Oh. My. Gods.
Page 67
“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 five 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.”
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 five 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.”
