The only good thing about this whole catastrophe so far is Damian says the track coach is world class and so is the team. And tryouts are tomorrow after school. At least I’ll get a good year of training in to prep me for the USC team.
Barely dragging up the energy to change out of my traveling clothes, I pull on a clean T-shirt and a pair of smiley face boxers and collapse onto my bed. At least the bed is comfy—all white and just soft enough. Still, I think I’m going to dream about green sea slugs and shimmering stepsisters tonight.
When my alarm clock goes off at six I’m tempted to fling it against the wall. I’m suffering serious jet lag in the form of whole-body muscle weakness and a headache that makes brain freeze feel like a pinprick. Tugging the white fluffy comforter up over my head to muffle the deafening alarm, I consider my two options.
Either I stay in bed, shut out the outside world, and hope that by the time seven-thirty rolls around—when I have to meet Damian— all my pain has faded away.
Or . . . I can toss off the covers, pull on my sneakers, and go for a good long run that might not erase the jet lag, but will at least replace this sluggish feeling with familiar physical exhaustion.
To snooze or not to snooze?
From beneath the covers I hear my room door burst open and smack against the wall.
“Turn that awful thing off!” Stella shouts.
Flopping a corner of the comforter back, I force one eye open and squint at her. I don’t say anything at first—partly because I’m surprised that she could hear my alarm all the way down in the slimy dungeon I’ve pictured her sleeping in and partly because I’m trying not to laugh. She looks like a pint of mint chocolate chip exploded on her face.
“Did you fall asleep in a bowl of pistachio pudding?”
She scowls and jabs her finger at the still-blaring clock.
Nothing happens.
“Aargh!”
I smile. Maybe I can get Stella grounded for the entire year—at least then I’d be safe.
If her face weren’t covered in green I know she would be turning red.
When she stomps in my direction, I fling my arm out and smack the top of the clock. I don’t want her getting any of the green goop on my fluffy white comforter. “Forget it,” I say, sitting up and swinging my legs out of bed. “I’m getting up anyway.”
For a moment she looks like she wants to continue her attack, but then turns and stomps back to her room.
My brain is waking up—no turning back now.
I grab a pair of track pants, a T-shirt, and a pair of white socks out of the dresser, pull them on in a matter of seconds, splash some water on my face in the bathroom, lace up my sneakers, and am heading out the door when the snoozing alarm clock starts blaring again. Smiling at the thought of Stella having to hunt it out from under my bed, I start down the path to the dock where we arrived last night. Where there’s water there must be a beach.
The dock is in a little lagoon, nicely protected from the open sea, with rocky cliffs on one side and a narrow strip of sand on the other. Even though I’m not going to push my worn-out body too hard, I sit on the dock and do ten minutes of stretches. Pulling a hamstring is the last thing I need.
The sun is just starting to rise and casts a pale pink over everything. I take deep, filling breaths as I reach for my toes, taking in the salty clean smell of the sea. A different smell from the California beaches I’m used to. Purer, maybe.
I twist my upper body to the one side, going for that extra oblique stretch, and notice a cluster of little white buildings on top of the cliffs. Bathed in the early morning twilight, it looks just as pink as the rest of the island. That must be the village. It seems so strange that there are people that live up there in that little village, a world away from L.A., with whole lives that go on whether I’m here to see them or not. I guess that’s true of everywhere—the cars you pass on the freeway, the towns you fly over at thirty thousand feet, and those little white buildings. Suddenly, L.A. feels even farther away.
Surrounded by pink and silence, except for gently lapping waves, I embrace the inner and outer peace. Leaving the dock for the thin strip of sand, I kick into a moderate run. If my entire year here were just like this moment then things might not be so bad. But I know that this feeling only exists when I run. It’s why I run. That, and to feel closer to Dad.
As the sand squishes beneath my Nikes, I lose myself in the memory of our early-morning training runs. When Dad was training in the off-season we would run almost every morning. Almost always on Santa Monica beach. We would park near the pier, run the three miles down to Marina del Rey, and then race back to the pier for ice cream. If I beat him, I got a double scoop.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until I taste my tears. Not slowing my pace, I wipe at my eyes. Why was I even thinking about Dad? Usually I don’t think about anything when I run. I’m too focused on the sensation of running.
Clearing my mind, I notice the burning in my quads. How long have I been running? The world around me is no longer bathed in pink. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms my suspicion. The dock is nowhere in sight and the sun has cleared the horizon.
I need to get back.
Dropping to a walk, I’m about to turn around and head back when I notice another person running on the beach. He’s less than two hundred yards away from me, close enough for me to appreciate the loose, easy movement of his gait. I can tell his body is made for running, and somehow I know that his soul lives for it. I guess I recognize a kindred spirit.
