“I thought Athena was the goddess of war.”

“You don’t think Tyrovolas could kick some ass?” Nicole laughs. “I’m just teasing. War is only part of Athena’s domain. She’s also the goddess of wisdom, which makes her a big busybody with everything that goes on at the Academy.”

Navigating this school is going to be a lot tougher than I ever imagined. I thought at least the teachers would be normal, but no luck there.

I need a new student handbook.

And the classwork? Let’s just say I’ll be struggling to maintain the B average I need to get into USC. Ms. T’s syllabus looks like a work of world literature itself and we’ll be reading more books in one year than I’ve read in my entire life. So much for Cesca’s fantasy of me lounging on the beach—I’ll be spending all my free time reading Kafka and Orwell and writing a twenty-five-page term paper.

She even teaches for the whole period—on the first day!—diving into the influences of Freud and Einstein on modern thought and the ramifications on everything from literature to war. By the time she dismisses us—the Academy doesn’t have bells at the end of class—my brain is fried.

Only three more classes until lunch.

We walk out into the hall and there are students everywhere.

Unlike the hall inside the front entrance, the rest of the building looks pretty much like a school. The halls and floors are typical off-white and lined with lockers. Classrooms branch off on both sides, with big windows that look out over either the hills surrounding the school or the inner courtyard. All of the upper-grade classes meet on the second floor, while the lower grades take up the first. I guess that’s so the younger kids can have recess out in the courtyard.

“Who do you have next?” Nicole asks.

I glance at the schedule Damian made for me. “Algebra II with Mr. C—”

“Cornball,” she says and snatches the schedule out of my hand. “Me, too.”

“—Cornelius,” I finish.

“Look.” She waves a finger at the schedule and the bottom half glows for a second. “Our afternoon schedule is the same.”

Leaning in, I read the last three classes. Physics II, Art History, and Philosophy. “I’m supposed to be in Computer Applications and Biology,” I argue. “I hate Art and I never had Physics I.”

“No worries,” Nicole says. “I’ll get you through. Science is my thing and Mrs. Otis gives all As for art appreciation.” She frowns at the schedule. “We’ll just have to suffer through Dorcas together— no one gets out of here without Philosophy.”

She shrugs and hands me back the schedule, as if she can’t do anything more about it. Should I be upset? Should I go have Damian change my schedule back?

Or should I be thankful that someone seems happy to have me here and that maybe, just maybe, I’ve actually made a friend?

Folding the schedule, I stuff it in my pocket.

“Wow,” I say. “How’d you do that?”

Nicole looks at me like I’d said the dumbest thing on the planet. “You really are neo, aren’t you?”

“If that means out of my league, then yes.”

“Don’t sweat it, you’ve got me.” Nicole takes my hand and pulls me over to a bare section of wall, out of the crowd’s path. “I didn’t start at the Academy until Level 9. It’s pretty rough if you don’t have help, and most kids here aren’t into going out of their way to help a nothos—or, as some will call you, a kako. There are some basic rules you need to know.”

This morning, Damian had seemed single-mindedly focused on gushing about the school’s impressive history, leaving me to figure out the social stuff on my own. The only help he had offered me was having Stella as a guide. Not that I don’t think she knows every last in and out, but spending all day trailing after her is not my idea of a good time. I had respectfully turned him down.

If Nicole had to go through this just a few years ago, then she is a lot more appealing as a mentor. Even if she is part descendant herself.

“What does kako mean, anyway?” I ask, remembering how Stella had called me that when we met. “It’s not good, is it?”

Nicole shrugs. “It’s a tactless way of saying you’re not a descendant. Nothos is more politically correct.”

I have a feeling that when she says “tactless” she really means “insulting.”

“First of all,” she says, moving on, “cliques at the Academy are a little different. There’s almost no way to break in—not that you should want to—because they’re pretty much determined by your association.”

Association? I don’t understand what she means and decide not to say anything, hoping I’ll figure it out, but she must sense how clueless I am.

“Your family.” She gives me a pointed look. “Your god.”

Still not clear, I look around.

The second floor hall is full of students, and from the outside they all look fully normal. I see all the standard cliques. Populars here and nerds there. Jocks in a huddle and cheerleaders all around them. Freaks glaring at everyone from the corner and geeks trying to avoid getting knocked down. Stoners, burnouts, prudes, and skanks. Nothing unusual.

“Look at that group.” Nicole points across the hall.

Clustered around a set of lockers, a group of girls with perfect hair, heavy makeup, and suggestive clothing cling to boys with metrosexual taste in fashion and gel-spiked hair. Miniskirts and tight T-shirts abound. Not so different from the populars at PacificPark.