Tiffany Tumbles: Book One of the Interim Fates (14 page)

In fact, by the time I get a bite—after we’ve found a table near the window, away from the cool kids and their potential yack—I realize it doesn’t taste half bad either. It’s certainly better than the crap I’ve had for the past week or so in the cafeteria.

“So,” Olivia says, “you were telling me about your dad. What did he do to you? Beat you?”

I’m shocked. I can’t believe she’d ask that question. Not because it’s unlikely—in Olympus, we learned about all kinds of weird stuff—but because we don’t know each other. Sometimes I wouldn’t even tell my sisters stuff I was thinking.

I certainly am not going to tell some stranger that my dad’s a beater—which he most certainly is not. My dad wouldn’t beat anyone. That requires fists and my dad is too sophisticated for that. But I can’t say anything that I want to say, like my dad prefers magic to punching or whatever.

“I thought you wanted to know about Greece,” I say.

“I want to know about
you
,” Olivia says. “You’re the stranger.”

“To you,” I say, “but everyone here is strange to me.”

She grins, like I’ve been really witty, and says, “I can see how that goes.”

She picks at her salad, then opens the apple pie. It’s steaming and it smells of cinnamon. She eats a big bite of it before saying, “I’ve lived here my whole life. My parents were born here. My grandparents too. They hate how I dress, which is why I started to do it, but now I just do it because I like how it looks. Do you like how it looks?”

I shrug. “I don’t know how you’d look any other way.”

She laughs. “You’re not a diplomat. I’ll say that for you.”

“Is that good?” Because I know back on Mount Olympus my lack of diplomatic skills (my willingness to say what was on my mind) was one of the many problems the Powers had with my Interim Fate duties. Only they (the Powers, not the duties) assumed that my lack of diplomacy came from my age, not my personality.

I wonder if it is because of my personality. There seem to be diplomatic kids here, even if they mostly stay away from me.

“Hell, no,” Olivia says. “I like people who speak their mind.”

“Then you’ll like me,” I mutter.

She lifts her paper Coke cup and tilts it toward mine, straw and all. “Here’s to that,” she says.

I lift my cup and touch it to hers. Then I take a sip, which pretty much drains the water from the whole thing.

Before she can ask another question, I’m up to get myself more water.

“If it isn’t Interim Fate, you’d better
believe
it,” a voice says behind me.

I turn around. It’s Josh. My heart leaps and I try to tell it, “hey, he’s just a servant,” but I remember Mom’s lecture (and how I might be sold into servitude) and I think maybe that’s not so bad.

“How are you, Josh?” I ask, sounding lame.

He grins. “Didn’t know you had lunch at this time of day.”

“It’s my first visit to McDonald’s,” I say.

“Yeah, or I would’ve seen you. How come you never came before?”

I shrug. “I watch too many movies.”

He frowns, and then the frown clears when he gets it. “You mean that one about the guy who got fat eating fast food? It’s a myth, kiddo.”

I smile in spite of myself because I can actually say what I’m thinking, be truthful, and not give anything away. “You know, I’ve learned, coming from Greece, that a lot of myths aren’t all that far from reality.”

“I bet,” he says. “I hear there are temples there to the Greek gods. Is that true?”

I nod. “I used to go to school in Athena’s temple.”

I figured I could say that because it’s true too, and the temple exists for mortals as well as mages.

“I thought you were homeschooled.”

“My sister would take me there,” I say.

“Cool. Do you miss it?” He leans against the soda machine like he owns it.

“Being homeschooled?” I ask.

“Greece,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I miss it a lot. My whole family’s back there. Except my mom.”

“How’d she end up here?” he asks.

“They offered her tenure, whatever that is,” I say.

He grins like I’m being witty. I guess being honest passes for witty in Eugene, Oregon.

“But your dad is still in Greece, huh?” Josh asks.

I’m not sure why he cares, but I’m kinda glad he does. Okay, I’m really glad. He’s the most interesting person I’ve met so far, no offense to Olivia, who just seems like she’d trying to rebel (and not doing it real well), and Jenna, who’s just trying to survive from one day to the next. Even Helen seems like somebody I would have expected to meet, given what I’ve seen in movies (sorry, Mom, but sometimes they have some truth).

But Josh, he’s different. He has a job, and he doesn’t seem to care that people see him talking to me, and he remembers stuff, like my t-shirt. (Okay, he probably remembered that because he was checking out my chest, but he wasn’t that obvious about it, and he hasn’t said anything lame about it either, like how come you don’t wear t-shirts anymore? Or something like that. He’s being cool, at least what I think is cool.)

I step up to the soda fountain and get more water.

“Here,” Josh says, and hands me a bigger cup. “Use this.”

I frown at him. “But they gave me this.”

“And they don’t monitor anything in this place, not when the high school crowd is here. We’ll just tell them it’s mine if they ask.”

“Okay.” I feel a little surprised—both at him and at me—I mean, I’m not usually one for rules (although I’m trying) and he seems pretty cavalier about the whole thing.

“So you don’t want to tell me about your dad?” Josh asked.

“No,” I say. I’d actually forgotten the question in my ruminations about Josh’s motives. “I mean, I don’t mind. He might be in Greece. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Josh sounds surprised. He takes the cup from me and presses it hard against this metal bar. Ice pours into the cup. Then he hands the cup back.

I stare at it, surprised at all the ice.

“Now fill it with water,” he says.

He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m clueless about this stuff. My hand shakes as I press the button marked “water” in teeny tiny letters.

“My dad, he goes wherever he wants,” I say.

“Now that he doesn’t have custody, he feels free, huh?” Josh nods. “I get that. My dad was the same way.”

