Oh. My. Gods.

Who wouldn’t stare at a girl on her knees in the middle of a bakery, pleading with her mom for some stupid pastry. Even if it is the most delicious, custardy pastry she’s ever eaten.

Carefully, so I don’t draw attention to myself in the off chance that he hasn’t noticed me, I push off the floor. Still, I can’t turn around. Having Griffin laugh at me at school in front of a ton of kids I don’t even know was bad enough, but I don’t think I’d survive him laughing at me in front of Mom. The kids at the Academy won’t even exist on my radar in nine months. Mom is my mom forever.

“Silly boy,” Lilika says. Then she gasps. “Of course, you must meet Phoebe. She is new to the Academy. Sweetheart,” she says and I can tell she’s turned her attention back to me, “I’d like you to meet my nephew, Griffin.”

“Phoebe,” he says, his voice low and steady. No emotion.

Against my better judgment I turn around to face him. I clasp my hands behind my back so I’m not tempted to wave like a total dork. “Griffin.”

He looks adorable, as always. Droplets of water hang off his dark curls, like he just took a shower, and the red cotton of his T-shirt clings in a few choice places. He’s watching me with a fixed, unreadable gaze.

I can’t tell if he’s furious or completely unaffected by my presence.

“Wonderful.” Lilika claps her hands. “You have already met.”

“We’re on the cross-country team together, Aunt.”

I expect him to add something jerky like, “For now.” Or, “Until she loses that first race.” When he doesn’t, I tilt my head, wondering if I’m looking at the real Griffin Blake. Sure looks like him.

“You must be Mrs. Petrolas,” he says, stepping forward and holding out his hand to Mom. “Griffin Blake.”

“Valerie, please,” she says. As she shakes his hand she gives me a look that clearly says, Cute one! “I’m always pleased to meet Phoebe’s teammates. Though she might not say it, she’s very excited to be on the team.”

Thanks, Mom.

Griffin smiles politely. He flicks his eyes over at me as he says, “We’re excited to have her on the team. She is the most challenging runner I’ve ever practiced with.”

What was that? Sarcasm? Mockery? It didn’t sound fake, but it had to be. Well, I’m not going to stick around to be laughed at with backhanded compliments.

“Speaking of practicing,” I say, grabbing Mom by the hand, “I have tons of homework to finish before my afternoon session.”

Mom frowns, like she doesn’t understand what’s gotten into me, but lets me lead her out of the store. “Phoebe, honey,” she says when we get out onto the cobblestone street, “is everything okay?”

“Sure,” I say. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“One minute you’re begging for bougatsa, the next you’re dragging me out the door.”

Darn! I totally forgot the bougatsa. For a second I think about going back, but decide that even custardy goodness isn’t worth facing Griffin’s thinly veiled ridicule again.

“Yeah, well, the sugar would mess up my training diet.” Which is a total lie.

Mom doesn’t let it go. “This has something to do with that boy, doesn’t it-”

“Phoebe, wait!”

I turn to see Griffin jogging down the street toward us, a brownpaper bag in his left hand. My heart rate speeds up and I know it’s because I’m hoping he’s running after me to apologize. To say he wasn’t teasing and that he really is glad to have me on the team.

Ha! “Here,” he says, handing me the paper bag. “Aunt Lili didn’t want you to leave without your bougatsa.”

I stare at the bag. Why did my heart have to get its hopes up? “Thanks,” I mumble. “But we didn’t pay for this.”

When I try to give the bag back he waves me off. “Lili wants you to have it.” He dips his head a little so he’s looking into my eyes.

“She says you have excellent taste in pastry.”

“Really?”

He nods, smiling just a tiny bit. I almost miss it.

“Tell her thank you,” Mom says, breaking that momentary connection between me and Griffin.

He looks up at her, his eyes wide like he’d forgotten she was even here. “Sure,” he says. That polite smile returns. “No problem.”

Without another word, he turns and runs back up the street.

“He seems like a nice young man,” Mom says, watching him retreat.

“Yeah,” I say. “If you catch him on a good day.”

Too bad he doesn’t have many.

“You’re not wearing that,” Nicole says the second she walks in my room. “Fuzzy gray sweats will send Griffin into Adara’s arms-not yours.”

She is wearing a dark denim miniskirt and layered red and white tanks and more bangle bracelets than I ever thought a person’s arm could hold. Her look is more back-off than boy-attracting, but I’m not about to argue. Dressing for boys is not in my repertoire.

“Fine,” I say, stepping out of my Nikes and heading to my dresser.

“What should I wear?”

“Let me see.” She pushes me out of the way and begins digging through my drawers, tossing pants and tees over her shoulder.

“No.” Throws item. “Nope.” Throws item. “Nuh-uh.”

I catch my baby blue velour track pants before they can land on the floor. “Do you have to throw everything?”

She keeps rummaging, ignoring my question. “Ah-ha!” Pulling a pair of shorts triumphantly from the pile, she waves them over her head. “Put these on.”

They’re the gray shorts with pink pinstripes I bought for the Race for the Cure last year. Pink is so not my color-except for the occasional furry pillow, of course.

“Nicole, these aren’t really-”

“Don’t you have anything besides T-shirts?”

“Um, no. Not-”

“Here then.” She pulls her arms inside her tank top, wiggles around for a second, then emerges with the white under tank in hand. “Put this on.”

“I don’t-”

“Hurry up.” She flings the tank at me. “You shouldn’t be late for your first meeting.”

I catch the tank, think about arguing, then decide it’s futile. Tank and shorts in hand, I head to the bathroom and change out of mycomfy gray sweats. I feel practically naked with my legs and arms fully exposed. I’m not used to showing so much skin except on competition days.

When I get back to my room, Nicole is sprawled on my bed, flipping through an old issue of Runner’s World.

“You actually read this stuff?” she asks, lifting her head. “Holy dolmades!”

She sounds shocked.

“What?”

“You,” she says, dropping the magazine to the floor, “look hot.”

I can feel my cheeks burning red.

Not just because of the compliment. The shorts hug my hips closer than I’m used to, and the tank stretches tight across my breasts, even in my chest-flattening jog bra.

“I had no idea you had curves under those T-shirts.” She circles me, gauging my appearance from every angle, I guess. “We can definitely use those to your advantage. And your legs are great-lean and toned and shapely.”