Oh. My. Gods. (6 page)

“Fine,” I say.

Really, though, my brain is on fire. I made it through Algebra on sheer luck—and a few answer prompts from Nicole. Cornball might have gotten his nickname from all the stupid jokes he makes during class, but when it comes to math he’s as serious as an 8.0 on the Richter scale.

Modern Greek had been a little easier—being a first-year language class and all—but I was the only one in the class on the downhill side of puberty. You don’t know how immature fourteenyear-olds can be until you’re stuck in a room with a bunch of them for an hour.

The only thing that made World History, my last class before lunch, bearable was hunky Mr. Sakola. He looks like some fifties movie star, with a bright white smile, perfectly combed hair, and a really cute dimple in his left cheek. He’s also as charming as Will Smith—with an equally beautiful wife, if the framed pic on his desk is any indication. The class, however, was another dumpload of information. I took enough notes to fell an entire forest.

So, by fine I mean exhaustingly rotten, but I don’t say it.

“Good.” He smiles like a principal—wide and proud, his sophisticated face cracking into sophisticated lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Any problems or questions?”

“No . . .” I say, but even that’s not true. “Actually, there is one thing.”

He nods, encouraging me to clarify.

Though I have seriously considered not telling him this, I think it’s in my best long-term interest to be as forthright as possible. After all, I don’t want him out to make my life more miserable than it already is. So, I suck it up and say, “I, um, tweaked my schedule a little. . . .”

He nods again. “In what way?”

“Well—” I swallow, hoping he doesn’t question my prerequisites. “I traded Computer Applications and Biology for Art History and Physics II.”

More nodding. What’s with all the nodding?

“As long as you keep up with your assignments, I don’t foresee a problem. I just want to see you happy in your time here.” Now his smile is more parental, small but still reaching his eyes to crinkle up the corners. He leans across the table to Nicole and whispers, “Miss Matios, the last student who tried to zap Philosophy out of their schedule spent a week as a pile of sand.”

Then, without another word, he stands up and walks away, surveying the lunchroom like a General watching his troops.

“Man,” Nicole says when Damian’s out of earshot, “I’m glad I’m not you. I wouldn’t want Petrolas for a dad.”

“He’s not my dad,” I snap. I feel instantly guilty. It’s not her fault I’ve been tossed into this little dysfunctional family. “Sorry. My real dad died a long time ago. Damian is just my stepdad.”

She shrugs like I haven’t just bitten her head off or she could care less that I did. I’m just relieved she doesn’t make a big deal of the dead dad thing. I’m not always so touchy about it—therapist Mom head-shrank me through the whole grieving process—but I’ve been thinking about him more than usual since the whole stepdad thing started. Having a fake dad makes me miss my real one more. Great, another thing to look forward to for the next nine months.

At least Nicole doesn’t seem to care if I’m a moody psycho. Something over my shoulder catches her attention. “Travatas!” she shouts across the dining hall, waving her arm in the air to catch someone’s attention.

At the head of the lunch line is a cute boy—blond and wholesome in a Chad Michael Murray kind of way—with dark gold hair and wearing a MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE T-shirt. He looks up at Nicole’s shout and smiles.

“Hey Nicole,” he says, carrying his tray over to our table and taking the seat next to mine.

“Phoebe,” she says, pointing her fork at cute boy, “this is Troy.”

“Hi.” I wave in greeting.

He smiles, showing straight white teeth and says, “Hi back.”

“He’s pretty much the only person in this school worth knowing.” She starts to take a sip of her Dr Pepper, but then adds, “Besides me, of course.”

Nicole is not short on confidence.

“Has Nicole been showing you around?” he asks, his mouth curling up at the corners.

“Yeah.” I nod.

Nicole is way better as a guide than Stella would have been. I can just imagine my day as Stella’s puppy dog, forced to trail after her and lick her boots when she got a scuff.

Even across the crowded dining hall, I can feel her glare.

She is at a table at the opposite side of the hall—far, far away from ours—sitting with the rest of the Zeus-and-Heras. She’s sitting next to a boy with short, rusty blond hair who, from the confident way he is holding himself, is the leader of their pack. Tan, slick, and arrogant, he looks like her perfect match.

