I hang my head. “Sorry.”
Suddenly, the enormity of what I’ve just learned about myself hits me. I’m part god. I have supernatural powers. Powers I have no idea how to control.
“This is the other reason, besides your being my baby girl . . .” Mom gives me a watery smile. “. . . that I think you need to stay on at the Academy for an additional year.”
She’s right. Who knows what kind of damage I can do? I could probably destroy this entire island without even—
No, I probably shouldn’t even think that.
“Hey girls,” I say as I walk out of Damian’s office in a daze.
They’re standing in front of the trophy case with the golden apple, and when I speak they jump like they got caught watching the neighbor boy undress. I know this, because that’s just how we looked when we got caught spying on jerky Justin in eighth grade.
“Hi, Phoebes.” Cesca recovers first. “Have a good chat with the stepdad?”
Nola looks guiltily over her shoulder at the apple. I guess Damian is right: that apple is dangerous.
“Um, actually,” I say, knowing the time has come to tell them the truth about the island, “I have some pretty heavy stuff to tell you guys.” Nola still hasn’t looked away from the trophy case, so I suggest, “Why don’t we go out into the courtyard?”
Cesca and I each grab Nola by a shoulder and drag her around the corner and out through the double doors that open onto the courtyard. There is a line of stone benches circling the perimeter, so we head for one of those.
Nola elects to sit on the ground, pretzel-style, and turns her face up to absorb the sun.
Cesca checks the bench for dust. When it passes inspection, she sits and carefully crosses her legs.
I’m too wound up to sit. Instead, I start pacing. “I have something to tell you.”
“Sounds serious,” Nola says.
“Well . . .” I stalk three steps before spinning around. “It is.”
Nola and Cesca look at each other. Knowing from years of experience that I mean it, they settle in for whatever I have to say.
“Cesca,” I begin. “I don’t know if you told Nola about my IM slip-up—”
“I didn’t.” She looks offended that I would even ask.
“But,” I continue, indicating she shouldn’t interrupt, “I want to explain to both of you the secret of Serfopoula.”
“Aha!” Nola jumps up and points at me. “I knew there was something fishy about this island.”
“Nola, please,” I say.
Cesca smacks her on the leg. “Sit down and let her finish.”
Nola sinks reluctantly back to the ground, but I can tell she’s still gloating. And this time she’s right.
“It’s not a secret military testing ground or a witness protection hideout for the Kennedy conspirators.”
Her lower lip pouts out and I can tell she’s vastly disappointed.
“It is,” I say, drawing it out with a sense of the dramatic, “more mythology than conspiracy.” At their confused looks I continue. “Serfopoula is protected because the Academy is a private school for the descendants of Greek gods.”
“For the what?” Nola asks.
Cesca uncrosses her legs and leans forward. “Get out.”
“Really,” I say. “Everyone at the school is descended from a Greek god. Even my stepdad.”
I can’t quite bring myself to say it out loud—to say that I’m a descendant, too. It’s not that I’m afraid of how they’ll react—they’re my best friends and they love me—but somehow, saying it makes it undeniable. My freak status in the normal world will be irrevocable.
“Wow,” Cesca says, her voice full of awe.
Nola is silent. She looks like she’s in one of those meditative trances she goes into when she’s deep in yoga. That’s her way of dealing with major shocks.
“That is . . .” Cesca shakes her head. “. . . flipping awesome. So, like, these kids are related to Zeus and Apollo and Aphrodite and all of them?”
“Yup.”
“I don’t believe it,” Nola finally says.
“Do they have powers and stuff?” Cesca asks.
“More than you want to know about,” I say, speaking from experience.
“I don’t believe it,” Nola says again.
“Like what?” Cesca asks. “What can they do?”
“Whatever they want, as far as I can tell.”
“I don’t believe it!”
We both stare at Nola, shocked by her vehement outburst. She’s usually so calm and balanced, it’s a major shock when she gets upset.
“Nola, it’s true,” I say.
“That explains it,” Cesca says.
“Explains what?” I ask.
“That glow around you at the end of the race.”
I freeze.
“Come on, Nola,” Cesca says as she pokes the unmoving Nola in the ribs. “You saw that glow. What else could it have been?”
“No,” Nola insists. “I don’t believe it. Nothing you can do or say—”
Nola suddenly floats three feet off the ground before plopping back down on a giant cushion that wasn’t there a few seconds ago. I’m pretty sure I didn’t do that—wouldn’t know how to even if I wanted to. I look over my shoulder and see Troy standing in the doorway.
