I just cross my arms. As if anything I say is going to convince her that Xander’s at fault here.

“Hold this for me.” She hands Xander—who spears me with a nervous scowl—her clipboard. Holding out her hands, she says, “Try with me, Phoebe.”

“Yeah, right.”

Her jaw clenches so tight I can see it.

“Just try,” she practically growls.

Fine. Whatever. I spin around, fling out my arms, and hesitate. My heart is still pounding from my almost crash with Xander.

“This time,” Stella says, her voice soft and reassuring, “don’t think about trusting me to catch you.”

“Good,” I retort. “Because I don’t.”

“Instead,” she continues like I didn’t snap at her, “think about trusting yourself not to fall.”

“What?” That doesn’t even make any sense.

“Just try it.”

Fine, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I think, I. Will. Not. Fall.

I fall back.

She catches me yards before I hit the ground.

I hear clapping.

When I open my eyes, I see Stella and Xander on either side of me, standing over me.

“Congratulations,” Stella says, beaming. “You just earned your first merit badge.”

I stare at her clapping hands. “You’re not holding me,” I say stupidly.

She shakes her head.

“Then who—”

I twist my head back. No one is there.

“You are,” Stella says triumphantly.

I crash to the ground in a heap.

CHAPTER 6

PSYCHODICTATION

SOURCE: ATHENA

The ability to communicate telepathically, whether in words, feelings, or other ways, with another hematheos. Communication should not be attempted without proper training, because of rare but serious risk of brain aneurism. (See Psychospection for the ability to read another’s thoughts.)

DYNAMOTHEOS STUDY GUIDE © Stella Petrolas

WHEN I PUSH THROUGH the glass door of the ice-cream parlor, the owner waves. “Afternoon, Phoebe.”

I tell myself Demetrius knows my name because he prides himself on knowing every student’s name—not because I have an ice-cream problem or anything.

“How was camp today?” he asks.

Demetrius, a descendant of Clio—the muse of history—and a major throwback to the fifties, keeps the place in perfect Happy Days style. Chrome and sky-blue vinyl everywhere. A long bar with round, counter-height stools. A pair of cramped booths in the back with mini-jukeboxes on the tables. And just about any ice-cream flavor you could ever imagine.

I shrug. “Fine.”

“Phoebe,” Nicole calls out from one of the booths.

Troy waves and says, “Hey!”

“Be right there,” I say, then turn to Demetrius to place my order. “I’ll have my usual.”

My mouth starts salivating at the thought of that perfectly spherical scoop of mint chocolate chip perched on a crunchy brown sugar cone. Knowing Griffin is going to crack down on our training nutritional plan any minute now makes the indulgence even more enticing. Allure of the forbidden and all that.

“Not today,” Demetrius says. “I’ve got something better.”

Better? What could be better?

“Try this,” he says. “On the house.”

I take the cone and eye it suspiciously. It looks like pretty average ice cream—vanilla colored with little white flecks.

“Thanks,” I say, a little defeated. But it’s not like I can resent free ice cream.

“Try it.”

With a shrug, I dart out my tongue for a quick sample. My taste buds explode with a long-forgotten flavor.

“Oh my gods,” I gasp, staring at Demetrius. “You didn’t!”

He smiles smugly. “I did.”

Nicole, tired of waiting for me, shouts out, “He did what?”

I stare, wide-eyed, at my new favorite person on the planet.

“This ice-cream genius,” I say between licks, “re-created Ben & Jerry’s White Russian. Perfectly.” I shake my head in awe. “My all-time favorite.”

Demetrius winks at me. “You’re welcome.”

“I could just jump over this counter and hug you.” I take another lick.

He actually blushes. “Go on,” he says, gesturing me away. “Your friends are waiting.”

“Thanks.”

As I slide into the sky-blue booth next to Nicole, Troy asks, “Why are you getting apoplectic over ice cream?”

“This isn’t just any ice cream,” I explain. “This is the best flavor ever invented. B&J discontinued it years ago and I haven’t had a taste since. Here,” I say, holding out the cone, “try it.”

Troy turns kind of green and shakes his head adamantly.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, jabbing the ice cream in his direction.

“Oh gods,” Troy yelps, then claps one hand over his mouth and the other over my wrist, shoving me away.

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask Nicole.

“When he was in Athens last week,” she says, giving Troy a sympathetic look, “he finally told his parents he wants to be a musician.”

“Good for you!” I congratulate Troy, who still looks more green than not. We’ve been trying to get him to come clean for months. He’s from a long line of doctors—like millennia long—so of course that’s what his parents want him to be. But music is in his soul. He’d be miserable as a doctor, and I know his parents would understand that. “What does that have to do with ice cream?”