“Goddess Boot Camp?” she gasps. “Seriously?”

Goddess Boot Camp? My stomach knots at the thought of a military-style training program. Multimile marches at dawn. Rope climbs in the rain. Instructors standing on my back while I do a million push-ups. A far cry from the cross-country and wilderness camps I’ve experienced.

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“No.” Nicole starts laughing uncontrollably, practically rolling off my bed. “Nothing”—laugh, laugh, laugh—“wrong”—laugh, laugh, laugh—“with that.”

“What?” I demand, shoving her shoulder so she does roll off the bed. “I’m going to be turned into a goat, aren’t I? How can I train for the Pythian trials with four legs?”

I follow her off the bed and start pacing.

The Pythian Games are a huge deal. Apparently, the Olympics weren’t always the only games in town. When the last ancient Olympics were held in the year 393, the Pythian Games became restricted to hematheos competitors and went underground. They’ve been held every four years—except during World Wars I and II—since forever.

Griffin and I were invited by the coach of the Cycladian team— who also happens to be Coach Lenny—to try out for this summer’s games.

We’re supposed to start training today. In fact—I check my watch—he’s supposed to be here any second.

“Relax,” Nicole says as she pulls herself off the floor. “It’s not so much scary as . . .” She smiles. “Embarassing.”

“Great. That’s just what I need.” I flop into the giant squishy chair Mom and Damian bought for my birthday, sinking into the turquoise velvet softness. “Another reason for everyone to make fun of me.”

Being the new girl at a school full of descendants of the gods is no cakewalk. You’d think once I found out I was a descendant, too, they would let up. But no. Most of them still treat me like a total outsider. An interloper who can’t control her powers. An intruder. Especially after I “stole” Griffin—as if you can steal someone who doesn’t want to be stolen—away from cheer queen Adara Spencer. And don’t think she has ever let me forget it. When we had to give our final speeches in Oral Communications two weeks ago, she made every word I said come out in pig latin.

Partly, Damian says, it’s that I’m closer to Nike than most of them are to their gods. They’re jealous, he says. Right. And jerky Justin dumped me because I was too good for him.

“Don’t worry,” Nicole says, trying to be reassuring after laughing herself into hysterics. “Maybe no one will find out you’re in boot camp.”

“Really?” I ask, hopeful even if she’s just trying to make me feel better.

“Sure.” She takes a seat on my bed. “Usually it’s just a couple of upper-class counselors, a faculty director, and about a dozen, um, campers.”

My racing heart calms down. A little.

“Okay,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. “That should be okay. Maybe the counselors will be friendlies.”

Not that there are many. Besides Nicole, our good friend Troy, Griffin, and a couple of my cross-country teammates, there aren’t many kids at the Academy I could call friendly, let alone friends.

With my luck, they’ll be a couple of Adara’s groupies who can’t wait to expose my embarrassment to the world. It’s not like I can do anything to make them like me since I didn’t do anything to make them hate me in the first place. My existence is reason enough for them.

Besides, the truth is I am a little freaked out about controlling my powers, especially considering how my dad died. I haven’t worked out all the details yet, but he used his powers to improve his football career . . . and wound up smoted by the gods. I don’t think I’ll ever know exactly what happened. The gods frown on the misuse of powers in the nothos world and they could just as easily smote me for using them accidentally.

Controlling my powers is a good thing, and I’m looking forward to the day when I can zap myself a Gatorade without worrying that I’ll wind up wrestling an alligator.

“Who knows?” I say. “Going to Goddess Boot Camp could be fun.”

“Goddess Boot Camp?” Griffin asks as he walks into my room.

“Hi!” I jump up and wrap my arms around his neck. Since school let out Wednesday, he’s been in Athens with his aunt Lili, picking up an espresso machine for the bakery. I know it’s only been four days, but seeing him again—all tall, lean, and dark, curly-haired dreamy—makes me shivery happy all over.

Especially when he’s wearing track pants. Call me a running geek, but I love a guy in training gear.

He hugs me back and whispers in my ear, “I missed you, kardia tis kardias mou.”

And I love it when he calls me his heart of hearts. Leaning back, I give him a soft kiss. We’ve been going out for almost nine months, but I still can’t get over kissing him. My real-life hero.

“Let me just lace up,” I say, releasing him and going for my sneakers under the bed, “and I’ll be ready to go.”

“Hey, Nic,” he says softly.

She gives him a little smile. “Hi, Griff.”

“You doing all right?” he asks.

“Always, jockhead.”

She means that affectionately. I think.

Besides, all the descendants of Ares are jockheads. But there’s more to him. She doesn’t know he’s a heroic descendant of Hercules, too. No one does.