I am holding my breath. If he doesn’t answer soon I’ll probably pass out, and then they’ll find me in a heap outside their door.
“All right,” he finally says and I suck in oxygen. “She can train with the team and she’ll run in our first meet. If she doesn’t place in the top three then she’s out. That fair?”
Fair? Insanely! Because even though everyone else may have godly powers, I haven’t placed lower than second in… well, ever.
“Great,” Coach Lenny says, sounding very happy. “Let’s go announce the team.”
I turn and take off at a dead run for the locker room. I am just taking my place in the back corner of the room when the coaches walk in. It is a major struggle not to break into a massive grin. Adara glares at me from across the room, but I can’t even muster a scowl.
“Everyone, may I have your attention, please.” Coach Z thumps his clipboard against his leg until everybody quiets down and looks at him. “The team roster will be as follows…”
As he starts to read off names by event, I glance at Coach Lenny.
He is looking at me with a proud smile on his face. I give him a beaming smile. I can’t help it, even if it gives away my eavesdropping.
He smiles back. Then he cups a hand over his ear like someone listening at a door and winks at me.
I laugh out loud. Man, you can’t get away with anything at this school.
“How was your first day?” Mom asks as I fly into the house and let my backpack drop on the floor with a thud.
She is sitting at the dining table with magazines spread out in front of her. They are all wedding magazines. She has months to plan, so I don’t know why she’s obsessing.
“Long,” I answer before heading to the kitchen for my traditional after workout snack: Gatorade and a PowerBar.
Only we don’t have either.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Mom says. “Hesper goes to the market on Serifos once a week. She’ll get what you need on Friday.”
Closing my eyes, I wonder what she’ll forget to tell me next? First, the whole immortal thing. Now, the once-a-week grocery shopping thing. Maybe next I’ll find out Alexander the Great is coming back to life and bringing his army to dinner.
“Whatever.”
I slam the refrigerator door shut and head back to the living room to grab my backpack. What I need right now is a refuge from life. I really wish there was a lock on my bedroom door.
“What were your classes like?” she asks. “Do you like your teachers?”
“They’re okay.”
“What about the students? Did you make any friends?”
“A couple.”
“What god do they belong to?” Her voice takes on that professional analyst tone. “Damian tried to describe the social dynamics of the school, but I’d like to hear your-”
“Just drop it, okay? I’ve got a ton of work to do.” I want to stomp off to my room, but my thirst gets the better of me. I drop my backpack and go get a glass of water-from the tap. Is bottled water too much to ask for? “Honey, I know this is a lot to face all at once.”
“I’m fine. So there’s no Gatorade. I’ll dehydrate like a normal person, all right.”
She looks a little hurt, but that was pretty much what I was going for. Everything about this situation is great for her and crappy for me.
“Do you think-” she starts to say, but then stops.
I fling my backpack over my shoulder and head for my room. I can sense Mom trailing behind me, but I’m happy to ignore her.
Unzipping my bag, I start setting the massive textbooks out on my bed. I think I have more homework tonight than I had in my entire three years at Pacific Park.
“Damian told me the cross-country tryouts were today,” Mom says from the doorway. “How’d they go?”
I shrug. “I made the team.”
“That’s wonderful. I never doubted you would.” She falls silent.
“Look, Mom.” I carry my Algebra II textbook to my desk and drop it on the smooth wood surface. “I have a ton of homework to do, so…”
“Oh.” She looks around and sees all my books on the bed. “Of course, I’ll just leave you alone to get to work. I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”
“Fine,” I say. And then, because I feel a little guilty for being so mean, I add, “Thanks.”
One hour and thirty quadratic equations later, my eyes are blurry from staring at so many numbers. I think I can solve for x in my sleep now. The house is oddly silent-the Stella monster must be out somewhere and I haven’t heard Damian come home. I haven’t even heard Mom moving around.
Emerging from my room for a glass of water, I see Mom still hunched over the magazines on the dining table.
“Hi, Phoebola.” She smiles as I approach.
“Hi.” I smile back.
Somehow, this feels more like the old us. Maybe because no one else is home, but I feel like we’re back in L.A. and giggling over fashion magazines again.
Spurred by sentimentality, I slide into the chair next to her.
“Whatcha looking at?”
She groans. “Bridesmaid dresses. There are so many styles and colors to choose from I don’t even know where to start.”
“Well,” I say, studying the pictures laid out in front of her of skinny models in brightly colored shiny gowns, “maybe you should pick your wedding colors first. Then you can just pick a style you like.”
“What an inspired idea.” She pulls out some papers with scraps of color stapled to them. “Here are some of my color choices. What do you think?”
She looks at me all serious. I know that in the great big scheme of things choosing wedding colors is not an awe-inspiring responsibility, but the fact that Mom is seriously asking my opinion makes me feel really important.
I think she has almost every color in the world on these sheets, but they are grouped into a few coordinating palettes. One has a horrid pea green that wouldn’t look good on anyone-not even Adara. I shove that one aside. Some have different shades of orange and yellow that seem more Halloween-y than wedding-y. I put those aside with the pea green. That leaves two choices: one with three shades of pink that my mom would never be caught within spitting distance of and one with three shades of blue and a teal green.
“This one,” I say, pointing to the blue and green palette. “Everyone looks good in light blue. And it goes with the whole Mediterranean setting.”
Mom studies the colors, like she’s picturing the whole wedding and adding touches of blue and teal everywhere.
“I like it,” Mom says, smiling and warming up to the choice. “And blue and white are the colors of Greece. It seems only fitting since I will soon become a Greek citizen.”
“What!” My jaw drops and I stare at her. “You’re becoming a Greek?”
“Of course,” she says with that happy-mushy smile on her face.
“Damian cannot leave the Academy. His job and his life are here.
And here he is protected. In America, he would always be vulnerable to discovery.”
“But you can’t just un-become American,” I insist.
Okay, so my problem isn’t really that she wants to renounce her American citizenship. If she becomes a citizen of Greece then that makes this whole thing so much more real. Like she can’t ever turn back. Like I can’t turn back.
“What about me?” I ask.
“Damian and I love each other. We are going to make a life together and that can only happen here.” She
