Muses on the Move

  Goddesses 3

  Muses on the Move

  Clea Hantman

  Contents

  Prologue

  When we last saw our heroines, Thalia had it something…

  One

  A caffé latte for Polly, I’ll have a single shot…

  Two

  Many miles and years away, Apollo waited for Zeus on…

  Three

  “We’ll wait out here,” Pocky said, revving the engine of…

  Four

  “Apollo, your mouth may not be talking, but your scalp…

  Five

  “I’ve got to pee,” I said. “Can’t we please stop?”…

  Six

  I can’t believe they’re asleep—it’s not even dinnertime,” whispered Pocky.

  Seven

  I just don’t understand it, Thalia—we just got here way…

  Eight

  Apollo landed on earth with a hard thud and immediately…

  Nine

  Finally this fiasco was coming to an end. My shift…

  Ten

  On to the chocolate factory,” Era said as soon as…

  Eleven

  Apollo pulled into the Colonial Williamsburg parking lot with the…

  Twelve

  We didn’t waste any time. As soon as Pocky was…

  Thirteen

  Its just like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous!” screamed…

  Fourteen

  I knew something was different the moment we stepped outside.

  Fifteen

  Apollo actually made it all 387 miles from Virginia to…

  Sixteen

  “We’ve got to go back!” I cried.

  Seventeen

  The drive was slow and boring until we got to…

  Eighteen

  Oh, these, what are they again, Pocky, they are so…

  Nineteen

  Apollo had gotten stuck in Winchester, Virginia, on his way…

  Twenty

  Everyone except Pocky slept in the car on the way…

  Twenty-One

  Apollo dropped off Claire’s grandpa’s car in silence and slipped…

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  When we last saw our heroines, Thalia had it something bad for Dylan from Denver (aka Apollo in disguise). But thanks to the Furies’ trickery, Apollo headed back to Olympus, thinking Thalia would meet him there. Wrong. The only things waiting for Apollo on Olympus were disappointment and heartache.

  After a rousingly successful turn in survival class Polly and Era, at least, seemed closer to fulfilling their challenges. And though Thalia was crushed over the disappearance of the mysterious Dylan from Denver, all three girls looked forward to returning to their real home, years and miles away in Olympus, someday soon.

  Yet there were no signs from the heavens, no word from their daddy or his messenger, Hermes. Nada. Zilch. Nothing…

  ONE

  Monday, 4:00 P.M., front counter of the local café, the Grind

  “A caffé latte for Polly, I’ll have a single shot of espresso, and hey, Era, what do you want?”

  “An extra-large mocha. With whipped cream. And sprinkles, those chocolate ones,” she said.

  I turned to the exasperated girl behind the counter and continued our order.

  “And an extra-large mocha with whipped cream and sprinkles. Claire, Pocky, what do you want?”

  “A chai soy latte for me,” said Claire.

  “I just wanna Coke, thanks, Thalia—oh, and a muffin, one of those giant muffins. And an oatmeal cookie, too, please,” said Pocky.

  I turned back to the girl and placed the rest of the order, meeting her dirty look with my own equally unpleasant scowl. Then I plopped down on the couch with my sisters, Claire, and Pocky to wait for our drinks. I was in a foul mood.

  Why? Well, for one thing, Dylan from Denver had disappeared into thin air. One day we were friends, maybe even more than friends, and then poof! He was gone, out of my life. As if I haven’t already had enough of the “poof, good-bye” stuff. As in, “Poof, good-bye, Olympus,” “Poof, good-bye, Daddy and most of my sisters and everyone I’ve ever known,” as in, “Poof, good-bye, Apollo.”

  Another thing getting my goat was that we hadn’t heard from Daddy lately or from his messenger, Hermes. And we were all coming along splendidly in the challenges Daddy had given us, so we were expecting to get word any day—telling us our banishment was over and we could come back home to Olympus, back to Pegasus and ambrosia, cloud-soft beds, and our six other beautiful sisters, back to the fragrant gardens and the golden apple orchards and oh, everything.