Before I know it—because I’m mesmerized by watching him run—he’s jogging to a stop right in front of me. I practically melt into a puddle of girl drool.
He looks around my age and he is beyond beautiful. It isn’t just his hypnotic blue eyes or his perfect, sloped nose, or his sculpted high cheekbones. His lips are full and soft and yummily pink. The kind that just make you want to grab him by the hair with both hands—even though I can’t see his hair under the blue bandanna— and make out until you can’t think anymore.
“Hi,” he says, his voice just low enough and smooth enough to send shivers down my spine.
“Hi,” I say back.
Brilliant. Normally, speaking is not a problem for me, but I’m hypnotized.
His mouth lifts up at one side, like he finds it funny that I’m staring and incapable of speech. “Where did you run from?”
“Um,” I say, continuing my display of brilliance. A large portion of my brain is distracted by the faint accent that makes his question sound like a melody. I manage to gesture vaguely over my shoulder. “The dock.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s nearly eight kilometers.”
“What?” That’s like five miles. I’ve been running for over half an hour. Even if I keep my same pace the whole way back I won’t have time to shower before meeting Damian. And the way my thighs feel, I’m definitely going back at a slower rate.
Great, I’m going to show up for my first day of school sticky and smelling like sweat.
“There’s a shortcut,” Mr. Beautiful offers. Pointing to the rocks at the edge of the beach, he explains, “That path will get you home in half the time.”
I squint at the rocks, trying to find a path. All I see are big, beige rocks and short, shrubby bushes that look like they might like to scrape the crap out of my legs.
“It’s there,” he says with a laugh. “It starts out steep, but you’ll be on the flat after the first half kilometer.”
Finally spying the narrow path, I turn back and say, “Thank—”
But he’s already gone, running back the way he came.
I didn’t even get to ask his name.
“Thanks!” I shout after him.
Without turning or slowing he waves over his shoulder. I allow myself a few seconds of appreciation—watching him from behind is even more mesmerizing. Then, shaking myself out of that detour into fantasy, I turn and head up the path.
I’m back at the house in u
nder twenty minutes, with just enough time to shower and dry my hair before I have to meet Damian.
Following Damian up the broad front steps of the Academy, I feel my jaw drop at the gorgeous building that is my new school. Clearly very old—ancient even—the whole stone front is lined with columns that stretch all the way to the roof. Above the columns is a triangle filled with carvings of men and women doing all different things—standing, sitting, lying down while eating grapes. It looks like a drawing I saw once of what the Parthenon might have looked like when it was new. Nothing like the single-story, boring to the point of hospital decor building that houses PacificPark.
“This building dates to the relocation of the Academy in the sixth century,” Damian explains. He pushes open the massive golden front door and gestures for me to go in. “The only changes since that time have been technological modernizations. We have one of the most advanced computer labs in the world.”
“Good to know some things on this island have reached the twenty-first century,” I say, thinking back to the ancient computer at his house.
Then I step into the expansive front hall and all thought flees.
In front of me, directly across the stone tiled floor from the main door, is the biggest trophy case I have ever seen. And it is jam-packed with shining gold trophies.
“Wow,” I whisper, unable to hide my awe.
“The Academy has an illustrious history,” he says, walking up behind me when I zombie-walk to the glass case, spellbound by all the glitter.
“Are all these for sports?” I ask. Front and center is a big gold trophy that makes the Stanley Cup look like a wineglass. That must be for some major competition.
“Hardly,” Damain says with a half-laugh. “The sports trophies are nearer to the end of the cabinet.”
I follow the direction of his gesture with my eyes. I have to squint to see the section he’s pointing to because it’s halfway down the never-ending hall.
The hall is like twenty feet wide and just as tall, all shiny-smooth stone. Marble, probably. Clearly it runs the entire length of the building—all several hundred feet. Now I notice that there are windows in the wall behind the columns, letting in bright stripes of morning sunlight across the marble floor and reflecting off the glass-fronted cases. The whole space glows with the same soft amber color as the marble.
Every last inch of the interior wall is a trophy display.
“Then what—”
“Many of these are for academic competitions,” he explains, answering my question before I finish. “But we also hold many historical artifacts on display. Artifacts too valuable to display in a museum. Our security is impenetrable.”
“Artifacts?”
“This,” he says, pointing to a no-larger-than-life-size apple that looks like it’s been dipped in gold, “is the Apple of Discord, the cause of the Trojan War.”
I lean in for a closer look. Other than being gold, it doesn’t look any different than a regular apple. Then the letters of a Greek word carved on its side start to glow, like it knows someone’s watching.
“Be careful.” Damian pulls me back. “The Apple is tremendously powerful and dangerous. Do not get too close.”
