Goddess Boot Camp(12)

And I might get smoted for it.

“If you think that’s what you need,” Mom says, though she still looks worried. “I don’t want you to spend the whole summer working. You need to have fun, too.”

“I will,” I promise. “I can focus on fun and the Pythian Games as soon as I pass the stupid test.”

“What test?” She looks at Damian. “What test?”

Jeez, didn’t Damian tell Mom anything about this? He can explain while I finish reading the flyer.





On the first day of camp we will meet in the Academy courtyard at 10 A.M. Camp will dismiss at 4 P.M. Lunch will be provided. Extra-camp tutorials will be scheduled at counselor discretion for campers needing additional or personalized help. Counselors will wait with campers needing to be picked up on the front steps.





Needing to be picked up? Some of the other campers must be pretty bad off if they can’t even go home without an escort. I must not be in as bad shape as I thought.

“The gods are concerned by Phoebe’s lack of control,” Damian says in his headmaster tone. “They have decided she must pass a test before she can continue her studies.”

“What kind of test?” Mom asks.

“I am not certain.” Damian clears his throat. “In my only prior experience with such a situation, the gods placed the student in a situation designed to push his restraint to the limit.”

“And what happens if she doesn’t pass this test?”

I look up when Mom asks this because I want to know the answer, too. Surely he won’t be quite as evasive with her.

He doesn’t get the chance.

“Evening, everyone,” Stella singsongs as she flounces into the room. She drops her giant pink purse—the Pepto color makes me want to retch—on the buffet table and slides into her seat across from me.

“You’re late,” Damian says, giving her a stern look. He’s good at stern looks, a talent I enjoy more when they’re directed at Stella than at me.

“Dara and I were going over a few last-minute details for tomorrow.” She flashes him her best I-can-do-no-wrong smile. “You wouldn’t want us to be unprepared, would you?”

Before he can answer—though I know he would totally say, “Of course not”—Hesper sweeps into the room with a tray full of food.

“Mmm, it smells wonderful,” Stella says. “Psaria plaki?”

Hesper just hums in agreement as she sets plates down for each of us. Arranged on the oval plate is a colorful bed of chopped vegetables—bright orange carrots, lime-green leeks, and warm yellow potatoes—under a whole fish. And by whole fish, I mean the who-o-ole fish. Eyes, gills, and tail included.

I suppress a shudder and wonder if moving the carrots and potatoes around on the plate will make it look like I ate the fish. From the skeptical look the fish is giving me, I doubt it.

As Hesper leaves with the empty tray, Damian asks, “I trust you girls will manage all right on your own while we are gone?”

We’ve been going over this in a dozen different ways ever since they booked the trip back in January. It’s not like Stella and I aren’t adults. Stella’s going to be at Oxford in the fall, and if I hadn’t decided to stick around for Level 13, I’d be halfway to USC. I can even vote in the next election by absentee ballot. Not that I can convince Mom and Damian. They seem to think we’re still in junior high and totally incapable of surviving sans chaperone without either killing ourselves or each other.

So little trust.

“Of course, Daddy. We’ll be fine.” Stella looks at me. “I’ll keep my eye on Phoebe.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, stabbing at a carrot.

Stella just smiles and shrugs.

I scowl.

This is how our uneasy truce works. She makes obnoxious remarks like that—it’s who she is. Queen of the cutting comments. Sometimes I let them slide. Sometimes I’m itching for a fight.

After the day I’ve had, my tolerance meter is on zero.

Focusing on one of the big fat kalamata olives on her plate, I picture a big ugly beetle. I know I can do this. I’m visualizing the olive turning into the beetle. I can see it. It’s going to—

The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

As I stare at the olive, suddenly little black legs that look like licorice laces pop out on each side and start to wiggle around. All right, so the legs aren’t even long enough to reach the plate. But still, it’s a success. I wanted the olive to become a beetle and it (kinda) did.

My powers control is definitely improving.

At least I didn’t conjure up real beetles or anything—

“Phoebe!” Damian roars.