“Whatever,” Gillian says, reaching for the flag again.
Tansy gasps. “I see it, too.”
Gillian and Muriel stare at her like she’s betrayed them.
She points at the flag. “Look.”
They both turn and squint. Gillian’s mouth drops. Muriel huffs and stomps away. “Let’s go find our flags.” She ducks under a pine branch. “I am not losing to Tressa Boyd.”
Gillian hurries after her. As Xander passes me, he says, “Nice catch, Castro.”
I just keep blinking, not quite believing what I just did. When I looked at the flag, I saw the white mask or whatever. When I was thinking about something else, though, only catching sight in my peripheral vision, I could see the true color.
“That was amazing,” Tansy says, her voice laced with a sense of awe. “You didn’t even have to concentrate or anything.”
No, I didn’t. In fact, concentrating made it worse.
Stella’s exercise the other night proved that my powers come from my mind. But how am I supposed to control them if focusing doesn’t help?
“We’d better hurry up,” Tansy says. “I bet Gillian tries to grab the wrong flag again. If you’re not there to stop her, we’ll lose for sure.”
I let Tansy lead me up the path, but my mind is still thinking about my powers. And how I only have less than two weeks to figure out how to control them when trying to control them sends them out of control.
At this point, I really shouldn’t be surprised by being tossed into such a vicious circle. Try to control my powers, and they go berserk. Train more, control less. Stay on at the Academy to learn how to use my powers, but be forced to pass a powers test first. Lately, my whole life is one big exercise in contradiction.
“Congratulations, Phoebe,” Stella says when camp breaks up for the day. “Xander says you found two of your team’s flags, and saved them from choosing three wrong ones.”
I shrug. It’s not like I actually did something to succeed. “No big.”
“It is a big,” she insists. “Most neos are lucky to find one. They almost never identify enemy flags. You’ve earned your second merit badge. ”
She hands me another round patch. This one has a red outer ring, a black background, and the center picture looks like a magician’s wand with little sparks coming out the end. I guess it has something to do with masking appearances or making something invisible. Making the colored flags look white.
Big whoop.
I glance around to make sure everyone else is gone. I don’t want to get caught confessing to the evil stepsister.
“But what good does it do me?” I ask when I’m sure we’re alone. “If I try to use my powers, they go wacky. It’s only when I’m not thinking about it that they come out right.”
“Hmm.” Stella taps a French-manicured finger on her lips. “There has to be a way to reverse that. Or at least harness it.”
I can see the gears turning, her mind working to figure out the solution.
“Maybe you’re overthinking, overanalyzing,” she suggests. “There’s an exercise designed to—”
“Forget it,” I say, walking away. I’m so not up for Stella’s full attention right now. After six hours of indirect powers usage in the company of ten-year-olds—except, as I found out, Tansy . . . she’s twelve—my mind is fried. “I can’t think about this anymore right now.”
“We can try that exercise tonight,” she calls out.
Following the path around the quad, I pass the girls’ dorm. I’m thankful I don’t have to live there. Sharing my bathroom with Stella is bad enough. I can’t imagine sharing with an entire floor full of girls. Like Adara. I feel sorry for Nicole—she is so not the slumber-party type, but she’s on the same floor as the cheer queen and three of her cheer minions.
As Nicole puts it, she’s trapped in cheerland. This is her fourth summer in the dorms. Maybe she’s built up a defense against Aphrodite’s descendants.
Or, knowing Nicole, maybe she’s placed some kind of curse on her door so they can’t get into her room.
I’ll have to ask her.
Detouring from the path, I decide to see if she’s home. Maybe she can shed some light on the anonymous e-mail.
Her room is at the end of the first floor, with a great view out over the quad. Even if I didn’t know which one was hers, I’d be able to guess—it’s the only one with a sign that says KNOCK AT YOUR OWN PERIL just below a skull and crossbones. Braving the warning—but making sure to knock on the door itself, and not the sign—I rap my knuckles on the smooth wood surface.