  Really and truly, we had learned our lesson—at least in my opinion. Polly was actually starting to mind her own business and stick by her convictions (as in, not letting me talk her into anything bad). Era was becoming a strong, independent young woman instead of a boy-crazy dreamer with no willpower. And I was…um…working on it. My selfishness, that is. So where was the reward? Not that I didn’t like earth, but frankly, the days were starting to feel a little ho-hum. And I was missing the fam and friends back home big time. Especially Apollo, my long lost best friend…my other half.

  “So, girls, what’ve you all got planned for the Thanksgiving holiday?” asked Claire. Her formerly purple hair was now dark and tipped in yellow, a color perfectly matched to her favorite eye shadow.

  Before Polly or I had a chance to come up with an acceptable mortal answer to that question, Era chimed in, all curls and smiles. “What’s Thanksgiving?”

  “You’re kidding—you guys don’t know about Thanksgiving?” questioned Pocky, like we were three total freaks (albeit three very fashionably dressed and cute girl freaks).

  I have to say, I was mortified. But then Claire jumped in. “Oh, silly me, of course you don’t know about Thanksgiving since you girls are from Europe. It’s a totally American holiday.”

  “Oh, right,” I muttered, thankful for that we’re-exchange-students-from-Europe story we told when we first arrived here in Athens, Georgia.

  “Wait—holiday? Does that mean we get days off from school? Like how many?” asked Era, thrilled by the prospect of some time away from school.

  “Yeah, we get a four-day weekend—everyone does,” said Claire.

  “I love Thanksgiving!” cried Era, her already rosy cheeks reddening even more with pleasure.

  Suddenly I felt my bad mood drifting away. Four days away from homework. Four days away from the rumors that are always circulating about me and my sisters and how weird we are. Most important, four days away from the Furies. The Furies, who never let us forget they’re here, that they’re three strong complete with magic, that they’re powerful and they’re watching us, waiting for the slightest mistake to send them tattling to our evil, might I even say ugly, stepmother, Hera. “Four days without the Backroom Betties!” I said enthusiastically.

  Our drinks arrived by way of yet another snooty-looking Grind employee. We all fell silent.

  After the gal left, I broached the subject casually. “So, tell me more about this Thanksgiving thing. You Americans have so many cool holidays.”

  “Okay, so like back about four hundred years ago, way long ago, a bunch of people in funny hats came to America, well, to Plymouth Rock, supposedly, to escape religious persecution,” said Claire, wrapping her hands around the chai soy latte. “So they got here and, well, the Indians were already here. They decided to join them in a dinner party to celebrate this new country.”

  “No, no, no, that’s not what Thanksgiving is about,” complained Pocky. Pocky was a little taller and a little thinner than everyone else at school. But he ma
de it even more noticeable by wearing his orange hair in a mohawk as tall as it would go and his clothes as big and baggy as he could get away with without them falling around his ankles.

  Pocky continued. “Thanksgiving is all about food and, okay, giving thanks for those good things in your life, but mostly it’s about food. Like a big golden turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy and sweet potatoes with marshmallows and—”

  “Leave it to you, Pocky, to see the holiday as a food fest,” Claire interrupted disapprovingly.

  “Yeah, well, this year I don’t get any of that,” he said, sulking. “My parents are going to Barbados and leaving me at home alone. They thought by throwing some cash my way, it would make it all better. But no, it doesn’t. No sweet potatoes. No pie. No turkey.” He was almost in tears.

  “I wish my parents would throw some cash at me and be on their way,” said Claire. “I requested that this year they perhaps try making something, I dunno, less cruel. I just can’t sit at that dinner table while my brother and father tear at that poor defenseless turkey like it was their last meal on earth. But noooooo, Mom just laughed at me.”

