Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

is a lot more appealing as a mentor. Even if she is part descendant
herself.
“What does kako mean, anyway?” I ask, remembering how Stella
had called me that when we met. “It’s not good, is it?”
Nicole shrugs. “It’s a tactless way of saying you’re not a descendant.
Nothos is more politically correct.”
I have a feeling that when she says “tactless” she really means
“insulting.”
“First of all,” she says, moving on, “cliques at the Academy are
a little different. There’s almost no way to break in—not that you
should want to—because they’re pretty much determined by your
association.”
Association? I don’t understand what she means and decide not
to say anything, hoping I’ll figure it out, but she must sense how
clueless I am.
“Your family.” She gives me a pointed look. “Your god.”
Still not clear, I look around.
The second floor hall is full of students, and from the outside
they all look fully normal. I see all the standard cliques. Populars
here and nerds there. Jocks in a huddle and cheerleaders all around
them. Freaks glaring at everyone from the corner and geeks trying
to avoid getting knocked down. Stoners, burnouts, prudes, and
skanks. Nothing unusual.
“Look at that group.” Nicole points across the hall.
Clustered around a set of lockers, a group of girls with perfect
hair, heavy makeup, and suggestive clothing cling to boys with
metrosexual taste in fashion and gel-spiked hair. Miniskirts and
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