Almost cool, even.

A sudden outburst sounds down the beach. With lazy heaviness, I loll my head to the side. Griffin and a bunch of other tricksters armed with a water balloon in each hand-are chasing after Adara and her cheerleader groupies. I recognize a couple of the long distance guys, Christopher and Costas. Christopher is super tall, blond, and actually very sweet-he volunteered to be my training partner at practice when no one else would. Costas, on the other hand, is like a shorter version of Griffin.

While I watch, the boys get the girls surrounded and hold the water balloons menacingly over their heads.

Did I say this island was almost cool? I meant juvenile.

I guess boys are the same everywhere-godly or not.

“Are you sure you want to get in the middle of that?” Nicole asks, drawing my attention away from the chase scene.

“Yeah,” I reply, reluctant. “I haven’t got a-”

“Aaack!” Adara’s scream pierces the air as Griffin and Costas trap her between them and pummel her with water balloons.

Now she’s cold and wet. I don’t envy her.

“-choice,” I finish.

“All right.” Nicole cocks her eyebrows. “But don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

“Consider me warned.”

Just then, Griffin-still shaking with laughter at his water balloon strike-looks our way. His eyes stop on me, intense and disapproving. He points at me. The sand next to me glows and a folded piece of paper appears.

Reaching across my chest, I pick up the paper and unfold the note.


Sunday. Noon. Be ready to work.


When I look back up he’s gone.


Mom and I stare at the glass display cases filled with shelf after shelf of bakery goodness. There are trays of biscuits, baklava, cakes, pies, and tortes. It seems like they’re all drizzled with honey and lit just right to make the reflection hypnotizing. On the wall behind the cases are shelves of baskets, overflowing with dozens of breads.

Everything from fist-sized olive rolls to three-foot-long tsoureki, a braided festival bread Yia Yia Minta bakes every Greek Independence Day. I bite my lower lip to keep from drooling.

“I’ve never seen such a variety,” Mom says, leaning closer to examine the pies. “No wonder your grandmother is always baking-she could make a different recipe every day of the year and never repeat one.”

“Don’t tell Yia Yia Minta,” I say, “but these look better than hers.”

“I hope so.” A short, round, middle-aged woman wearing a white chef ’s coat emerges from the back room, dusting flour off her hands. “We have the Hestia Seal.”

“What is the Hestia Seal?” Mom asks.

“Ah, you must be the new nothos on the island.” The woman smiles, her fleshy cheeks pushing out into pink apples. “I am Lilika, a descendant of Hestia. My recipes come from the goddess of the hearth herself and are unmatched in all the world.”

“So nice to meet you, Lilika,” Mom says. She wraps her fingers around my T-shirt sleeve and jerks my attention away from the baklava. “I’m Valerie Petrolas, and this is my daughter, Phoebe.”

I’m so captivated by the display of treats that I barely register the fact that Mom introduced herself as a Petrolas. “Holy crap!” I drop to my knees, pressing my face closer to the glass. Closer to the treat to end all treats. “Is that… bougatsa?”

“The young lady has a favorite, no?” Lilika moves around behind the case, sliding open the panel in the back. “This is my favorite as well.”

“We have to get some, Mom.” I look up at her, pleading. She doesn’t answer, so I crawl closer until I’m at her feet. The bell over the front door rings but I don’t care. I’m focused on begging. Nothing but that sweet custard and cheese pastry could reduce me to begging-well, that and the new Nike+ with built-in iPod sensor.

“Please, please, please.”

Mom laughs.

Lilika, who is busy pulling the bougatsa out of the case, glances up to see who walked in. “ Moro mou! ” she squeals. She slides the tray back into the case. “ Pou sas echei ontas, Griffin?”

I only understand one word of what she says, but that name is all I need to know that mortification is in my future. My very near future.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been by in a while, Aunt Lili,” the voice that I dread hearing says. “I’ve been busy.”

Maybe it’s my imagination, but I can feel him staring at me.

Who wouldn’t stare at a girl on her knees in the middle of a bakery, pleading with her mom for some stupid pastry. Even if it is the most delicious, custardy pastry she’s ever eaten.

Carefully, so I don’t draw attention to myself in the off chance that he hasn’t noticed me, I push off the floor. Still, I can’t turn around. Having Griffin laugh at me at school in front of a ton of kids I don’t even know was bad enough, but I don’t think I’d survive him laughing at me in front of Mom. The kids at the Academy won’t even exist on my radar in nine months. Mom is my mom forever.

