Oh. My. Gods. omg-1 Page 5

  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 bandannaand 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 under 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 Pacific Park.

  “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 jampacked 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 Three

  “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 Pacific Park 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 wedding.

  “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.”

  “I thought Athena was the goddess of war.”

  “You don’t think Tyrovolas could kick some ass?” Nicole laughs.

  “I’m just teasing. War is only part of Athena’s domain. She’s also the goddess of wisdom, which makes her a big busybody with everything that goes on at the Academy.”

  Navigating this school is going to be a lot tougher than I ever imagined. I thought at least the teachers would be normal, but no luck there.

  I need a new student handbook.

  And the classwork? Let’s just say I’ll be struggling to maintain the B average I need to get into USC. Ms. T’s syllabus looks like a work of world literature itself and we’ll be reading more books inone year than I’ve read in my entire life. So much for Cesca’s fantasy of me lounging on the beach-I’ll be spending all my free time reading Kafka and Orwell and writing a twenty-five-page term paper.

  She even teaches for the whole period-on the first day!-diving into the influences of Freud and Einstein on modern thought and the ramifications on everything from literature to war. By the time she dismisses us-the Academy doesn’t have bells at the end of class-my brain is fried.

  Only three more classes until lunch.

  We walk out into the hall and there are students everywhere.

  Unlike the hall inside the front entrance, the rest of the building looks pretty much like a school. The halls and floors are typical offwhite and lined with lockers. Classrooms branch off on both sides, with big windows that look out over either the hills surrounding the school or the inner courtyard. All of the upper-grade classes meet on the second floor, while the lower grades take up the first. I guess that’s so the younger kids can have recess out in the courtyard.

  “Who do you have next?” Nicole asks.

  I glance at the schedule Damian made for me. “Algebra II with Mr. C-”

  “Cornball,” she says and snatches the schedule out of my hand.

  “Me, too.”

  “-Cornelius,” I finish.

  “Look.” She waves a finger at the schedule and the bottom half glows for a second. “Our afternoon schedule is the same.”

  Leaning in, I read the last three classes. Physics II, Art History, and Philosophy. “I’m supposed to be in Computer Applications and Biology,” I argue. “I hate Art and I never had Physics I.”

  “No worries,” Nicole says. “I’ll get you through. Science is my thing and Mrs. Otis gives all As for art appreciation.” She frowns at the schedule. “We’ll just have to suffer through Dorcas togetherno one gets out of here without Philosophy.”

  She shrugs and hands me back the schedule, as if she can’t do anything more about it. Should I be upset? Should I go have Damian change my schedule back?

  Or should I be thankful that someone seems happy to have me here and that maybe, just maybe, I’ve actually made a friend?

  Folding the schedule, I stuff it in my pocket.

  “Wow,” I say. “How’d you do that?”

  Nicole looks at me like I’d said the dumbest thing on the planet.

  “You really are neo, aren’t you?”

  “If that means out of my league, then yes.”

  “Don’t sweat it, you’ve got me.” Nicole takes my hand and pulls me over to a bare section of wall, out of the crowd’s path. “I didn’t start at the Academy until Level 9. It’s pretty rough if you don’t have help, and most kids here aren’t into going out of their way to help a nothos -or, as some will call you, a kako. There are some basic rules you need to know.”

  This morning, Damian had seemed single-mindedly focused on gushing about the school’s impressive history, leaving me to figure out the social stuff on my own. The only help he had offered me was ha
ving Stella as a guide. Not that I don’t think she knows every last in and out, but spending all day trailing after her is not my idea of a good time. I had respectfully turned him down.

  If Nicole had to go through this just a few years ago, then sheis a lot more appealing as a mentor. Even if she is part descendant herself.

  “What does kako mean, anyway?” I ask, remembering how Stella had called me that when we met. “It’s not good, is it?”

  Nicole shrugs. “It’s a tactless way of saying you’re not a descendant. Nothos is more politically correct.”

  I have a feeling that when she says “tactless” she really means “insulting.”

  “First of all,” she says, moving on, “cliques at the Academy are a little different. There’s almost no way to break in-not that you should want to-because they’re pretty much determined by your association.”

  Association? I don’t understand what she means and decide not to say anything, hoping I’ll figure it out, but she must sense how clueless I am.

  “Your family.” She gives me a pointed look. “Your god.”

  Still not clear, I look around.

  The second floor hall is full of students, and from the outside they all look fully normal. I see all the standard cliques. Populars here and nerds there. Jocks in a huddle and cheerleaders all around them. Freaks glaring at everyone from the corner and geeks trying to avoid getting knocked down. Stoners, burnouts, prudes, and skanks. Nothing unusual.

  “Look at that group.” Nicole points across the hall.

  Clustered around a set of lockers, a group of girls with perfect hair, heavy makeup, and suggestive clothing cling to boys with metrosexual taste in fashion and gel-spiked hair. Miniskirts andtight T-shirts abound. Not so different from the populars at Pacific Park.

  “Steer clear of them,” Nicole warns. “The Zeus set. Power, privilege, and partying. They make Paris Hilton look like a Vestal Virgin.”