Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

stand what he’s saying. It’s like I know something’s not sinking in,
but I just can’t figure out what. He says I’m right and I’m wrong. How
can I be both? Either someone helped me cheat or they didn’t.
Damian slides the file folder across the desk; Coach picks it up,
opens it, and shuffles through the stack of papers inside. “Have you
ever done something you thought yourself physically incapable of
doing?” he asks.
Startled by the abrupt change of subject, I snap, “Other than
winning the race?”
“Yes,” Damian says, patiently. “Other than that.”
“No,” I say flatly. Then I remember the time I sent Adara flying
across the locker room. “I mean, I suppose so. Who hasn’t?”
“We’ve done some investigating, Phoebe.” Coach pulls out what
looks like a computer printout of run times. “Ever since you kept
up with me in the first warm-up session I had my suspicions. I
mean, I’m a descendant of Hermes. No nothos should be able to keep
my pace. But you did.”
“So?” I read upside-down that the title of the printout is “Castro
Results.”
“And, like you said, your performance in the race was . . .” He
reads over the report. “. . . Supernatural.”
“Listen,” I say, sniffling, “I appreciate whatever you’re trying to
do to make me feel better, but I know I didn’t win the race fairly, so
if you could get to the point—”
“Phoebe, you’re a descendant of Nike,” Mom says. “You have
godly blood.”
I feel my jaw drop and I think I make a sound like, “Gah ung,”
but everything else blanks out.
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