I want to correct him about my dad, to tell him that my dad always felt free, but Josh hasn’t volunteered much before now.

“Your dad lost custody?” I ask.

Josh shrugs one shoulder. “Never tried to get it. Mom had to force him to pay child support and to set up visits, not that he ever comes. Always some lame excuse.”

He smiles, but the smile’s sad.

“Wow,” I say. “We’re having trouble making my dad back off.”

“If he’s that interested, how did he lose custody?”

I put one of those lids on my cup, then grab a straw. “He’s only interested in the stuff he can’t have.”

“Harsh,” Josh says.

It’s my turn to shrug. “But true.”

“Tiffany?” Olivia has made her way over. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I say, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. She doesn’t know that I’m enjoying this conversation. She probably thinks I’m trapped or something.

She glares at Josh and he tips an imaginary hat to her. Then he goes back to his friends.

“You like him?” she asks in a voice that’s way too loud.

“He’s nice to me,” I say.

“That’s weird,” she says. “You got your water?”

I nod.

She leads us back to the table. Her apple pie is gone, but her salad looks like it did when she got it. My chicken sandwich is missing the single bite I took.

We sit back down. I take a big slug of water (it does taste better with the ice) and then another bite of my sandwich. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Josh, waving his hands as he talks to the two boys he’s sitting with.

“How come it’s weird that he’s nice to me?” I ask.

Olivia stirs the lettuce in her salad. “Because he usually goes for blondes. Airheady blondes. You know, cheerleaders and stuff.”

I think of Brittany. She seems airheady and she’s blonde. And beautiful too. But she can be smart when she wants to.

Suddenly I miss her so much my stomach hurts.

“You okay?” Olivia asks. Maybe that’s the only question people feel they can ask me.

I nod.

“I don’t mean anything by it,” she says. “I mean, he’s okay for one of the cool guys. Maybe he’s interested because you’re so exotic.”

“Exotic?”

“How many other people here look like you? That skin, those eyes—all black like that—your accent. You’re exotic. We don’t get exotic here much.”

“That’s what interests you, isn’t it?” I ask before I can stop myself. “I mean, you wanted to talk to me because I’m from Greece, you said, and then you ask for dish on my family.”

She grins. Then shrugs. Then her grin grows wider. “I’ve known most of these people since the third grade,” she says. “I know who their parents are and when each one had their first kiss and from who—”

“Whom,” I mutter. I am good at grammar in all my languages, even when I choose not to use it.

“What
ever
,” she says. “I know everything about them, and sometimes too much, as you’ll figure out in gym soon enough.”

I frown. I’m not sure what that reference is to, and I’m not sure I want to know.

“And you don’t like Josh?” I ask.

“I didn’t say that,” she says. “I just think he’s predictable, you know? He likes blonde cheerleaders, girls he can lead around. And suddenly he’s chatting you up. That’s weird. I notice weird.”

“Do you approve?” I ask.

Her grin is so wide it looks like it might eat her face. “It’s not up to me to approve.”

The other students are getting up. I guess it’s nearly time for class. I shove a few more bites of chicken in my mouth and stand too.

Olivia hands me my cup. She keeps hers too.

“But I do approve,” she says really soft. “Not because I like Josh or know much about you. But because you’re something new. And together, you’re something fascinating.”

“We’re not together,” I say.

She shakes her head. “What
ever
,” she says again, and hurries out of the restaurant.

THIRTEEN

LUNCH LEAVES ME
confused, but I’m beginning to think confusion is my natural state—at least here, in the mortal world. I’m not sure why Olivia wanted to talk to me, and I’m really not sure why Josh keeps coming up to me, but I’ll talk to him if he wants to talk to me.

One thing lunch did do is leave me so homesick I can hardly breathe. I sit in English class, listening to Mrs. Fiddler natter on about the way certain story archetypes recur in different cultures. (She’s been talking about this since that myth discussion a few days ago. I don’t understand any of the archetypes as she describes them, but then, I know a lot of the people she calls archetypes. By name, I mean. Y’know. Like Apollo, who is a half brother of mine. Or I know of them. Like Thor, a mage who gives my dad fits because they’re both considered thunder gods. [And sadly, the real Thor looks nothing like Chris Hemsworth.] And these people are nothing like what Mrs. Fiddler describes. Of course, her information is thousands of years out of date, but still.)

While she’s talking, I’m thinking about Josh and blondes and about how, if we were home or I had that iPhone or if I hadn’t agreed to talk to my sisters only once a week or better yet, if I hadn’t given up my magic, I could introduce him to Brittany. If he likes bimbo blondes, my sister would intrigue him from the start and by the time he figured out how smart she is, he’d be hooked.

Not that Brittany needs help meeting guys. They always hang off her because, in my world, she’s exotic—there aren’t a lot of blondes in Olympus—but sisters help each other, right? And since he can’t be interested in me except as something exotic and rare, then he might like my sister.

As if they’d ever meet.

I sigh and try to pay attention. I doodle in my notebook and write down the assignment (something about the difference between myths and fables), and wish I could go home. That’s what I’m coming down to. I want to go home more than anything.

I’m still thinking about this as I walk back to the house. No one talks to me the rest of the day (Jenna waves hi, though) and I manage to avoid getting called on in the rest of my classes.

My stomach burbles all afternoon from the chicken sandwich, which seems to be my reaction to a lot of the food in this town (my mom says it’s because I’m learning whole new cuisines and my system isn’t used to it), and I feel a little logy. Although the logy part could simply be a reaction to the confusion—or maybe because I haven’t been sleeping well.