“Whenever I play the guitar I feel like it’s a colossal waste of time, but I can’t stop playing.” His voice is almost reverent. “I want to be a musician.”
“That’s great,” I say.
He snorts. “Try telling my parents that.”
“The Travatas clan takes their heritage seriously.” Nicole exerts enough energy to roll onto her side. “They believe all descendants of Asklepios should pursue the medical profession.”
“So because your great-great-something was into medicine they want you to be a doctor, too?” I ask.
“A neurosurgeon.” He laughs. “I couldn’t even stand to dissect an earthworm in Level 4. How could I cut open a human skull?”
Ew. I shudder, but keep my disgust to myself. This is about Troy and his passions.
“If you want to be a musician—if you can’t be anything else—then you’ll find a way.” I lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “True call
ings aren’t easy to hide from.”
He covers my hand with his own. “Thanks.”
“If you two are done with the Hallmark moment, I’d like to watch the fireworks in peace.”
I glance up at the empty, silent sky. “What fireworks?”
“Just wait.” Troy checks his watch. “In five, four, three, two, one—”
The sky above us explodes in a shimmering burst of color. Red, blue, and green embers flicker through the darkness, raining down around us. Another big sphere of golden sparkles bursts into the sky.
“I didn’t even hear the launch,” I remark.
“Honey, we don’t need to bother with messy explosives,” Nicole replies. “All it takes is a little focus and a snap of my fingers.”
She snaps her fingers and a little blue spark shoots through the air, landing on Troy’s Green Day T-shirt. He quickly pats at the spot where the ember hit—a spot that starts smoking and leaves a little hole above the G.
“Hey,” he exclaims. “Watch where you throw the fireworks, Nic.”
I laugh out loud at the thought of Troy going up in flames from a single spark. Nicole just shrugs and says, “Sorry. Haven’t honed my fireworks skills recently.”
“Well don’t test them on my clothing.”
I settle back into the blanket, feeling the warm sand crunch beneath the blanket, and watch the fireworks while listening to my two friends bickering. It’s almost like being home. If not for the whole supernatural-descendants-of-the-gods thing and being thousands of miles away from everything I’ve ever called home, this island could be bearable.
Almost cool, even.
A sudden outburst sounds down the beach. With lazy heaviness, I loll my head to the side. Griffin and a bunch of other tricksters— armed with a water balloon in each hand—are chasing after Adara and her cheerleader groupies. I recognize a couple of the long distance guys, Christopher and Costas. Christopher is super tall, blond, and actually very sweet—he volunteered to be my training partner at practice when no one else would. Costas, on the other hand, is like a shorter version of Griffin.
While I watch, the boys get the girls surrounded and hold the water balloons menacingly over their heads.
Did I say this island was almost cool? I meant juvenile.
I guess boys are the same everywhere—godly or not.
“Are you sure you want to get in the middle of that?” Nicole asks, drawing my attention away from the chase scene.
“Yeah,” I reply, reluctant. “I haven’t got a—”
“Aaack!” Adara’s scream pierces the air as Griffin and Costas trap her between them and pummel her with water balloons.
Now she’s cold and wet. I don’t envy her.
“—choice,” I finish.
“All right.” Nicole cocks her eyebrows. “But don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
“Consider me warned.”
Just then, Griffin—still shaking with laughter at his water balloon strike—looks our way. His eyes stop on me, intense and disapproving. He points at me. The sand next to me glows and a folded piece of paper appears.
Reaching across my chest, I pick up the paper and unfold the note.
Sunday. Noon. Be ready to work.
When I look back up he’s gone.
Mom and I stare at the glass display cases filled with shelf after shelf of bakery goodness. There are trays of biscuits, baklava, cakes, pies, and tortes. It seems like they’re all drizzled with honey and lit just right to make the reflection hypnotizing. On the wall behind the cases are shelves of baskets, overflowing with dozens of breads. Everything from fist-sized olive rolls to three-foot-long tsoureki, a braided festival bread Yia Yia Minta bakes every Greek Independence Day. I bite my lower lip to keep from drooling.
“I’ve never seen such a variety,” Mom says, leaning closer to examine the pies. “No wonder your grandmother is always baking—she could make a different recipe every day of the year and never repeat one.”
“Don’t tell Yia Yia Minta,” I say, “but these look better than hers.”
“I hope so.” A short, round, middle-aged woman wearing a white chef ’s coat emerges from the back room, dusting flour off her hands. “We have the Hestia Seal.”
“What is the Hestia Seal?” Mom asks.
“Ah, you must be the new nothos on the island.” The woman smiles, her fleshy cheeks pushing out into pink apples. “I am Lilika, a descendant of Hestia. My recipes come from the goddess of the hearth herself and are unmatched in all the world.”