“Silly boy,” Lilika says. Then she gasps. “Of course, you must meet Phoebe. She is new to the Academy. Sweetheart,” she says and I can tell she’s turned her attention back to me, “I’d like you to meet my nephew, Griffin.”

“Phoebe,” he says, his voice low and steady. No emotion.

Against my better judgment I turn around to face him. I clasp my hands behind my back so I’m not tempted to wave like a total dork. “Griffin.”

He looks adorable, as always. Droplets of water hang off his dark curls, like he just took a shower, and the red cotton of his T-shirt clings in a few choice places. He’s watching me with a fixed, unreadable gaze.

I can’t tell if he’s furious or completely unaffected by my presence.

“Wonderful.” Lilika claps her hands. “You have already met.”

“We’re on the cross-country team together, Aunt.”

I expect him to add something jerky like, “For now.” Or, “Until she loses that first race.” When he doesn’t, I tilt my head, wondering if I’m looking at the real Griffin Blake. Sure looks like him.

“You must be Mrs. Petrolas,” he says, stepping forward and holding out his hand to Mom. “Griffin Blake.”

“Valerie, please,” she says. As she shakes his hand she gives me a look that clearly says, Cute one! “I’m always pleased to meet Phoebe’s teammates. Though she might not say it, she’s very excited to be on the team.”

Thanks, Mom.

Griffin smiles politely. He flicks his eyes over at me as he says, “We’re excited to have her on the team. She is the most challenging runner I’ve ever practiced with.”

What was that? Sarcasm? Mockery? It didn’t sound fake, but it had to be. Well, I’m not going to stick around to be laughed at with backhanded compliments.

“Speaking of practicing,” I say, grabbing Mom by the hand, “I have tons of homework to finish before my afternoon session.”

Mom frowns, like she doesn’t understand what’s gotten into me, but lets me lead her out of the store. “Phoebe, honey,” she says when we get out onto the cobblestone street, “is everything okay?”

“Sure,” I say. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“One minute you’re begging for bougatsa, the next you’re dragging me out the door.”

Darn! I totally forgot the bougatsa. For a second I think about going back, but decide that even custardy goodness isn’t worth facing Griffin’s thinly veiled ridicule again.

“Yeah, well, the sugar would mess up my training diet.” Which is a total lie.

Mom doesn’t let it go. “This has something to do with that boy, doesn’t it-”

“Phoebe, wait!”

I turn to see Griffin jogging down the street toward us, a brownpaper bag in his left hand. My heart rate speeds up and I know it’s because I’m hoping he’s running after me to apologize. To say he wasn’t teasing and that he really is glad to have me on the team.

Ha! “Here,” he says, handing me the paper bag. “Aunt Lili didn’t want you to leave without your bougatsa.”

I stare at the bag. Why did my heart have to get its hopes up? “Thanks,” I mumble. “But we didn’t pay for this.”

When I try to give the bag back he waves me off. “Lili wants you to have it.” He dips his head a little so he’s looking into my eyes.

“She says you have excellent taste in pastry.”

“Really?”

He nods, smiling just a tiny bit. I almost miss it.

“Tell her thank you,” Mom says, breaking that momentary connection between me and Griffin.

He looks up at her, his eyes wide like he’d forgotten she was even here. “Sure,” he says. That polite smile returns. “No problem.”

Without another word, he turns and runs back up the street.

“He seems like a nice young man,” Mom says, watching him retreat.

“Yeah,” I say. “If you catch him on a good day.”

Too bad he doesn’t have many.


“You’re not wearing that,” Nicole says the second she walks in my room. “Fuzzy gray sweats will send Griffin into Adara’s arms-not yours.”

She is wearing a dark denim miniskirt and layered red and white tanks and more bangle bracelets than I ever thought a person’s arm could hold. Her look is more back-off than boy-attracting, but I’m not about to argue. Dressing for boys is not in my repertoire.

“Fine,” I say, stepping out of my Nikes and heading to my dresser.

“What should I wear?”

“Let me see.” She pushes me out of the way and begins digging through my drawers, tossing pants and tees over her shoulder.

“No.” Throws item. “Nope.” Throws item. “Nuh-uh.”

I catch my baby blue velour track pants before they can land on the floor. “Do you have to throw everything?”