  “Maybe we should celebrate Thanksgiving together, Claire,” said my kindhearted older sister, who always agrees with Claire’s feelings about animals. You know, if Polly had been born an animal instead of a goddess, I’d say she would’ve been a graceful swan because she’s got all the beauty and gentleness of a long-necked bird.

  “Or maybe we should take advantage of the four-day weekend and go somewhere we’ve never been!” I yelped. Brilliantly, I might add.

  “Yes, yes! I want to go to the chocolate factory—where is that exactly?” asked Era of no one in particular.

  “No, no,” said sensible Polly, her eyes looking downward. I think she was trying to communicate to us that we should have this discussion later, when we were alone. But we ignored her.

  “You guys should go on a trip. A road trip!” encouraged Claire.

  “Yes, a road trip!” I cried, although I didn’t know what that meant.

  “Wait, you guys don’t have a car—what was I thinking?” said Claire.

  Oh, a road trip involved a car. A trip to anywhere involved a car. The thought brought back my bitter mood. The Furies had a car. Two, actually. A sleek little black one and this big contraption—something people call a minivan. It was an ugly, horrid shade of pink—at least that made me feel better. But still, Daddy could have at least given us a—

  “I have a car,” said Pocky, with all the enthusiasm of a Roman fairy* amped up on sugar pellets.

  Now my sister Polly’s eyes were huge and angry and raging blue. I could tell from her disapproving side glances that she didn’t like this conversation in the first place and now the thought that Pocky, a mortal, might join us for four whole days nonstop? I think that just made her livid.

  “But wait, what about your host parents, guys?” asked Claire.

  Polly sighed with relief and started to say, “That’s right,” but I interrupted her and said that our host parents (ahem, our imaginary host parents) hated holidays in general and would be happy to have the house to themselves for a weekend.

  Era cried out, “Yes!” Her thin, long fingers danced in the air.

  “I can’t believe I haven’t had a chance to meet them yet,” Claire replied. “They sound so wacky.”

  Polly just sank lower and lower in the deep, furry brown couch, her porcelain features set into lines of frustration. She couldn’t fight us, at least not in here, in the dark space of the Grind with all these people around. Plus it was two to one. Three to one if you counted Pocky.

  “So when do we leave?” I blurted, continuing to ignore Polly and getting more and more excited.

  “Well, we can leave right after school on Wednesday. It’s a half day, so we’re out by noon,” said Pocky. “And I have to be back by Sunday afternoon to pick up my parents from the airport.”

  “Right. Okay, then, it’s settled—we leave Wednesday.”

  This was really happening. I felt a shiver run up my backbone. And Wednesday was only two days away. And on top of finally getting to go on a real earth adventure and spend a few days away from the Furies and have fun with my sisters and Pocky, there was something else. A teeny tiny possibility had been nibbling at my brain for the past few minutes, and now it was quickly turning into a plan.

  “I wish I could go with you!” cried Claire, pulling me out of my secret plotting mode for a minute.

  “I wish you could go, too, Claire!” I said.

  “Well, I’ll be thinking of you guys while I sit there in front of the poor dead stuffed bird.”

  “Oh, speaking of that,” said Pocky, “I’ll go anywhere you girls want to go since you’re our foreign guests and all. My only request is that on Thanksgiving Day, I get some turkey—sorry, Claire. And mashed potatoes and gravy and stuffing and, let’s see, cranberry sauce and pie…”

  “Fair enough,” I agreed, jerking my head up and down. “Anything you say, Pocky. Anything.” Pocky, Claire, and Era gave me weird looks. Polly just closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead miserably.

  But c’mon, how could I contain my enthusiasm? I was going to see America. I was going to get a bigger glimpse of what this earth thing was all about (somewhere else besides Athens, Georgia). And if I had my way, I was going to end up in Denver. That’s right, the hometown of one cute, quirky, did I mention cute, football player, the one boy besides Apollo I had ever cared for: Dylan from Denver.

  And that, my friend, would be worth all the pie in Georgia.

  Oh, dear Muses, can you be so naive?

