Still, I’m going to let it go. She’s nothing to me—as inconsequential as air. Except for the occasional run-in like this, I won’t have to see her all summer.

But then, as I step around her to pass by, she whispers, “You don’t deserve him, kako.”

Oh. No. She. Didn’t.

I whip back around.

“Too bad you can’t join us,” I say, in a totally fake voice. “Want us to save you some loukoumades?” I glance pointedly at her hips with a pseudo-sympathetic look. “Better not.”

I give her an equally fake smile and then saunter off down the street, taking Griffin by the hand and pulling him with me.

“You didn’t have to do that, Phoebe.”

“Do what?” I should feel better for putting her in her place—after all, she’s the one who dismissed Griff and called me “bad blood.” But instead I just feel . . . wrong.

“Be so mean to her.” He looks disappointed.

“Why not?” I snap, taking my hand away from his. His disappointment only reinforces the empty feeling in my gut. “She’s always mean to me.”

“Because it’s beneath you, and . . .” His voice takes on that serious, descendant-of-Hercules hero tone. For a second, it seems like he’s going to tell me something earth-shattering. Then he says, “You need to look beneath the surface.”

That clears everything up. I know exactly what lies beneath Adara’s shallow, superficial surface—a shallow, superficial inside. I’m still standing there, confused, as he heads off into the village.

I definitely have the feeling that I just failed some kind of test.

Great, another test I didn’t know I was taking.

CHAPTER 2

NEOFACTION

SOURCE: HEPHAESTUS

The ability to create an object out of nothing. Knowledge and understanding of the makeup of desired object is necessary for an accurate manifestation. Attempts to create new or unknown objects may yield surprising and/or dangerous results.

DYNAMOTHEOS STUDY GUIDE © Stella Petrolas

“AUNT LILI SENT THESE for you.” I show Mom the bag from the bakery.

Mom is standing at the foot of her bed, staring at the three open—and beyond full—suitcases and ticking things off on her fingers. She looks totally zoned out. She’s a bit of an obsessive-compulsive when it comes to packing—which is exactly why I was hoping she’d be done when I got home.

“I don’t think I have enough bras,” she says, giving one of the suitcases a despairing look.

Since they’re going to be gone for under two weeks, I’m guessing she has . . . twelve. And will end up packing fifteen. Just in case.

“One more,” she says. As she digs a bra out of her dresser—I turn away because I don’t want to see anything lacy or sequin-y or feathery—she adds, “Ten should be just enough.”

“I’m impressed,” I say, making my way to the head of the bed and carefully avoiding the suitcases as I flop back across the pillows. “I expected you to take a dozen.”

She spins quickly toward me. “Do you think I need more?”

“No!” I backpedal. “Of course n—”

“You’re right.” She heads back to the dresser. “Two more. Just in case.”

I could groan in frustration, but: (a) I’ve been through this whole packing enterprise dozens of times before; (b) I’m too exhausted from the training run; and (c) I’m still dwelling on Griffin. I mean, how can he not see that palling around with his ex-girlfriend might be undesirable to his current girlfriend?

“What is that?” Mom asks, pointing at the brown paper bag sitting on my stomach. “Do I need to pack it? Where will it go?”

“Relax, Mom,” I say, handing her the bag without sitting up. I knew she hadn’t heard me. “It’s goodies from the bakery. You and Damian can eat them tonight. Or in the morning.” I close my eyes and sigh. “Or never.”

The bed shifts as Mom sits next to my head.

“What’s wrong, Phoebola?”

Her hand smoothes a stray lock of hair across my forehead and behind my ear. Eyes firmly shut, I slowly shake my head. If I talk about it, then therapist Mom might make an appearance. And the last thing I need right now is a shrunken head.

“Nothing.” I force a smile as I open my eyes. “Just a hard run today.”

“Ooh, your first training session for the trials. How did it go?” Mom asks, proving she really has been paying attention to something other than honeymoon plans. “You’re not overworking yourself, are you?”

“We did a beach run,” I say, not answering the “Mom” question—like there’s such a thing as overworking when it comes to running? “We’re increasing gradually, but on an accelerated scale. Don’t want to wear out our sneakers.” I force a little laugh.

“That reminds me.” She gets off the bed and crosses the room. “I almost forgot our running shoes.”

While she tries to shove two pairs of Nikes—as if anyone in my family could own anything else—into an overstuffed bag, I go over to her vanity and sit on the little upholstered stool. The table is bigger and older than the one she had in L.A. but it’s covered with the same collection of bottles and potions. Pulling the little stand mirror over in front of me, I check out my face. It’s not a bad face. My skin is pretty clean and it’s got kind of an athletic glow. Decent lashes and—my best feature—nice brown eyes. Puckering my lips, I wonder what I would look like in full face paint. I am not much of a makeup girl, but sometimes I envy those cover-model types. Those Adara types.