Tera Childs - Oh. My. Gods.

She keeps rummaging, ignoring my question. “Ah-ha!” Pulling a pair of shorts triumphantly from the pile, she waves them over her head. “Put these on.”

They’re the gray shorts with pink pinstripes I bought for the Race for the Cure last year. Pink is so not my color-except for the occasional furry pillow, of course.

“Nicole, these aren’t really-”

“Don’t you have anything besides T-shirts?”

“Um, no. Not-”

“Here then.” She pulls her arms inside her tank top, wiggles around for a second, then emerges with the white under tank in hand. “Put this on.”

“I don’t-”

“Hurry up.” She flings the tank at me. “You shouldn’t be late for your first meeting.”

I catch the tank, think about arguing, then decide it’s futile. Tank and shorts in hand, I head to the bathroom and change out of mycomfy gray sweats. I feel practically naked with my legs and arms fully exposed. I’m not used to showing so much skin except on competition days.

When I get back to my room, Nicole is sprawled on my bed, flipping through an old issue of Runner’s World.

“You actually read this stuff?” she asks, lifting her head. “Holy dolmades!”

She sounds shocked.

“What?”

“You,” she says, dropping the magazine to the floor, “look hot.”

I can feel my cheeks burning red.

Not just because of the compliment. The shorts hug my hips closer than I’m used to, and the tank stretches tight across my breasts, even in my chest-flattening jog bra.

“I had no idea you had curves under those T-shirts.” She circles me, gauging my appearance from every angle, I guess. “We can definitely use those to your advantage. And your legs are great-lean and toned and shapely.”

“Th-thanks,” I stammer. “Do you really think I can…”

I can’t make myself ask the question.

Nicole looks at me for a long time before saying, “If you want him, we’ll get him. Don’t worry. And those…” She gestures at my chest. “… will just make the bait more appealing.”

I’m not sure how good I’ll be at using those at all, but if they’ll help me, then I’m all for it.

“Now that your appearance is set-though you might want to try something other than a ponytail for your hair,” she waves a hand at my apparently inadequate hairstyle. “Let’s discuss strategy.”

I reach up and tighten my ponytail. My hair only has two styles: ponytail and down. Ponytail for running. Down for school.

Not even the great Griffin Blake can induce anything more elaborate from me.

“Before we get to, um, strategy,” I say, knowing that this is a question I need answered before this goes any further, “I want to ask about your history with Griffin. It seems like you have some bad blood and I don’t want to-”

“There’s no history,” she snaps. “Not the romantic kind, anyway.

It’s just a personal disagreement. Don’t worry about it.”

Keep your nose out of my business. I hear the unspoken caution as clearly as if she’d said it aloud.

“Okay.” I can take a blatant hint to move on.

She runs her hands through her spiky blonde hair, sending it in all different directions. “Listen,” she says, taking a seat on my bed. “I don’t really like to talk about this. I mean, I never have talked about this with anyone.”

“I get it.” I sit down next to her. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “You should know.” Taking a deep breath, she says, “Griffin and I used to be friends. Best friends.”

Wow, I did not see that one coming.

“When we were young we got into trouble. Big trouble.” Her eyes shine bright with unshed tears. “My parents wound up exiled from Serfopoula. That’s why I didn’t start at the Academy until Level 9.”

“Oh, Nicole, I’m so sorry.”

“The worst of it was,” she says, wiping at her tears, “they were punished because of what Griffin and I did. Because he wouldn’t accept responsibility for his actions. He let the gods ruin my parents’ lives to save his own skin.”

“I can’t believe that.” I know Griffin can be jerky, but the boy I met on the beach-the one I’m going through all this for-has a good heart. “He wouldn’t do something that would knowingly hurt-”

“He went in to testify,” she snaps. “When he came out, my parents were banished.”

Tears stream down her cheeks. Wrapping my arms around her, I squeeze tight. This is what Mom would call the release of repressed emotion. I think it’s just good for her to let it all out. I can’t believe she never talked to anyone about this before. Then again, everyone else probably already knows the whole story. I’m just glad I could be here for her.