No response. If she were here, I’d at least get a threatening “Who is it?”
I’m not ready to go home and I don’t want to be alone. Classes should be out for the day. Maybe Troy is in his room.
I head back out and toward the boys’ dorm and climb the front steps and the two flights of stairs to his third-floor room. My quads cry out a little at the climb, reminding me that recovery time is a good thing. When I reach the room with a giant foam guitar on the door, I knock. Three seconds later, Troy pulls it open.
“Phoebe,” he says with huge smile. “What are you doing here?”
“Camp just ended,” I say. “I was heading home and thought I’d stop by.”
“Get your butt in here, Castro,” Nicole barks.
Troy swings the door wide so I can see Nic lounging on the bean-bag in the corner. She’s just sliding a big leather book into her messenger bag.
She waves me in. “We’ve been waiting for you to show up.”
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I don’t know what Nic’s doing here,” he teases. When she casts a scowl his way, he grabs the guitar off his bed and sets in on the stand next to his desk. “I was just about to play for some stress relief. My brain was not made for organic chemistry.”
“I don’t want to interrupt.” I do, actually, but it seems way rude to say that. Even if I’m desperate for some reprieve from my own troubles.
“No worries.” He drops into his dorm-issue desk chair and motions me to the bed. “You’re stress relief, too.”
“Thanks,” I say, sinking onto his black-and-white-checkered comforter. “I don’t feel much like stress relief today.”
“Hard day at camp?” Nicole asks, pulling a bag of butterscotch candies out of her bag. She thrusts the bag in my direction.
Troy growls a little and frowns at the candy.
I lean over and take one. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” I twist open the cellophane wrapper. “It’s more than camp, I guess.”
Popping the butterscotch between my lips, I let the smoothly sweet taste melt over my tongue.
“Like what?” Nic asks.
Oh, everything. It’s that I can only control my powers when I’m not trying to. It’s that I’m afraid my boyfriend is getting back with his ex—or that I’m having an overreaction of jealousy. It’s that I’m stuck at home with Stella, with her taking me on as her pet project. It’s that I’m suddenly doubting what I learned about my dad’s death, my boyfriend’s loyalty, and my own sanity. It’s a million things and nothing.
Not that I say any of that. Don’t need to expose my friends to the insane ramblings of my brain. They might never recover.
“Like this.” I lift one hip and pull two pieces of paper from my back pocket.
Nicole snatches them from my hand.
After unfolding them, she says, “They’re blank.”
“I know.” I slide the butterscotch against my cheek so I can talk. “They’re not supposed to be blank. They’re supposed to be e-mail printouts.” I slip the butterscotch back onto my tongue and mutter, “Thtupid, curthed e-mails.”
“They wouldn’t print?” Troy asks.
I shake my head. When I received the second e-mail last night, almost identical to the first, I wanted a printout so I could I analyze them. Maybe find a clue to who sent them.
Forty-seven attempts later, all I had was blank paper.
“Huh.?
?? Troy’s brows scrunch together. “Who were they from?”
“The same person who sent the note,” Nicole suggests.
“Probably.” Unable to resist, I crunch the butterscotch. Someday my teeth will be dust. “The sender’s address was blocked.”
“Blocked?” Troy’s eyes get all wide. “This was to your Academy e-mail?” When I nod, he shakes his head. “The Academy e-mail system doesn’t allow blocked senders.”
I shrug. As if I can change what happened.
“Show me.” He leaps up from his desk chair and waves me over. “Log on to your e-mail.”
With a heavy sigh, I push off the bed. It’s not that I don’t want to find out who sent the message, and how they managed to block the sender and keep it from printing. I am just running low on motivation.
When I’m slow to move, Troy takes my shoulders, urges me into the chair, and shoves me closer to the desk. Grabbing the mouse, I click the Academy e-mail logo and enter my user name and password.
“See.” I point at the blocked messages, still at the top of my inbox.
Troy leans over my shoulder, squinting at the screen. “I can’t believe it. Academy e-mail is impenetrable. No one can bypass the security system without major repercussions.”