He winks.
I owe him one whopper of an apology.
Turning back to the girls, I say, “One second,” before running across the courtyard.
“She looked like she could use a little undeniable proof,” he says as I hurry over to him.
“Oh, Troy,” I say, hoping he’ll forgive me. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have accused you when I didn’t have any proof. I shouldn’t have jumped to accusations at all, no matter what happened—”
“Hey,” he interrupts. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.”
“It is,” I insist. “Especially since it wasn’t you . . . it was me.”
He smiles like I’m totally dense. “Well, yeah. I could have told you that weeks ago.”
“You could have—” I shake my head. “How did you know?”
“A guy doesn’t come from a two-thousand-year line of doctors without being able to tell a little about a person’s physiology.”
“Then why didn’t you . . .?”
He raises his hands in surrender. “I didn’t want to be the messenger. You scare me.” When I act appalled, he adds, “I figured you’d find out in your own time. Besides, I don’t want to be on Petrolas’s bad side. I’m the creative type—I’d never survive detention.”
“You,” I say, leaning forward and giving him a peck on the cheek, “are a rock star in coward’s clothing.”
“Was that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Of course,” I insist.
He waves good-bye and I head back over to my girls.
“Who’s the yumsicle?” Cesca asks.
“That’s Troy,” I say. “He’s just a friend.”
“I suppose,” she says, “with a boy like Griffin around, Troy can be just a friend. Too bad there aren’t boys like that at PacificPark.”
“If there were boys like that at PacificPark, Southern California would be in for a world of trouble,” I say with a laugh.
Nola is staring at the ground, muttering silently to herself. If I could read lips I’d probably hear a whole vocabulary I’ve never heard from Nola before.
When she finally manages to speak, all she says is, “Okay. I believe it.”
“I can’t believe you went this long without telling us,” Cesca says.
And I feel horrible about that. “Like I said, it wasn’t my secret to tell. If Mom and Damian hadn’t given me the go-ahead I wouldn’t be telling you now. It kills me to keep secrets from you guys, but I swear this is the only one.” I bite my lip. “Only there’s one last part of it.”
They both look up at me eagerly.
Closing my eyes, I exhale fully. “I just found out . . . like fi
ve minutes ago . . . that well, I’m . . .” I suck in a quick breath—better to rip the bandage off in one quick pull—and blurt, “I’m part-god, too.”
Cesca’s mouth falls open. “Get out!”
“Omigod,” Nola gasps, her eyes bulging wide with shock.
For what feels like hours they stare at me. Great, I’m a freak show. How can I expect to go out into the real world again when even my best friends think I’m a total abnormality?
Finally, Cesca speaks. “Oh, honey,” she says, smiling. “We’ve always known you were a goddess. This just makes it legit.”
Have I mentioned how much I love my best friends? In a heartbeat, they’re both on their feet and we’re in a massive group hug, complete with tears of joy.
“But that’s the last secret, I promise,” I say when I recover the ability to speak. “You know absolutely everything else.”
I step back so I can wipe away my tears.
Cesca gets a weird look on her face as she turns to look at Nola. Nola looks just as strange. I recognize the looks. Guilt.
“Um, Phoebe,” Cesca begins.
I know something’s up because she sounds hesitant. Cesca is never hesitant.
“There’s something we’ve been meaning to tell you,” Nola says, having found her voice.
“What?” I’m getting scared, they are both acting strange.
Cesca clasps her hands together behind her back. “I know we’ve been planning on going to USC together since, like, forever.”
“But,” Nola says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, “sometimes plans change.”
“What are you guys talking about?”
“Well . . .” Cesca looks around me to Nola, then nods. “I’m not going to USC next year. Parsons accepted me early admission. If I want to go into couture fashion I can’t be in L.A.”
Parsons? That’s on the whole other side of the country. “You’re going to school in New York?”
She nods and looks apologetic.
I turn as Nola says, “And I’m going to Berkeley.” She reaches out and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “It has the best Environmental Sciences program in the country.”
I know they’re right—about studying fashion in New York and environmental science at Berkeley—but I feel like they’ve betrayed me. We’ve been planning this for years now, and all of a sudden they change their minds at the last minute. How is that fair?
But as I look at them—both looking totally guilty for going separate ways—I realize how selfish I’m being. How could I ask them to give up their futures just so we can go to school together?
“You know,” I say, putting my arms around them and pulling them back into a big hug, “I think this is great.”
