nature, and this beastie’s true nature is a slimy, scaly, nine-headed snake. Not exactly the perfect specimen Red thought she was getting.
The hydra’s eyes lock on mine before I drop my sunglasses back into place. Too bad my freaky hypnosis power only works on humans. Then again, that would make my job way too easy. Where’s the fun in that?
“Huntress,” it snarls.
“I prefer Gretchen. But, you know.” I flash it a bored look. “Whatever.”
The freak show moves awkwardly, its undulating tail taking out a couple of chairs.
I check over my shoulder to make sure the drunken trio hasn’t noticed—they haven’t—then turn back to face my foe. It might look big and scary, but this isn’t my first hydra rodeo. I know just how to take it down.
As the freak show reaches for me, I spin right, dodging the grab and sending the monster lurching forward. With the creature off-balance, I take a well-aimed leap onto its back. It writhes, trying to throw me off. I wrap my legs around the scaly body and my arms around one of the necks and squeeze. The table goes flying. I need to hurry, before someone decides to notice all the noise.
Inching my way down its back, I lean off to one side, searching for the spot where its thick, armorlike scales give way to a softer underbelly. My fangs drop. I dive forward, sink my fangs into the tender flesh, and sigh as my snake-girl venom pours into its bloodstream.
There is no better feeling than this sweet surge of victory.
In a flash, it’s gone and I’m thudding to my knees on the floor.
Bye-bye beastie.
Chapter 2
Things are going to be different in San Francisco. I mean, obviously things
But I want Grace Whitfield—
Frozen like a statue on the sidewalk, I stare up at the imposing facade of Alpha Academy, the private prep school whose full-scholarship offer is half the reason we’ve moved to the city. It’s a giant cube of glass and steel, a monument to modernity that makes the simple single-story stucco and Spanish tile of Orangevale High look like something from California’s prehistoric past. This building gleams shiny and new in the morning sun. The perfect place to start over. I know this is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for all my life. After sixteen years in the same small burb, going to the same schools with the same students, I finally get to be someone new. Someone not me.
Before I can smile at the thought, a person knocks into my shoulder, sending me and my backpack tumbling.
“Excuse you much?” The girl gives me a disgusted look, dusts off her shoulder like I might have given her a virus, and stomps off toward the sparkling glass double doors.
Everything about her screams
The new me should say something to her retreating back. I
So much for different.
“Grace Whitfield?”
I look up from my spot on the bench across from the guidance counselor’s office. The counselor, the woman who just called my name, gives me an encouraging smile.
She looks nothing like the balding, middle-aged, tweed coat–wearing counselor in Orangevale. The one who’d rubber-stamped all my advising sessions and handed me the appropriate papers about SAT prep classes before checking off my name and moving on to the next kid on the list. Not that I needed his help—I know what I have to do to get into a good school and earn a scholarship—but it might have been nice if he’d looked up from his computer for two seconds.
My new counselor has all of her attention focused on me, and commands my attention in return. I can’t help but study her immaculate appearance. She’s tall and graceful, like a ballerina, and wears a sharply tailored skirt suit in a soft, warm gray that matches her high heels. A petal-pink blouse ruffles out around her lapels. Although her image says poised and elegant, I get the feeling that beneath the surface she is a woman of extraordinary strength.
She seems like she could run a billion-dollar company in her spare time. She would never let anyone plow over her and march off without a word. I’m an eco-geek who can’t even walk into my new school without getting trampled by another student.
I stand, feeling awkward and underdressed in my recycled jeans, organic green tee, and hot-pink Chuck Taylors. Not only because of the counselor, but also because of confident girl and the few students who’ve trickled in through the office while I’ve been waiting. They look like they walked out of a department-store window display.
Too late to change now. Besides, it’s not like I have high levels of fashion hiding in my closet. Mostly more of the same.
“I’m Grace,” I say, extending my hand.
I expect her to shake it, formal and businesslike, but instead she holds it gently and presses her other palm over mine. Her smile positively sparkles. She gives me a squeeze as she says, “I’m Ms. West. I recommended you for the scholarship here at Alpha. You shone above all the other applicants. Your computer skills were especially impressive.”
“I—” I swallow over the strange feeling of tightness—of pride, maybe—in my throat. A good feeling. “Thank you.”
“After reviewing your admissions exam and your previous school records, I have prepared a preliminary class schedule for you,” she explains as she motions me into her office.
I rub my hands against my jeans as I follow her inside.
Other than the small acrylic sign on her desk that says STEPHANIE WEST, GUIDANCE COUNSELOR, the sleek gray surface is virtually empty. In fact, the office is pretty much empty. Only the desk, chairs, a pair of tall file cabinets, and, on the wall behind her desk, a massive framed photo of a beautiful white sand beach and a turquoise sea. No clutter, no color other than the water in the picture. It’s very calming. Which is, I suppose, a good quality in a counselor’s office.
Ms. West lowers herself gracefully into the big black leather office chair, indicating that I should take a seat in one of the armchairs facing her desk. I choose the one on the right, swinging my backpack to the floor as I sit.
“Considering your plans to attend a top-tier college,” she says, handing me a sheet of paper, “I thought you might be interested in adding a second foreign language.”
“Do you think that’s necessary?” I ask. “Will it help my admissions chances?”
“It certainly doesn’t hurt.” She looks me in the eye as she speaks. “But I think your transcript is strong already.”
“Then I think I’ll stick with Spanish.” I appreciate her honest answer.
“All right,” she says. “What about a physical education class? We offer a broad selection, including virtually all sports, as well as kickboxing and Tae Kwon Do.”
