Oh. My. Gods. by Tera Lynn Childs Page A

a descendant.”
    “Oh, then I guess so.” It’s true, after all.
    She sticks out her hand. “I’m Nicole.”
    “Phoebe,” I say, smiling as I shake her hand.
    Nicole is the first person I’ve met at the Academy. Okay, so technically I’m only in my first class—World Literature of the Twentieth Century—and it hasn’t even started yet, but still, a first is a first.
    “Your stepsister is an evil harpy.” Her voice is stone cold and I must look as frightened as I feel because she hurries to add, “In a purely metaphysical way.”
    “Oh.” Whew. Not that I would be the tiniest bit surprised if that were true, given everything I’ve learned in the last eighteen hours. And beautiful but vicious pretty much describes Stella perfectly. “Tell me about it.”
    “Have you got a year?” she asks and I like her immediately.
    Clearly, Stella is not high on her list of favorite people, either.
    I am still laughing when the teacher, Ms. Tyrovolas—I can already see myself in detention for repeated mispronunciation, so I should probably just go with Ms. T—walks in. High school teachers at PacificPark do not look like this: almost six feet tall, light brown hair curled and pinned up all around her head like a crown, and wearing something that looks like a cross between a sheet and an evening gown.
    Staring is horribly rude, but I can’t help it. I’ve never seen anyone who looked like that—not even in Los Angeles, where weirdos come out to play.
    Without looking at me, Ms. Tyrovolas says, “I see you are unfamiliar with the costume of ancient Greece, Miss Castro.”
    I blink, not really knowing how to respond. She did catch me staring, after all, even if she had her back to me at the time.
    The entire class turns to stare at me.
    Trying to act cool, I swipe a hand over my head to make sure I haven’t sprouted horns or anything. Haven’t they ever had a new student in class before?
    “Um, not really, Ms. Tra— um, Tivo— Tul—”
    Nicole whispers, “Tyrovolas.”
    “Turvolis,” I say, my voice catching. Why didn’t I just go with Ms. T?
    Ms. T turns around and everyone is instantly focused on their desks.
    I try to smile, but I think it comes across more as a grimace.
    “The tradition has been passed down since the founding of the Academy,” she explains, “and I choose not to disregard our history.”
    At least I don’t have to dress that way. My personal uniform of jeans and a T-shirt suits me just fine. On the rare occasion of a more formal event, Mom usually has to bribe me into dressy pants. A dress would cost her World Cup tickets.
    Don’t think she won’t have to pay to get me into a bridesmaid’s dress for the wedding.
    “Tyrant is steadfast about tradition,” Nicole whispers.
    Which maybe explains why Ms. T is giving her a dirty look. With her short, bleached blonde hair—in an I’m-a-little-bit-punk and not at all I’m-a-cheerleader kind of way—half an arm of hot pink and white jelly bracelets, and silver glitter eyeshadow, Nicole is far from traditional.
    “Thanks for the heads up,” I say back. “So, are the teachers here . . . I mean, is Ms. T a—”
    “Descendant?” Nicole asks. “Oh yeah. She’s direct lineage from Athena. We’re talking serious bookworm.”
    “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