“Don’t work too hard,” she insists, pulling me into a hug.

“I won’t.”

“Don’t spend all your time worrying about the test.”

“I won’t.”

“I wish this was something I could help you with.” She sniffs. “I feel so powerless and—”

“I know, Mom.” I lean back and give her my best seriously-I’man-adult-and-I’m-totally-fine look. “Really. I have to figure it out on my own.”

Hopefully with a little help from Goddess Boot Camp.

“The yacht is ready, Valerie,” Damian says. “We must depart or we will miss the ferry in Serifos.”

Mom’s tears start to fall. “I’ll call you every day,” she says, squeezing me one last time.

“You will not,” I insist. “This is your honeymoon. Enjoy it. Don’t spend all your time worrying about me.”

When she releases me, she quickly wipes away her tears. Stella steps forward and gives her a quick hug.

“I’ll take care of your girl, Valerie,” she promises.

Okay, I am seriously getting tired of Stella’s patronizing comments. Like I’m some kind of little kid who needs to be watched over. She’s months—not years—older. But I am not about to try for revenge with Mom and Damian standing right there. If I mess up—or maybe I should say when I mess up—they’ll cancel their trip in a second. And then I’d feel really, really guilty.

“Go,” I say, shooing Mom toward the boat.

With one last little hug, she hurries to join Damian. Zenos unties the yacht from the dock and takes his place at the wheel. As they pull away, Stella and I stand there waving—perfectly fake smiles pasted on both our faces. Hesper steps to the end of the dock, pulls a white handkerchief from her dress, and starts waving it at the retreating yacht.

“Don’t worry,” I shout as they escape hearing distance. “If I have to kill Stella, I’ll bury her body in the rose garden.”

Not that we have a rose garden.

I brace myself for Stella to zap me into the water. When she doesn’t, I sneak a peek from the corner of my eye. She’s still smiling and waving.

There is definitely something wrong with her.

“Are you feeling all right?” I ask nervously.

“Wonderful,” she says, never taking her eyes off the yacht.

“Why are you being so—”

“You’d better hurry,” she interrupts, turning abruptly to give me a brilliant smile. “Wouldn’t want to be late for the first day of camp.”

She turns and walks away and I’m left staring after her, totally confused.

“The house will feel so empty,” Hesper says sadly, still waving her white hankie.

“If you want,” I offer, “I could conjure up a houseguest or two.”

“No,” she chides with a cluck. “You girls will keep me busy enough. Besides,” she says, giving me a sly look, “with your luck the entire Greek navy would appear at our door.”

“Hesper,” I gasp.

“Run along, girl.” She motions me up the path to the house. “Your camp will hold more surprises than you can imagine.”

As I climb the path, I think Hesper must be exaggerating. I mean, it’s just a summer camp. How surprising can it be?

CHAPTER 3

VISIOMUTATION

SOURCE: APHRODITE

The ability to change the appearance of an object. This results in a lasting, but reversible, physical alteration. Such alterations include changes of color, texture, and shape, but are limited to visible qualities. (See Visiocryption for temporary changes of appearance.)

DYNAMOTHEOS STUDY GUIDE © Stella Petrolas

MY FIRST CLUE that something is very, very wrong is the giggling. It hits me like a wave of endorphins as I pull open the door to the Academy courtyard. Girls giggling. Lots of girls giggling. Lots of young girls giggling.

When I step into the open, I see them huddled in a little giggling mass around a bench in the far corner. There are at least a dozen of them. And they are all, like, ten.

I look desperately around the courtyard for signs of anyone who has successfully survived puberty. No. There is only me and the ten-year-olds.

Sticking close to the wall, I inch farther into the courtyard, hoping there’s someone else hiding somewhere. If anything can send a teenager into hiding, it’s a swarm of ten-year-old girls. They could repel an invading army, given the right circumstances.

“Then what did he do?” one of the girls squeals.

After a brief hushed whisper another one says, “Ew! His tongue? That’s gross.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Surely there’s some kind of mistake. They must be here for some other camp or summer school or something. Maybe I got the location wrong? Or the time?

I twist my backpack off my shoulder and retrieve the flyer from the outside pocket. I’m in the right place. At the right time.

Still, maybe they’re here for another reason.

Or maybe I’ve transported to another universe.

“Hey, are you one of our counselors?” a girl calls out.

They’ve spotted me hovering against the wall, clutching the flyer to my chest. All of them turn to look at me and then—I press my back tighter against the wall—walk toward me. My adrenaline starts pumping as my body screams for me to run.

Okay, you may be thinking that I have some kind of irrational fear of ten-year-olds. Not true. Fear? Yes. Irrational? Not on your life.