For several minutes we sit there, Nicole crying and me hugging her. Eventually, the tears stop and she begins to sniff.

“So,” I say to alleviate the post-traumatic release silence, “you said something about strategy?”

“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly, jumping to her feet and pretending like she was never crying. “You can’t go in without a game plan.

It’d be like…” She thinks for a second. “… running a race without knowing the course.”

Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like this? “Okay,” I relent. “Strategy.”

“I recommend one part helpless girl, one part ample cleavage, and three parts ego-petting.” She must see the blank look on my face because she adds, “Do I need to write this down?”

“No,” I reply. “But you’ll have to explain it.”

With a whole body sigh, she sits on the bed. “To get Griffin’s attention-in a good way-you need to appeal to his weaknesses.

Those would be playing the hero, ogling breasts, and colossal arrogance that could fill the Parthenon.”

I nod, but am still not really sure what she means.

Nicole rolls her eyes at my continued confusion. “He’s a chauvin istic, hormone-driven, egotistical jerk.”

Oh. Is that all? I already knew that.

“The real question,” she continues, “is how to use that against him.”

“I bet you have a plan.”

“As a matter of fact-” She grins wickedly. “I do.”

I know I’m not going to like this.

“Are you ready for pain?” Griffin asks as I walk up to the starting line.

Nicole suggested I play it weak-no arguing, no witty retorts, nothing but sweetness and sugar. The second I see Griffin’s smug smile I know I can’t play that part.

“I can take anything you dish out, Blake.”

He looks me up and down, hovering over my chest and thighs on the way back up. I’m filled with a little bubble of satisfaction that my clothing is worth the embarrassment. If nothing else, I know that he likes what he sees.

“Let’s get started,” I say when he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry.

“Right,” he says, his eyes snapping back up to my face. “You warmed up?”

“On fire.”

He smirks. “Then on my count.”

We line up at the starting line.

Griffin counts down, “Three, two, one-”

I take off before he says go, speeding down the trail, knowing he’s at least one pace behind. A quarter-mile into the course he catches up with me.

“You cheated.”

“No,” I say casually. “I was just evening the score.”

He has no comeback for that. He knows he cheated last time and I’m confident he’s not going to cheat again. There’s no one here but the two of us to see who wins.

Besides, I bet he’s dying to find out for real who’s faster.

Right then I know I can’t go through with Nicole’s plan. It feels too good to be in a real race for victory-I can’t not compete. I’m going to run this race until my feet bleed. And I’m going to win.

I see a blaze of red out of the corner of my eye.

Turning, I see Nicole’s spiky blonde hair amidst the shrubby trees and undergrowth. What is she doing hA flash of light glows at my feet and next thing I know I’m pitching to the ground, face-first. Even as I tumble, I feel my feet fly out from under me and I know it’s not another case of knotted shoelaces.

No, Nicole just sprained my ankle for me.

“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Griffin is leaning over me, his brows pinched together in concern.

“Yes,” I say, rolling onto my back. “Just peachy.”

“What happened?” He looks really anxious, like I’m going to accuse him of zapping me like last time.

No, I know better.

“I’m not sure. I just tr- aaaack!” I try to stand, but my right ankle buckles under me. Arms flailing, I collapse forward against Griffin’s chest.

Seems like Nicole didn’t just knock me down. My ankle doesn’t hurt or anything, but it won’t support my weight. As I clutch Griffin’s shoulders and claw my way upright, I throw a scowl in the direction of the bushes where I glimpsed her. She’s long gone, I’m sure.

“You must have really twisted that ankle,” Griffin says, placing his hands on my back for support. “Can you walk?”

“Of course I ca- aaaack!”

Another step forward-and another tumble immediately into Griffin’s arms. What did Nicole do, zap away my ankle muscles? “Here.” Griffin comes up behind me, scoops down, and lifts me into his arms. “I’ll carry you.”

“No, really, that’s not nec-”

“Yes,” he interrupts. “It is.”

While it is not totally unappealing to be in his arms, this is not how I’d always imagined it would be. Wait-I mean this is not how I’d fleetingly thought it would be when we came up with this plan.

I never wasted my time imagining Griffin and me doing anything. Promise.