Heart of a Traitor

10: Only Us

Mr. Brunner rolls his wheelchair down each aisle, handing every student a packet. "I realize that today marks the last day before your summer vacation," he tells the class, "but we are still doing work in this class."

Groans and comments of complaint spread around the classroom.

A packet lands in front of me. I look down at it, concentrating on the letters. It takes a second to read the title. My dyslexia makes me mix up my u's and o's. Who's Your Greek Parent? is written in bold letters at the top. I try not to roll my eyes. Mr. Brunner has a tendency to be more of a mythology teacher than a Latin professor.

I look over at Grover, the only friend I have at the school that I actually care about. He's already rushing to fill out the questionnaire.

Mr. Brunner continues to give out directions, telling us that the packet takes data about our personality and uses that to see which Olympian we'd most likely be related to.

I look back at my packet. The questions range from what's your favorite color? to what's your favorite pastime? I don't bother to answer anything. Grover finishes within a matter of minutes. He frowns at me when he sees I haven't started. A simple shrug is all I give him.

"I expect these to be turned in before you leave," Mr. Brunner tells the class moments before the bell rings.

Grover and I walk out together. When I hand Mr. Brunner the empty packet, he gives me a disappointed frown.

"Helen, will you stay here for a minute?" he asks me. "I want to speak with you about something."

I glance at Grover, who's waiting for me in the doorway. I motion for him to go, knowing that we'll probably catch up sometime later.

Once we're alone, Mr. Brunner says, "Helen, you're a bright girl. You have potential--that's been clear since the first day I taught you. You've picked up Latin quicker than anyone else I've ever taught, and I've been teaching for a long time. So why is that you disengage yourself whenever I bring up Greek mythology?"

Why does it matter? I think to myself. I just shrug.

"Why didn't you answer the packet?" He sounds personally offended.

I hesitate, trying to think of a reasonable excuse. "It's the last day of school, no one's going to do work."

"Everyone answered that packet, save for you," he points out.

Shit. "I'm not feeling well."

"You look fine to me," he notes.

"I don't see the point," I finally tell him. "I don't care which Greek god or goddess my personality matches up with."

"Who do you think you would match with?" Mr. Brunner wonders, watching me with curious eyes.

Daughter of Poseidon. I hear his cold voice in my mind. The voice that never goes away, especially in my dreams.

"I don't know," I lie, then rush out of the door before he can say anything else.

In the hallway, students are everywhere. I push my way through the noisy crowd to get to my locker. My camera is carefully tucked away in the back of my locker. I exchange that for my notebooks, glad to be rid of them for the next three months.

In the parking lot, Jake is already waiting for me with Medusa. His rusty old truck was named such because of it's uncanny ability to make people freeze when they first notice it. The peeling paint and lack of AC made anyone want to face up to the Greek monster rather than spend twenty minutes in the truck. At least, that was what I'd told Jake when I suggested the name. It's stuck ever since.

Of course, we have enough money for him to get a better truck. But he insists that he likes it like this. He's obsessed with the "aesthetic" of an old red truck.

"Lighten up, El," he tells me when I hop into the passenger seat. "It's summer break!"

I force a smile, then look out the window. I say nothing as we pull out of the parking lot. Red Hot Chili Peppers blasts from the stereo, singing about Scar Tissue. They're Jake's favorite band.

When we're a mile away from home, Jake turns down the music, asking me what's wrong.

If he were anyone anyone else, I would smile at him and convincingly tell him that I'm just tired from school. But he's not anyone else. He's Jake. He's my best friend. I can't bring myself to lie to him.

"Mr. Brunner made us fill out this stupid packet," I admit.

"You're upset about schoolwork?" He sounds surprised.

"I just think it's stupid," I say. "I mean, he's a Latin teacher, and yet he talks more about the Greek gods than anything else."

"The cultures tend to mix," Jake tells me.

I frown at him. "You're taking his side?"

"There's no sides to take," he says. "Why's the packet even bothering you?"

It's not the packet. It's the memories the packet brought up. Kronos. My eleventh birthday. And him. In the last three years, I haven't been able to bring myself to think his name. It hurts too much to think about any of it.

I don't tell Jake any of this, though. We may be close, but there's some things that even Jake doesn't know. So I don't reply.

"What are you doing today?" I wonder, trying to make conversation. And also to see if he can drop me off at the store to get my film developed.

"I have to pack," he tells me.

It hits me then. I completely forgot about his summer plans. For the last three years, Jake's gone to a summer camp in Long Island Sound. He leaves the first day of break and doesn't return until just a few days before school resumes. Since I ran away, I haven't spent a single moment of summer break with him. It makes me resent the camp that he loves going to so much.

"Oh," I say. "Right."

"I can take you by the store so you can get new film," he tells me.

I haven't even said anything about needing new film. He just knows. That's what I love about him.

"So how's that camp?" I try to hide the annoyance in my voice. "Do you like it?"

"I love it," he says me with a smile. "It's like my second home. I wish you could go, El. You'd take one look at it and love it."

I doubt that. "What do you even do there?"

He takes a second to answer. "Just... regular summer camp stuff."

That's not vague at all, I think. But I don't press it. In fact, Jake's stupid summer camp becomes the last thing on my mind when we pull up to the house. Grover's already there, standing on the front porch. That's not surprising. He comes over to my house all the time. But there's something different this time. His hands shake by his sides, almost like he's nervous.

As soon as Jake stops the truck, I get out. "Grover? What's up?"

His eyes reach mine. They're filled with dread. "You need to come with me. Right now." He looks between Jake and me. "Both of you."