They both look at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. But if I’ve learned anything from moving halfway around the world, it’s that a change of plans can be a good thing. Sometimes it can even be a great thing. Right now, I can’t imagine what my life would be like if Mom and I were still in L.A. No Greek gods. No Griffin. No Nicole and Troy. No learning that I’m part-goddess. All those things feel like a natural part of my life now. Who knows what the next set of changes might bring?
“We’re best friends, no matter how far apart we are,” I say. “Just because we have to go after life in different directions doesn’t mean we’re not still sisters on the inside.”
When Damian leaves to take Nola and Cesca back to Athens and their plane, Mom goes with him. I go running.
As I lace up my Nikes I stop and stare at that perfect little swish. For years it’s meant so much to me—a symbol of my running, my passion, and my connection to my dad. Now I know that all those things are part of me that can’t be contained by a scrap of colorful leather.
Quickly knotting my laces, I head out the front door and toward the beach.
As my adrenaline flows, my mind clears and it’s like every moment of my life leading to this moment makes perfect sense. Nike is in my soul. In my blood. And so is my dad. Maybe I feel so close to him when I run because that’s when he’s closest to me—that’s when my Nike genes kick into full gear, and that’s my dad.
I smile and shake my head. I’m a descendant of Nike!
Maybe Mom was right—about not telling me sooner about my heritage. I mean, if I’d been labeled as a Nike I’d have been tossed in with the Ares crowd in a flash. Nicole and Troy and I might never have become friends. They would have been off-limits to me. And the truce I have with Stella would have been completely fake. We might not be best friends, but at least I know how to read her bullcrap and that she is genuinely starting to like me—even if it’s against her will.
Reaching the rocky cliffs at the far end of the beach, I sink down into the powder-soft sand. Sure, Griffin and I could have still ended up together since we’d have been in the same clique, but nothing else about my life would be—
“I figured I’d find you here.”
I look up as Griffin sits down on the sand next to me.
“I was just thinking about you,” I say.
“I would hope so,” he says, smiling, “I’ve been trailing you since you hit the beach.”
“Couldn’t keep up, huh?”
He shrugs. “Thought you needed some time.”
He sits there, arms resting on his knees as he stares out over the water, looking at me with those breathtaking blue eyes. Though he doesn’t say anything, I know he knows.
“Who told you?” I ask.
“About your heritage?” He focuses on the water. “Travatas.”
Suddenly there’s a distance between us, and not the physical kind. Griffin is miles away on the inside and I’m not sure what that means. What if that means there’s some kind of Olympic law against our dating? Maybe Ares’s and Nike’s aren’t allowed to—
“There was a prophecy,” he says, interrupting my increasingly panicked thoughts.
“A prophecy?” This could be even worse. I remember that prophecy from Oedipus—what if Griffin is supposed to kill me, or, ew, what if we’re related or something.
“Before I was born, my mother visited the oracle and requested a reading.” There’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. My panic vanishes as I realize that he’s thinking about his mom.
“What did the oracle say?”
He smiles sadly and shakes his head. “She told my mother that her son would find his match in a daughter of victory.”
“Oh,” I say. Then, “Ohhh! Wow.”
Daughter of victory. That’s me.
Turning to look at me—a few stray curls falling across his forehead—he says, “Yeah, wow.”
I tuck one of the curls behind his ear. “Well, I am the only one who beat your tail on the racecourse.”
He throws back his head and laughs. “Oh Phoebe,” he says—I still get shivers when he says my name—and hugs me close to his side. “That’s the least of it. You just found out you’re Nike’s great-granddaughter. You can do—almost—whatever you want in the entire world.”
I close my eyes. It’s the almost that brings sudden tears to my eyes.
All I can think is why did Dad choose football over staying with us? He loved us, I know he did. I have enough memories of him to know that without a doubt. Was football worth more than that? More than us?
For six years I’ve thought he died in a freak accident, in some bizarre act of nature. That if he had known about it beforehand, he would have never played in that game. If he had only known, he would still be with us.
But now I know he did know. Maybe not that he would be smoted at that particular game, but eventually.
Everything I ever thought about my dad is wrong.
Like I never knew him at all.
Then again, when I’m running I can’t imagine giving that up for anything. I don’t think I would ever cheat, but maybe the temptation of greatness was more powerful than questionable ethics for Dad. Or maybe, like how mine tried to come out during the race, he hadn’t meant to use his po
wers.
“I didn’t mean to try to cheat,” I say, wanting Griffin to know I would never cheat on purpose. “I know if Coach hadn’t grounded everyone’s powers, mine would have come out, but that’s not me. That’s not how I—”