partner you across events for strength training today.”
Oh no. This can only end in pain.
Christopher, the big blond who volunteered to be my training partner, is the only person on the team who seems even inclined to be nice-Griffin hasn’t so much as spoken to me since Sunday-so pairing me with anyone else is going to be a nightmare.
Coach Z starts going through the roster, pairing up throwers with hurdlers, jumpers with sprinters, mixing everything up.
“Phoebe Castro,” he says, tracing his finger across the page on his clipboard, “and Adara Spencer.”
My shoulders slump. Of all the people I could be paired with, this is the worst. Even spending the hour-long session in silence with Griffin-who got paired with Vesna Gorgopoulo, a discus thrower who makes the Rock look like a weakling-would be infinitely better.
I glance at Adara, standing in the center of her group of blondes.
She is positively fuming. While she stalks over to Coach Z-presumably to demand a different partner-her blondes glare at me.
The only one I know by name is Zoe. She’s in my World History class and spends all her time flirting with Mr. Sakola. I used to think she was harmless, but the look she’s giving me right now could sear a steak.
Adara stomps back to her group, the angry look on her face a clear indication that Coach Z refused to bow down to her wishes.
If they weren’t my wishes, too, at the moment, then I’d enjoy her defeat.
“Everyone select a machine to start on,” Coach Z explains. “When you hear one whistle switch with your partner, when you hear two rotate stations.”
While everyone moves to a machine, Adara and I stand glaring at each other.
“Get moving, girls,” Coach Z shouts. “You start on the bench.”
He points to the bench press in the far corner of the weight room, the only station not taken. Deciding that my training is more important than my animosity, I turn and head for the machine.
I’m just settling in on the bench when Adara joins me.
The first whistle blows and I reach up to take the bar.
“Well, well,” Adara says, making no move to spot me. “If it isn’t the happy home-wrecker.”
Ignoring her, I lift the bar off the brackets and start counting.
One. Two.
“Don’t think you can just steal my boyfriend without consequences,
“I didn’t-” Six. “Steal-” Seven. “Anything.”
“What?” She peers down at me. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear about what happened on Saturday?”
“I don’t-” Twelve. “Really-” Thirteen. “Care.”
“It was quite funny, actually,” she says, her voice mocking. “Griffin could hardly stop laughing long enough to tell me.”
“What?” I let the bar clatter back into place on the brackets.
Sitting up, I look around the room, finding Griffin and Vesna at the lateral pull station. He is watching Vesna pull like three hundred pounds. For a second he turns and glances at me, but then quickly looks away.
Then again, he might have been looking at Adara.
“Castro,” Coach Z shouts, “you’re still on the-”
Coach Lenny blows the whistle, then winks at me, ignoring the scowl Coach Z throws his way.
I climb off the bench and move behind the bar.
“What exactly did he tell you?” I ask, furious.
“Everything, of course.”
We continue in silence, Adara doing bench presses and me thinking of how many ways I could destroy Griffin without getting caught, until Coach Lenny blows the whistle twice and we change stations. Up next on our circuit is the butterfly press. This allows Adara to stand facing me-and blocking my view-the whole time.
“Back off from my boyfriend,” she snarls as I start my presses.
“Don’t worry,” I reply, concentrating on the burn in my pecs so I don’t think about Griffin. The betrayer. “I want nothing to do with your boyfriend.”
“Oh, I’m not worried.” She glances over her shoulder to where Griffin and Vesna are working on triceps curls. “I just want to save you the embarrassment of being the laughingstock of the school.”
“Gee,” I say, just as the whistle blows. I release the weights with a thud. “Thanks for your concern.”
Adara smoothly begins her presses as she talks. “If you don’t believe me, ask your friend Nutty Nic. She knows all about being the laughingstock.”
“Watch what you say about my friends,” I warn. She is dangerously close to crossing a line.
“And if I recall,” Adara snickers, “that was Griffin’s doing, as well.”
My fury should be directed at Griffin, but Adara is right in front of me and all my rage focuses on her.
I’m just about to tell her what she can do with her concern andfriendly advice when suddenly her arms snap back, the weights slamming down with an echoing crash. Adara looks stunned, her eyes wide open like they’re stuck that way.
Everything in the weight room stops.
“Castro!”
Why is Coach Z yelling at me? “I didn’t do anything.”
“Precisely,” he says. “As the spotter, when your partner is in trouble it is your job to assist her.”
“But she wasn’t-”
“I begged for help,” Adara coos, apparently recovering from her shock. “My arms were all quivery and shaky, like they were going to give out. But she refused. She said she wouldn’t lift a finger to help anyone on this team.”
“That’s a lie,” I shout. “I never-”
“In my office,” Coach Z says, his voice low and serious. “Now.”
Great, there goes cross-country. I’m about to get kicked off the team, and lose any chance at getting that scholarship.
“I saw it happen, Coach.”
Everyone turns to look at Griffin. He’s looking right at Coach Z-not at me, not at Adara.
“Adara didn’t ask for help,” he continues. “She just let the weight drop.”
I dare a glance at Adara, who is turning an unflattering shade of red.
“Right then,” Coach Z stammers. “Everyone back to work.”
The weight room returns to the bustle of the workout. Except for Adara, who is glaring at me, me, staring at Griffin, and Griffin, staring at the floor.
“Oh, and Blake,” Coach Z says. “Switch places with Spencer.”
Stomping across the weight room, Adara takes her place with Vesna-who is now bench-pressing a small car. I walk slowly to the biceps curls station and pick up a pair of dumbbells. Without saying a word, Griffin takes his place at my side, holding his hand beneath mine to spot my movement.
He doesn’t say a single word to me the entire workout, and by the time practice is over I’m more confused than ever.
“This Plato is kicking my ass,” I grumble, staring blankly at the pages full of philosophical words.
Mr. Dorcas wants us to read
“You’ll get through it,” Nicole promises.
“I’m not so sure.” I flip the book over to the back cover-something I can actually understand-and read the two sentence bio on Plato. “Too bad he died twenty-three hundred years ago.”
She laughs, then goes back to reading.
“You’ve got powers, Nic.” I sigh, slamming the book down on our table. “Can’t you summon him back to life so I can ask him to clarify?”
“We can’t bring people back from the dead,” she says. “Big no-no.
In the sixties someone tried to bring back Clytemnestra to star in the school’s production of
