Goddess Boot Camp(20)

My cheeks erupt in flames.

“You’re the one?” one of the girls on the opposite side of the circle gasps. I think her name is Tessa or Teresa or something.

“The one what?” I ask nervously, though I know what she’s about to say.

She leans forward, stage-whispering across the circle. “The one who neofactured lions during the pep rally.”

I’m too mortified to respond. No one was ever supposed to know that was me. I was only trying to show school spirit (go, Nemean Lions!). My mouth just kind of drops open, like if it hangs there long enough something will come out.

All the girls in the circle stare, their eyes glowing with fear and awe.

As if I need another reason for kids at the Academy to think I’m different.

“Okay, then,” Adara says, saving me—unintentionally, I’m sure, since she’s the one who dropped the bomb—from continued embarrassment, “time for the counselor introductions. I’ll go first.” She tilts her head to the side and smiles. “My name is Adara, I’m a descendant of Aphrodite, I’m an entering Level 13, and I plan on attending the Sorbonne when I graduate.”

Wow. I am totally surprised that she isn’t going to Oxford like everyone else. Like Griffin is. From what he says, pretty much everyone at the Academy goes there, since the school has an arrangement with the administration. If you’re an Academy grad, you’re in. No formal application required. That eliminates the background research on the applicants—and on the school.

“Hi, Adara,” everyone says obediently.

She looks at Stella. “Your turn.”

Stella takes a deep breath. “As I said before,” she says, her cheerful voice wavering just a little, “I’m Stella. I’m a descendant of Hera. I graduated from the Academy last weekend—”

Everyone cheers, applauding her success. I roll my eyes. As if Stella’s graduation hasn’t been the number one topic in the Petrolas household for the last few weeks. By the time she walked across the stage, I was ready to use her mortarboard to put myself out of my misery. I’m so over it.

“Thank you,” she says, blushing. “And in the fall I will be matriculating at Oxford, where I intend to study economics.”

I zone out while everyone oohs and ahhs. This is a story I know practically by heart. Instead, I imagine what life will be like without Stella in the house. Sure, we’ve only been housemates for a few months, but it feels like a lifetime. It’s like I can’t remember a time where she wasn’t there to torment me daily. No more desperately rushing to the bathroom, only to find the door locked and the shower running. No more having her knock on my door before sunrise, her face covered in one of her rainbow array of face masks, demanding I return something I haven’t borrowed—like I would borrow anything from her prep-trendy closet. No more facing her across the dinner table, worrying that my food will turn into something still living—and knowing I can’t return the favor without it going terribly wrong. Life without Stella is going to be amazing. Like a birthday party every day.

Little tingles of happiness sparkle down my arms.

“Great Zeus,” Miss Orivas cries.

My eyes snap back into focus. Everyone in the circle is staring, wide-eyed at Stella. If their mouths dropped any farther, they’d be cartoons.

A sense of dread shivers up my spine.

Slowly—in the hopes that maybe if I take my time it won’t be as bad as I’m imagining—I turn to face Stella. Nope, it’s my worst nightmare. The first morning of boot camp and I’ve already turned Stella into a birthday cake. Okay, not an actual birthday cake. Just decorated like one.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt.

She has her eyes clenched shut—probably to keep the frosting from dripping into them—and I’m pretty sure her jaw is clenched, too. It’s hard to tell under the swirls of blue icing. She is going to smote me faster than I can say—

“How did you do that?” Miss Orivas asks.

I shift nervously. “Um . . . I don’t know . . . I—”

“What were you thinking about?”

Yeah, like I’m going to admit what I was thinking at that moment. Stella would not only smote me, she’d make it so torturous that the six-day Marathon des Sables through the Sahara would feel like a stroll on the beach.

“I was thinking about my birthday,” I cover. “It was a couple months ago and it was so much fun.”

Miss Orivas nods in understanding. Of what exactly, I’m not sure. I know I don’t understand.

“Phoebe Diane Castro.” Stella’s voice, gritted out through tightly clenched teeth, is icy cold and barely contained. If there weren’t a dozen people here, she’d probably be screaming like a harpy. She takes a deep breath and then bursts into a bright glow.