“I didn’t think I’d need to use something more powerful,” Coach mutters.

“I believe the glow we all saw was your powers trying to manifest.” Damian leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk. “The fact that yours—latent and dormant as they were—managed to appear at all suggests that they are quite potent.”

I stare at him. “How is that possible?”

“Like any other talent, powers strength vary greatly from person to person,” Damian says. “There is a correlation between strength and the concentration of godly blood you carry. In short, the closer your proximity to a deity, the stronger your powers.”

“Which is a complicated way of saying . . .?”

Mom beams. “That your father was Nike’s grandson.”

It’s a good thing I’m sitting down, because otherwise I think I’d fall over. I’m only one “great” away from a goddess?

“Your powers,” Damian says, “have phenomenal potential.”

Coach pumps his fist. “We are so going to win the Mediterranean Cup this year!” When Mom, Damian, and I all glare at him, he hurries to say, “Not that we’d use her powers to win, of course. Phoebe doesn’t need powers to kick tail on the course.”

Powers? My powers? I have phenomenal powers? Now that is a strange thought.

Yet somehow it makes sense. When I think about how easy running has always come for me, and how sometimes I can almost sense what other people are feeling (not to mention my almost unnatural obsession with Nike shoes) it seems almost logical that I’m descended from the goddess of victory herself. Being here, on Serfopoula, has made these things even more apparent. I dropped my already exceptional running time. I connect with Griffin and—I will never, ever admit this to Mom—I feel even closer to Dad. Maybe it was my godly blood coming home?

Another thought occurs. If I have godly blood then I must be able to zap stuff like everyone else. I know Nicole said you have to learn how to use powers, but I wonder if I can . . .

As soon as the thought enters my mind I get a tingling feeling in my hands. I look down and they’re glowing.

Mom gasps.

Coach’s jaw drops.

Damian smiles. Until the collection of framed diplomas and stuff hanging on the wall suddenly crash to the floor.

Maybe there’s more to this whole zapping thing than I thought.

“Powers are not something to be toyed with.” Damian waves his hand and the frames all zip back up onto the wall. “You will need to train. Extensively. Other students have had years to learn how to control their powers. If you can tap into yours this easily—and unintentionally—then you must take great care in your thoughts and actions until you have mastered them.”

I hang my head. “Sorry.”

Suddenly, the enormity of what I’ve just learned about myself hits me. I’m part god. I have supernatural powers. Powers I have no idea how to control.

“This is the other reason, besides your being my baby girl . . .” Mom gives me a watery smile. “. . . that I think you need to stay on at the Academy for an additional year.”

She’s right. Who knows what kind of damage I can do? I could probably destroy this entire island without even—

No, I probably shouldn’t even think that.

“Hey girls,” I say as I walk out of Damian’s office in a daze.

They’re standing in front of the trophy case with the golden apple, and when I speak they jump like they got caught watching the neighbor boy undress. I know this, because that’s just how we looked when we got caught spying on jerky Justin in eighth grade.

“Hi, Phoebes.” Cesca recovers first. “Have a good chat with the stepdad?”

Nola looks guiltily over her shoulder at the apple. I guess Damian is right: that apple is dangerous.

“Um, actually,” I say, knowing the time has come to tell them the truth about the island, “I have some pretty heavy stuff to tell you guys.” Nola still hasn’t looked away from the trophy case, so I suggest, “Why don’t we go out into the courtyard?”

Cesca and I each grab Nola by a shoulder and drag her around the corner and out through the double doors that open onto the courtyard. There is a line of stone benches circling the perimeter, so we head for one of those.

Nola elects to sit on the ground, pretzel-style, and turns her face up to absorb the sun.

Cesca checks the bench for dust. When it passes inspection, she sits and carefully crosses her legs.

I’m too wound up to sit. Instead, I start pacing. “I have something to tell you.”

“Sounds serious,” Nola says.

“Well . . .” I stalk three steps before spinning around. “It is.”

Nola and Cesca look at each other. Knowing from years of experience that I mean it, they settle in for whatever I have to say.

“Cesca,” I begin. “I don’t know if you told Nola about my IM slip-up—”

“I didn’t.” She looks offended that I would even ask.

“But,” I continue, indicating she shouldn’t interrupt, “I want to explain to both of you the secret of Serfopoula.”

“Aha!” Nola jumps up and points at me. “I knew there was something fishy about this island.”

“Nola, please,” I say.

Cesca smacks her on the leg. “Sit down and let her finish.”

Nola sinks reluctantly back to the ground, but I can tell she’s still gloating. And this time she’s right.