“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 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.”