  We Furies would follow you beyond Tel Aviv.

  Those are Hera’s orders, for it was us three she chose

  To torment you on earth—from your heads to your toes.

  We heard you speak loosely and wildly of a trip

  As we hid in a corner, nibbling Cheddar cheese dip.

  You’ve used your powers, and for that you will pay,

  But in the meantime more fun’s on the way.

  We don’t know how, but we’ll come up with a scam

  To turn your vacation into a shim and a sham.

  Yes, we swear on our hairstyles and our mauve minivan

  that we’ll make a mockery of your Thanksgiving plan!

  TWO

  Back in Olympus, on the tippy top of Mount Samaras

  Many miles and years away, Apollo waited for Zeus on the top of the flattest mountain in Olympus. They had a tennis game scheduled, but Zeus was a no-show.

  Apollo wasn’t in the mood for a game, anyway. He hadn’t been in the mood for much of anything since Thalia had duped him into coming back to Olympus alone. All that begging Zeus for a chance to help the Muses, all that running around disguised as a football player from someplace called Denver, and for what? For Thalia to break his heart all over again.

  He had stopped playing his lyre.*He had stopped going on adventures. He had stopped fighting crime. All of his favorite things.

  In fact, the sun had not set in days and it was all Apollo’s fault.* But Apollo had neither the will nor the energy to even pet his horses, let alone command them to gallop through the skies.

  Even his own twin sister, Artemis,** couldn’t rouse him for archery or a good game of golf. No, Apollo was down and out. Devastated. Depressed. Things were dire.

  It was quite shocking, really, that he had in fact shown up for the scheduled tennis match. But he was curious. He wanted to see if Zeus had any news about Thalia. He couldn’t stop caring. In fact, he really didn’t want to.

  When he realized Zeus wasn’t coming, part of him longed to go back home to his own small castle in the clouds and bury his head in his silver satin sheets. But the bigger part of him had to know about Thalia. So he went to Zeus’s very large castle in hopes of hearing something, anything, about his love.

  A sprinkle of dust and he was in the castle’s dark and cavernous waiting room. Most of the castle was bright and cheery, but Zeus ha
d purposefully created this room to be as ugly and torturous as possible. He was the all-powerful and mighty Zeus, and he had a reputation to uphold.

  Apollo looked around for servants, but none appeared. And then he realized why. That screaming. That high, shrill, evil voice. It would scare anyone away. Anyone who wasn’t determined to find out at least a nugget of information about the girl they loved.

  Apollo crept up the stairs toward the noise. Eight doors down on the right he found the source. It was coming from Thalia’s old bedroom.

  He pressed his ear to the door (and he really didn’t have to—when Hera screamed, all of Olympus heard).

  “I don’t care, Zeus, the girls have used their powers! They broke my rules…. They’re done for!”

  “Now, Hera, be reasonable. They’ve been getting very good grades in that mortal high school, right? Era even got a B in some survival class! And Thalia, her movie got an A-plus!” Zeus’s voice sounded very desperate.

  Apollo was delighted to hear that his film project with Thalia had scored her a perfect grade. That had to count for something.

  “Grades?” Hera snorted. “I don’t really care about grades. I didn’t send them down there to get an education, I sent them there to punish them for being evil little children who don’t know their place in society.”

  “But Hera, you were the one who made it a condition that they get good grades!”

  “Oh, I don’t care if they win the National Science Award. I just wanted to give them headaches. They’re rotten little scoundrels. They deserve to rot in Hades,* and that’s just where I intend to send them!”

  “No! No, now, Hera, now be reasonable—you are not sending my beautiful girls to Hades. I’m putting my foot down, no.”

  “I don’t care where you put your foot. I gave them rules for their life on earth, and they broke them. The Furies have reported that they have used their magic freely!”

  Apollo crumpled to the floor. Sitting there, so far from Thalia and her sisters, he felt even more helpless, if that were possible. Apollo continued to listen.