Troy must see me staring at her because he says, “I hear Stella’s your stepsister.” He takes and swallows a bite of vegetable lasagna. “Sorry.”

What, did they have a school-wide briefing about me? It seems like everyone knows who I am, where I came from, and how I got here. Right now, about half the cafeteria is looking at me while trying not to look like they’re looking. I’m like a celebrity, but not in a good way.

Don’t they have better things to talk about?

“Am I the school’s only gossip?” I ask.

“Pretty much,” Nicole says.

I shrug. Great. “Then trust me,” I say to Troy. “Stella is the least of my challenges.”

“Yeah, I guess it would be hard to get dropped into this world.” His eyes—a really pretty green with bright gold flecks in the center—are warm with sympathy. “Don’t worry. . . . you’ll get through.”

He’s sweet, which may be why I confess, “It might be easier if I had found out about this whole ‘the gods are real’ thing before the yacht docked on Serfopoula.”

Troy’s jaw drops. “They didn’t tell you?”

“What,” Nicole says, rolling her eyes, “like you’re surprised? You know how Petrolas is about security.”

“I know, but—” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe it.

Join the club. “Let’s just say this has been a summer of shocks.”

“What did they tell you?” Nicole asks.

“Pretty much that the school was founded by Plato, moved here ages ago, and protected by the Greek gods.Oh, and that all the students are related to them.”

She snorts, clearly not impressed with how little I know. “Leave it to Petrolas to give you the history without any real, useful info.”

“Like what?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous.

I’m not sure I want to know how much more I need to know.

“Any use of powers that breaks school rules,” Troy says, “like cheating or skipping class or altering a teacher’s memory, is forbidden and earns serious detention time.”

“No one wants a Petrolas detention,” Nicole says, sounding grim. “They make the Labors of Hercules look like kindergarten homework.”

“You should know,” Troy teases. “You’ve done more detention than anyone else in our year.”

“Are you volunteering to take my place next time, Travatas?”

Troy turns white. “N-no, I mean, I was only—”

Nicole throws a roll at him.

I laugh because this reminds me so much of the sparring matches between Nola and Cesca. For a second I feel like I’m back in L.A. with my best friends. Until Nicole says, “And whatever you do, don’t go into the last stall of the girls’ bathroom on the second floor.”

“Why,” I ask, afraid of the answer, “does it open a portal to a parallel universe, or something?”

“No,” Nicole says with a laugh. “It backs up all the time and makes the Physics room smell like a sewer.”

Troy hands me a roll and I toss it at Nicole.

“Don’t worry,” he says when we all get done laughing. “Nic and I will teach you the ropes. You’ll be a world-class social navigator before we’re done.”

“We’ll at least make sure you don’t run your ship up on the rocks,” she adds. “Lunch is the perfect chance to see all the little gorgons in action. Where should we start?”

The pair of them look around the dining hall, searching out examples for my education.

“How about with you?” I suggest. “What, um, gods are you related to?”

Nicole points at Troy. “Travatas is around fifty generations removed from Asklepios.”

“Who’s Askilopus?” I ask.

“Asklepios,” Troy corrects. “The god of healing.”

“That’s neat,” I say.

“Right.”Troy rolls his eyes. “I’m just dying to follow in that millennium-long line of doctors and nurses.”

Talk about pressure. I guess maybe that’s not so great, after all.

Turning back to Nicole, who is looking around the room again, I ask, “What about you—”

“That’s the Athena table,” she announces. “They’re all brainiacs, like Tyrovolas.”

Troy leans closer and whispers, “Nerds.”

Like I couldn’t tell. As if the thick glasses and pocket protectors weren’t clues enough, they’re huddled around the table and bickering over trading cards. The cards flash and sparkle with every movement. I have a feeling these aren’t your typical Pokémon.

“Those girls.”Troy nudges me, pointing to a bunch of blondes standing near the door. “They’re the cheerleaders.”

Where does this guy think I’m from? Siberia? Southern California is the cheerleader capital of the world—well, second maybe to Texas—and I have no problem identifying them. The blue and white uniforms are a dead giveaway. Even in street clothes, the matching hair ribbons mark them as the cheer squad.

But, Troy is cute and I don’t want to make any enemies on the first day—Stella is already enemy enough—so I just ask, “Whose are they?”