“Oh,” I say casually, trying not to look impressed. “What else do you have?”
“There is one display I think you will especially enjoy.” He strides off down the hall toward the sports section. When he stops in front of an almost empty case I nearly run into him.
All that’s in the case is a little wreath of dried-up twigs. Not very impressive. Damian must think I’m easily amused.
Then I read the plaque.
Laurel presented to the first Olympic champion, Nikomedes, 919 BC.
Oh. My. God.
I blink up at Damian, disbelieving.
He smiles, a broad, self-satisfied smile that tells me he knows he impressed me and he isn’t going to let me forget it. I don’t care.
Reaching up, I finger the glass in front of the wreath, marveling at the thought that it had once crowned the very first Olympic champion ever. Kinda makes our medals seem like Happy Meal prizes.
“Come, Phoebe,” Damian says, “we must discuss your schedule.”
“B-but—”
He gently presses a hand to my back and leads me away. “There will be plenty of time for worshipping the athletic artifacts,” he says. “You will be here for one year, at least.”
Yes, yes, one year.
“Next time,”—he stops in front of a door and, unlocking it, ushers me inside—“I will show you the actual Sandals of Pheidippides.”
It’s a good thing Damian points me to the chair in front of his desk because I am on the verge of expiring from excitement. Suddenly, hurrying back to Athens to see the subway display—on my way back to civilization or not—seems like a really unnecessary expedition.
Who needs a replica when you can see the real deal?
Chapter 3
“YOU’RE THE NOTHOS.”
Turning around in my desk, I stare at the girl behind me.
“The what?” I ask.
“Nothos,” she says again. “The normal one.”
“Normal?” I laugh. “Depends on your definition.”
“As in not a descendant.”
“Oh, then I guess so.” It’s true, after all.
She sticks out her hand. “I’m Nicole.”
“Phoebe,” I say, smiling as I shake her hand.
Nicole is the first person I’ve met at the Academy. Okay, so technically I’m only in my first class—World Literature of the Twentieth Century—and it hasn’t even started yet, but still, a first is a first.
“Your stepsister is an evil harpy.” Her voice is stone cold and I must look as frightened as I feel because she hurries to add, “In a purely metaphysical way.”
“Oh.” Whew. Not that I would be the tiniest bit surprised if that were true, given everything I’ve learned in the last eighteen hours. And beautiful but vicious pretty much describes Stella perfectly. “Tell me about it.”
“Have you got a year?” she asks and I like her immediately.
Clearly, Stella is not high on her list of favorite people, either.
I am still laughing when the teacher, Ms. Tyrovolas—I can already see myself in detention for repeated mispronunciation, so I should probably just go with Ms. T—walks in. High school teachers at PacificPark do not look like this: almost six feet tall, light brown hair curled and pinned up all around her head like a crown, and wearing something that looks like a cross between a sheet and an evening gown.
Staring is horribly rude, but I can’t help it. I’ve never seen anyone who looked like that—not even in Los Angeles, where weirdos come out to play.
Without looking at me, Ms. Tyrovolas says, “I see you are unfamiliar with the costume of ancient Greece, Miss Castro.”
I blink, not really knowing how to respond. She did catch me staring, after all, even if she had her back to me at the time.
The entire class turns to stare at me.
Trying to act cool, I swipe a hand over my head to make sure I haven’t sprouted horns or anything. Haven’t they ever had a new student in class before?
“Um, not really, Ms. Tra— um, Tivo— Tul—”
Nicole whispers, “Tyrovolas.”
“Turvolis,” I say, my voice catching. Why didn’t I just go with Ms. T?
Ms. T turns around and everyone is instantly focused on their desks.
I try to smile, but I think it comes across more as a grimace.
“The tradition has been passed down since the founding of the Academy,” she explains, “and I choose not to disregard our history.”
At least I don’t have to dress that way. My personal uniform of jeans and a T-shirt suits me just fine. On the rare occasion of a more formal event, Mom usually has to bribe me into dressy pants. A dress would cost her World Cup tickets.
Don’t think she won’t have to pay to get me into a bridesmaid’s dress for the w
edding.
“Tyrant is steadfast about tradition,” Nicole whispers.
Which maybe explains why Ms. T is giving her a dirty look. With her short, bleached blonde hair—in an I’m-a-little-bit-punk and not at all I’m-a-cheerleader kind of way—half an arm of hot pink and white jelly bracelets, and silver glitter eyeshadow, Nicole is far from traditional.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I say back. “So, are the teachers here . . . I mean, is Ms. T a—”
“Descendant?” Nicole asks. “Oh yeah. She’s direct lineage from Athena. We’re talking serious bookworm.”