Goddess Boot Camp

Two summers ago the track coach from USC—my one and only dream college until a few months ago—asked me to be a counselor for their middle-school running camp. It was me and a girl from Orange County against more than a hundred fifth and sixth graders. I still have nightmares.

So when I see a herd of them closing in on me, I kind of panic.

“N-no,” I stammer. Then I straighten my back—never let them see your fear. As casually as possible, I ask, “What camp are you here for?”

“Duh,” one of the girls says. “Goddess Boot Camp.”

My heart drops like a lead weight into my stomach. Nicole’s uncontrollable laughter when she found out I was going to this stupid camp now makes total sense.

“If you’re not a counselor,” another asks, “why are you here?”

“Um . . . ah . . .” I just can’t bring myself to say it. “I, uh . . .”

“She’s here,” a whiny voice says, “for the same reason as you.”

I turn toward the voice, hoping my ears are playing a trick on me, but knowing exactly who I’ll find standing in the doorway to the courtyard. What have I done to deserve this kind of punishment? Did I piss off the gods in a past life or something?

Seriously, of all the people who might witness my humiliation, Adara is the worst. Partly because I know my hope to keep this under wraps is now a total fantasy. Mainly because I know she will love watching every second of it. From the smug smile on her face, she already is.

She looks like camp counselor Barbie. Even in the shadow of the doorway, her yellow-blonde hair glistens. She’s wearing a pair of pink camo cargo pants and a tight white baby tee that says GODDESS BOOT CAMP in glittery pink army letters.

I feel a bit scruffy in my old gray sweats and my I’M THE FAST GIRL YOUR MOTHER WARNED YOU ABOUT tee.

“Welcome to Goddess Boot Camp, Phoebe,” she says, bouncing into the courtyard. “We’re going to have lots of fun in the next two weeks.”

She punctuates her falsely cheerful and heavily sarcastic statement with a lip-glossed smile. For about thirty seconds we have a kind of stare-down—like we’re both too afraid or too proud to be the first to look away. The girls around us, sensing some kind of confrontation, start oohing.

“Do you have the welcome packets, Dara?”

Oh no! Just when I thought my life couldn’t get worse.

“I can’t find them in my bag.”

I break eye contact with Adara just in time to see Stella hurrying into the courtyard, digging through her Pepto-pink purse for the missing schedules.

“I have them,” Adara says as Stella reaches our little group.

She smiles big as she looks up at me. “Hi, Phoebe. You made it on time.”

“What is this crap?” I demand.

“You said a bad word,” a ten-year-old says.

“Yes,” Adara agrees, nodding at the tattletale. Then she gives me a stern look. “But she won’t do it again.”

“Can I talk to you for a second?” I snap at Stella, not letting her respond before grabbing her by the elbow and pulling her away from the gaggle. “What in the name of Nike is going on?”

“What do you mean?” she asks innocently.

I scowl. Why is she being so cheery about all of this? “Wait a second,” I say. “This is why you’ve been so giddy, isn’t it? You’ve been plotting all the ways you could torture and humiliate me during camp.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says, still smiling. “Why would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Because you hate me?”

“Phoebe, I don’t—”

“Forget it,” I say, fed up. “I’m not sticking around for this. Who cares if I fail the stupid test. I’ll just—”

Stella’s eyes look over my shoulder and she practically melts. Well, as much as Stella can melt, anyway. Her face gets this totally dreamy look and somehow I know it’s not just my humiliation she’s been fantasizing about.

“Morning, Xander,” she calls out, waving at someone behind me.

I spin around, eager to see who can turn the queen of mean into a total delight. Walking into the courtyard is a tall, brooding rebel boy, dark and dangerous right down to his scuffed motorcycle boots. Without even a second glance I can tell he’s trouble. He has that go-ahead-and-try look in his eyes. Like he’s always looking for a fight.

He doesn’t say anything, just kind of jerks his chin—the way guys do when they think they’re too cool to wave—in our direction.

Stella follows him with her eyes as he crosses the courtyard and takes a seat on one of the benches. When he stretches out his legs and kicks one boot over the other, I think I hear her sigh.

Then again, it could have been one of the ten-year-olds, since every last one of them is staring at him like he’s the gods’ gift to girls. Maybe he is. With his short-cropped, dark blond hair, chiseled cheeks and jaw, and serious set of muscles—displayed clearly in his tight black T-shirt—he looks like he walked straight out of an action movie.

Only Adara and I seem to be unaffected by his beauty. I prefer the dark, curly-haired, distance-runner type. She probably does, too.

“Who is he?” I ask Stella.

“Xander Katara,” she replies absently, reverently, still openly staring.

“What’s he doing here?” I smile as a thought occurs. Maybe I’m not the only grown-up in the camp. He looks like the kind of guy who knows how to wield his powers, but maybe not. “Is he in the camp, too?”