Troy frowns, confused, but Nicole understands.

“Aphrodite’s.” She does not hide the disgust in her voice, rolling her eyes as she adds, “You’d think she was the patron goddess of athletics instead of love, for all they throw her name around.”

“Athletics,” Troy explains, “fall under the patronage of Ares.”

Looking up, I follow the direction of his gaze to a table in the center of the room. While I’m watching, the cheerleaders approach the table and fill some of the empty seats.

One, the blondest of them all, walks up behind a boy. His back is to me, so all I can see is his black curly hair. He stands up to embrace Blondie, settling his mouth over hers and smoothing his hand over her butt.

Holy crap!

Next to me, Troy says, “Looks like Griffin and Adara are on-again at the moment.”

“Who?” I ask absently.

“Griffin Blake and Adara Spencer. They get back together every summer,” Nicole says. “Never lasts more than a week into school.”

Griffin Blake. The name rolls through my mind like gentle thunder. He is a god—okay, bad choice of words, but even with his face hidden behind the cheerleader he is the most beautiful specimen of boyhood I have ever seen.

After a brief fantasy about his luscious hair, I take in the rest of him, starting with his height—all six-foot-plus of him. (Wait, do they use feet and inches in Greece? Maybe I should say all two meters of him.) Tall and broad-shouldered, but with the lean, sleek athletic build of a runner. Which instantly appeals to me, of course.

There’s something vaguely familiar about him.

His coal black hair curls over the white collar of the navy and sky blue striped rugby shirt he wears. Lifting his head from kissing Blondie, he turns to laugh at something someone at the table says.

It’s him! The guy from the beach.

Those full and soft lips spread into the most beautiful, open smile I have ever seen. So much more than that half smile he had given me that morning. And I know, absolutely 100 percent know, that one day I want him to smile at me that way.

Then I see a girl at the table—one of the lesser blondes—pointing a finger in my gawking direction. Griffin’s gaze turns on me, sees me openly staring at him, and erupts into laughter.

Winning that smile is going to be much harder than I thought.

“Absolutely not.”

“What?” I turn back to Nicole to find her glaring at me.

“Trust me,” she says with her customary bitterness. “You want nothing to do with Griffin Blake.”

“Why not?”

“Because Nic and Gri—” Troy begins.

“Shut it.” She gives him a warning look and then turns back to me, her bright blue eyes steady and serious. “Because no girl should leave the Academy with a shattered soul.”

Without another word, she drops her gaze to her food and resumes eating. I look to Troy for answers, but his attention is fully on his plate, too.

Nicole’s warning doesn’t make any sense. Sure, he’s with the cheerleaders and the jocks—normally a formula for making a jerk— but when we met on the beach this morning he was totally nice. He even got me home in time to clean up before school.

Nicole must be mistaken. Griffin Blake is a really nice guy.

“Welcome to the Academy track and cross-country team tryouts,” Coach Zakinthos says. “Some of you are familiar with the process, but for new students I will explain.”

It may be my imagination, but I think he is talking only to me. Everyone else seems bored by his little welcome speech.

We’re sitting on the soccer field at the center of a big stone stadium that’s on the far side of the campus from Damian’s house. It looks like a mini version of the Coliseum in Rome, complete with rows and rows of stone benches. We’ve already done group stretching and some stuff to get our blood flowing, like jumping jacks and push-ups—while Coach Z paces back and forth. His white and blue track pants whoosh with every step.

The apparel aside, he looks like he’s never seen the athletic side of a sporting event. I guess being part-god is no guarantee of physical perfection. Approaching ancient, over fifty at least, he has a beer gut to rival diehard football fans. A light jog looks like a stretch, let alone actually making it on a run.

Maybe he coaches discus.

“Everyone will select up to five events and will compete in those events for a position on the team. The top three finishers in each will automatically earn a slot, but the final roster rests at the coaches’ discretion. In distance running, there’s just one race. Six boys and six girls qualify. Any questions so far?”

He looks right at me. There are at least sixty kids sitting on the field, but his question is only for me. I throw a sideways glance at Griffin, sitting near the back of the group with Adara between his legs and surrounded by the rest of the Ares clique. His piercing blue eyes are trained on me.