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 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 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.