She’s vindictive as—well, as Stella, I guess. I never really noticed it before, but Cesca can be a real bi’atch to people who cross her. Or who cross her friends. If I were on the other side of her anger I might feel the same way about her as I do about Stella.

And if I were on the other side of Stella’s anger, I might feel the same for her that I do for Cesca.

Huh. Stella as my best friend. Not likely. But still, I feel like maybe I understand where she’s coming from a little better.

“Suffice it to say I think he’ll have a hard time finding a date anytime soon.” Cesca checks her nails likes it’s no big deal. “Power Rangers boxers aren’t exactly en vogue right now.”

I laugh at the thought of Justin exposed to the entire student body.

“How old is this school, anyway?” Cesca asks, staring up at the massive templelike façade of the Academy. “This building looks ancient.”

“It is,” I say. “It’s fifteen hundred years old.”

“Holy hot tamale,” Cesca gasps.

“They have excellent landscaping,” Nola says. “I can’t believe the grass is so healthy in such an arid climate.”

“Yeah, well . . .” I glance back over my shoulder at Mom and Damian, following us across the lawn. “There’s a very good reason

for that.”

“Phoebe!”

I spin around, looking up to see Troy standing at the top of the steps. He’s grinning like a crazy person. Maybe he is.

“You!” I shout.

“Where’d you go?” he asks, standing with his fists on his hips. “You took off so fast I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you.”

I turn to the girls. “Give me a minute?”

“Sure,” Cesca says.

Nola nods. “No problem.”

Leaving them at the base of the steps, I stomp up to meet Troy. “I can’t imagine why I’d want to get away quickly, can you?”

“What?” He looks genuinely confused. “You’re not making any sense.”

“What? What!” I jab my finger into his chest. “After what you did, you have the nerve to ask what?”

“What I did? What are you talking about?”

“I know what your ‘good luck charm’ did, Troy.” I cross my arms across my chest. “I saw the glow.”

“The glow?” He frowns. “I saw it too, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Look, I know you were just trying to help. But cheating is cheating. You humiliated me. I can’t even face the team, let alone look at myself in the mirror.”

“Cheating? You cheated?” He shakes his head, as if he doesn’t understand. “You’re not making any sense.”

In all my years of running I’ve never cheated. When other racers were trying anabolic steroids, synthetic hormones, and amphetamines I just trained harder. I focused on perfecting my technique, improving my endurance, and obsessing about my nutrition.

Now, after all those years of hard work and integrity, in just one race on this island, I’m a cheater. Someone—and I have a pretty good idea who that powers-charmed-bracelet-giving someone is— used godly powers to help me win. I won a race that I didn’t deserve to win.

Winning by cheating isn’t winning at all.

“I didn’t cheat,” I say, barely keeping my volume under control because I am so irritated that he keeps playing dumb, “but it feels like I did. When you gave me your powers, I—”

“Whoa!” He jumps back, waving his hands in front of his chest defensively. “When I gave you my powers? I couldn’t even do that if I wanted to.”

Holding up my hand, I pluck at the friendship bracelet. “Then what do you call this?”

“A friendship bracelet.”

“Ha,” I snort.

“We can’t just give our powers to someone else.” He steps closer, his voice calm and certain. “Besides the fact that it would probably kill the person on the receiving end, your stepdad would expel me in a heartbeat. I like you a lot Phoebe, but I’m not about to throw away my future for anyone.”

“If you’re just going to lie to me, then I’d like you to leave.” I turn my back to him and head down the steps.

He doesn’t say a word, so I think he’s gone.

When I glance back he’s still there. Staring at me. He looks like I’ve kicked him in the guts. With that wounded look in his eyes, he turns and walks into the school. I shrug it off, telling myself I don’t care about the feelings of a cheater, no matter how cute and sincere he seems. No matter how good of a friend I thought he was.

Damian smiles oddly. “I wouldn’t be too hard on the boy,” he says. “Shall we go inside and have our talk?”

I nod and we all head up the broad stone steps. Now I’m even more confused. Either Damian doesn’t know about the cheating, or he doesn’t care.

Coach Lenny is waiting in Damian’s office. For a second I stare at him, shocked that he’s there. This must be about my cheating. I drop my gaze to the floor. I can’t face him. I can’t stand to see the look of betrayal in his eyes. After we worked so hard, so many extra hours, for it all to just not count because of Troy’s misplaced desire to help.

But I know it’s Coach’s right to confront me. He put in as much extra time and effort as I did, and he deserves to grill me about why I’ve quit the team.

“I’m so sorry, Coach,” I say, dropping into the chair next to his. “I didn’t know what he did.”

Coach frowns. “What who did? And why in Hades are you sorry? You’re my superstar. You won the race.”

Damian moves around behind his desk, lowering into his big leather chair. “Phoebe thinks she cheated,” he says as he pulls open a desk drawer. “She thinks Travatas gave her a power-granting

charm.”

Lenny gapes at him. “But that’s not even—”

“I know.” Damian lays the folder on the desk.