“What about last year,” I ask, “when Griffin messed with my e-mail? Every time I deleted his message a new one popped up.”
“That’s different.” Troy rubs a hand back and forth over his short hair. “Anyone can create a simple hack on their own computer to automatically resend a message. But this messes with the Academy server. It’s impossible.”
“Maybe,” I say, thinking, Clearly not. “But that doesn’t change the fact that—”
“Let’s take this to Urian,” Nic says. “He’ll figure it out.”
“She’s right. The kid’s a genius.” Troy jerks the desk chair back, with me in it. “Let’s go.”
He hurries out into the hall. Nicole shrugs, like we both know he’s overreacting, but follows him through the door. When I get into the hall, I see Troy knocking on a door three rooms down. When there’s no answer, he rolls his eyes and knocks again, this time with a knock-knock . . . knock . . . knock-knock-knock pattern.
“Password?” a muffled voice says through the door.
“Chimera.”
No answer.
“Shoot,” Troy whispers. “That was yesterday’s password.” To the door, he says, “Scylla’s strait.”
Nicole rolls her eyes.
The door swings open silently.
“Don’t,” Troy whispers through clenched teeth, “laugh.”
We walk into a room straight out of Star Wars. Complete with crossed lightsabers over the desk, black curtains blocking out the window, and a life-size Han Solo cutout in the corner.
A giggle bubbles its way to the surface. Troy cuts me a harsh look and I stifle my humor. But seriously, a life-size Han Solo?
“State your purpose?”
Turning toward the voice, I see a short, dark-haired boy pushing the door closed. I can’t tell for sure—like I said, the window is blacked out and the only light in the room is coming from the glow of a computer monitor—but I don’t think I know him.
“Academy e-mail,” Troy says.
“Familiar,” the dark-haired boy says, leaving his post at the door and sliding into the chair in front of his computer. “Situation?”
“Blocked sender.” Troy moves farther into the room and sits on the unmade bed, on the edge nearest the desk.
“Impossible.” Dark-haired boy clicks rapidly on his keyboard.
“Not impossible,” Troy says, leaning forward so he can see the monitor. “I’ve seen it.”
Nicole leans close to my ear and whispers, “Urian’s a little psycho, but he knows computers better than anyone.”
Dark-haired boy stops typing. “Additional inconsistencies?”
“The message won’t print.”
Dark-haired boy grunts and starts typing faster than ever. Images flash across the monitor at warp speed.
I feel like I’ve entered nerd-ville.
I stick to my spot just inside the door. From what I can see in the flickering light, the rest of the room looks like a hurricane, tornado, and tsunami took turns messing with the contents. I’m suddenly very glad I had to wear pants and closed-toe shoes for camp today. Who knows what’s living in those piles.
“Access codes?” dark-haired boy finally asks.
“Phoebe,” Troy says, “tell Urian your user name and password.”
“No way,” I say. I don’t know this guy. I’ve read about those identity thieves who hijack your e-mail and use it to send spam about discount prescription drugs and pirated computer programs.
“Urian’s all right,” Nicole says.
I stand my ground. “I don’t know him.”
“Phoebe, this is Urian Nacus.” She nods at the dark-haired boy. “Urian, Phoebe Castro.”
Urian spins in his chair faster than an Olympic sprinter. “Castro?” he asks, brows raised. “The aponikos?”
“The what?” I asked, thinking I might need to get offended.
“Descendant of Nike,” Troy says quickly, as if he can sense I’m upset.
Urian leaps to his feet and bows politely. “A pleasure.” Flashing me a smarmy smile, he takes my hand—which I didn’t offer—and kisses my knuckles.
“Uh, thanks,” I say, retrieving my fingers.
I glare at Troy over Urian’s head. What has he gotten me into?
“Please,” Urian says, waving at the flickering computer screen. “Key in your user name and password. Your access codes shall remain your own.”
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 tryi
ng 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.”