“I quit the team,” I say, trying to at least save myself the embarrassment of getting kicked off. But even as I say the words my eyes fill with tears—I’ve never felt as close to a coach as I do to Coach Lenny. It breaks my heart to know I can’t run for him anymore. “I’ll send you an official e-mail of resignation when I get home.”

Mom comes up behind me and places her hands on my shoulders, softly massaging my tension. “Listen to what they have to say, Phoebe.”

“You’re still on the team,” he says. “And you didn’t cheat.”

I stare at him blankly. He’s clearly in denial.

“Even if you had wanted to, you couldn’t have,” he explains. “Everyone’s powers were grounded for this race. Even yours.”

“I don’t know how he did it, Coach—” I wipe away a stray tear. “But I know you saw the glow.”

“Of course I saw it,” he says. “Everyone saw it.”

“You can’t tell me that wasn’t someone’s powers.”

“No, Phoebe, I can’t tell you that.”

“I’m telling you, it w—” His words register. “What?”

“You’re right,” he says. “That glow that surrounded you at the end of the race was the glow of immortal powers.”

“Then, why—”

“You’re missing his point, Phoebola.” Mom squeezes my shoulders tighter.

Coach looks at me expectantly. I shake my head. I don’t understand what he’s saying. It’s like I know something’s not sinking in, but I just can’t figure out what. He says I’m right and I’m wrong. How can I be both? Either someone helped me cheat or they didn’t.

Damian slides the file folder across the desk; Coach picks it up, opens it, and shuffles through the stack of papers inside. “Have you ever done something you thought yourself physically incapable of doing?” he asks.

Startled by the abrupt change of subject, I snap, “Other than winning the race?”

“Yes,” Damian says, patiently. “Other than that.”

“No,” I say flatly. Then I remember the time I sent Adara flying across the locker room. “I mean, I suppose so. Who hasn’t?”

“We’ve done some investigating, Phoebe.” Coach pulls out what looks like a computer printout of run times. “Ever since you kept up with me in the first warm-up session I had my suspicions. I mean, I’m a descendant of Hermes. No nothos should be able to keep my pace. But you did.”

“So?” I read upside-down that the title of the printout is “Castro Results.”

“And, like you said, your performance in the race was . . .” He reads over the report. “. . . Supernatural.”

“Listen,” I say, sniffling, “I appreciate whatever you’re trying to do to make me feel better, but I know I didn’t win the race fairly, so if you could get to the point—”

“Phoebe, you’re a descendant of Nike,” Mom says. “You have godly blood.”

I feel my jaw drop and I think I make a sound like, “Gah ung,” but everything else blanks out.

For about twelve seconds.

Then I’m fully conscious, mind racing. “What do you mean ‘a descendant of Nike’?” I twist around, staring up at Mom and trying to capture the thoughts jumbled around in my head. “Nike like the running shoe.”

“Not exactly,” she says with a huge grin. “Nike like the goddess.

The goddess of victory.”“What!?” “Here,” Coach says, handing me the folder. “Read this.” I look down at a newspaper article. The familiar headline reads,

“Football Star Mysteriously Dies on the Field.” It’s an article about my dad’s death. I don’t have to read it—I have it memorized.

At last night’s playoff game between the Chargers and the Broncos, San Diego star running back Nicholas Castro collapsed on the three yard line, ball in hand. The former USC all-star was only nine feet from the winning touchdown. Though he was rushed to Cedars-Sinai hospital for treatment he was declared dead on arrival. Doctors could find no obvious cause of death and have ruled it undetermined.

“So?” I shove the article back at him.

Why is he bringing Dad into this?

“Your father did not die of natural causes.” Mom’s voice is whis

per soft. “What?” I gasp. Damian leans across the desk and takes my hand. “The gods

smote him because he broke the rules.”

“What rules?” I stare at him, furious that they’re saying all this stuff about my dad. “What are you talking about?”

“The primary rule among descendants choosing to live in the nothos world is they may not use their powers overtly to succeed in that world. The risk of exposure is too great.” Damian’s face is full of sympathy. “Your father used his powers to further his football career. On national television. He knew he would be punished.”

None of this makes sense.

Dad was part god?

I’m part god?

Dad died for football?

 “Oh honey,” Mom soothes, squeezing me tightly. “As soon as Damian told me I knew you’d be upset. Hell, I was upset. The fact that your father never—”

“Did you just swear?” I asked between threatening tears.

“Did I?” she repeated. “I suppose so. I’m just so mad that in all the years we were married, you father kept this secret from me. That he kept it from you.”

“Wait?” I interrupt. “When Damian told you?” This is déjà vu all over again. “How long have you known?”

I’m having flashbacks to the whole you’re-going-to-a-schoolfor-the-relatives-of-Greek-gods thing. A sharp pain starts at the base of my skull and slowly spreads across my entire head. Why do people keep withholding major details of my life from me? Do I seem incapable of handling astonishing news? I would think that by now I’ve proven myself pretty rational in the face of unbelievable information.

I glare at Mom, daring her to lie to me.

“Damian told me his suspicions a few days after we arrived,” she admits. “Until he received a genealogical report on your father a few days ago we weren’t sure.”

“And you didn’t tell me about his ‘suspicions’ earlier—why?”