“So because you lost your temper, the children have to suffer?” Mom says.

  “Wisdom comes through suffering!” Dad argues. “And they’ll emerge wisdomer than any Roman!”

  “I kinda like the Romans,” I say. “Oddpollo’s cool.”

  That might not have been the wisdomest thing I’ve ever said.

  “Oh, really, Oddonis,” Dad sneers. “Let’s start your training now.”

  “Oddy’s the one who likes the Romans,” groans Adonis. “Why do I have to pull this stupid oxcart too?”

  “Zit’s pretty obvious, don’t you think, son?” replies Dad.

  Adonis and I cart Dad around all afternoon. After hours of trudging back and forth, Adonis and I are so loopy that we start to feel like actual oxen. So, we do what any boys in our situation would do: we make cow jokes.

  “How does a cow become invisible?” I ask.

  “With camooflage!” Adonis answers. “What do you call a cow that plays an instrument?”

  “A moo-sician!” I snicker. “Where do baby cows go for lunch?”

  “The calfeteria!” Adonis giggles. “What do you call a cow with a nervous twitch?”

  “Beef jerky!” I chortle. “Where do cows put their paintings?”

  “In the moo-seum!” he snorts.

  “STOP! STOP! STOP!” moans Dad. “I can’t take it anymore!”

  “You’re right, Dad,” we reply. “This is . . . udder nonsense!”

  Hard to believe, but Adonis and I actually have fun together, for the first time, like, EVER. Maybe this training program won’t be so bad after all. Moo knows?

  Okay, I’ve got a serious beef with this training program.

  We have breakfast in the dark. Totally weird—but the one good thing is that I don’t have to look at Mom’s oatmeal while I eat it!

  “Why do we have to be up now, Dad?” Adonis complains. “The school chariot won’t be here for an hour!”

  “Chariot?” Dad scoffs. “You’re not riding to school, boys—you’re running. As soon as you’re done with your oatmeal.”

  “Why must my precious Oddy do this?” asks Mom. “He’s no athlete!”

  I know she didn’t mean it the way it came out, but Mom’s right!

  “Every child on Mount Olympus must train,” Dad says. “No exceptions, no mercyyyyyy!”

  After breakfast, Dad stands outside and watches as Adonis and I run to school. Check that: we run until we’re sure Dad can’t see us anymore, and then we walk. Grumpily.

  “This sucks!” Adonis grouses. “I get how you need to train, but I shouldn’t have to. I’m an Adonis!”

  “That’s the kind of thinking that got us into this mess!” I snap. “If you hadn’t been so worried about how you look, maybe you wouldn’t have lost the tug-of-war and Dad wouldn’t have made that bet and we’d still be asleep right now!”

  “You’ll never know how hard it is to be as beautiful as me, Oddy.” He sighs.

  I’m about to take out the world’s smallest violin when I notice a commotion happening outside school. Everybody—and I mean everybody—is there. Students, teachers, workers, you name it. Adonis spots his God peeps and does his usual “I-don’t-know-who-you-are” ditching of me. I find my Odd pals standing near Principal Deadipus, Coach Gluteus Maximus, and Ms. Meticulous. The grown-ups look like they’re about to give a speech. Oh, and they also look ridiculous.

  “Settle, please,” drones Deadipus. “Attention, everyone. By order of our supreme leader, Zeus, school will hereby be canceled until further notice.”

  Commence whooping and hollering and . . .

  BWWWWWOOOOOOONNNNKKKKKK!!!

  . . . some festive farting, too.

  “This is the greatest day ever!” hoots (and toots) Gaseous.

  “No school?” Mathena asks anxiously. “Does that mean no . . . no . . . math?”

  “That’s the sum of it, dearie!” replies Ms. Meticulous.

  “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!” cries Mathena.

  “YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!” cries Gaseous. Tears are streaming down both of their faces—but for totally different reasons.

  “Silence!” barks Deadipus. “Let me finish. School will be canceled and replaced . . . by an intensive program of physical exercise, in preparation for the first-ever Godlympic Games. We will be competing against the Romans—and the stakes could not be higher.”

  Ya think, Principal D? You’ve heard of Go Big or Go Home? That’s nothing compared to Go Big or Lose Your Home!

  The other Odd Gods and I are super-stressed about this “intensive program of physical exercise.” See, sports have never really been our thing.

  I’ve already had a taste of my dad’s training program, and I am NOT a fan. Will this be better . . . or worse? Principal Deadipus clears things up by introducing us to this gray-haired guy with surprisingly muscular arms and legs.

  “Attention, students,” he says. “Please give a warm MOM welcome to our first guest instructor: Sisyphus!”

  “Thanks, Principal Deadipus, and hello, future Godlympians!” states Sisyphus. “I am Sisyphus, and I’m here to coach you on your first drill of the day. You could say it’s a workout I know all too well, because I’ve been cursed to do it for all eternity. It’s pretty simple: together, you all are going to push a rock up a hill.”

  That’s it? We all breathe a sigh of relief . . . until we see Sisyphus’s rock.

  “Mathematically impossible!” declares Mathena.

  “Trust me,” replies Sisyphus. “It can be done.”

  “Piece of cake!” says Adonis. “Heracles, do your stuff!”

  “Sorry, troops—no Heracles,” declares Coach Gluteus Maximus. “He won’t be allowed to compete in every event, so you’ll all have to pick up the slack.”

  “NO HERACLES?” we all scream.

  “Why you say ‘NO, HERACLES’?” replies Heracles. “What Heracles do?”

  “Largest in front, smallest in the back,” Sisyphus says to us.

  “Why the smallest in back?” complains Puneous.

  “So you won’t get stepped on, Ant-Boy!” mocks Adonis. “All right, everybody, take your places! Let’s rock and roll!”

  “And what are you going to do?” I ask my brother.

  “Supervise, of course!” he replies.

  “No dice, Adonis,” says the coach. “Father’s orders.”

  “Rats!” grumbles Adonis.

  We line up behind Sisyphus’s rock and start pushing. Unfortunately, the rock doesn’t seem to notice. It just keeps sitting there.

  “Use your legs!” yells Sisyphus. “Put your backs into it!”

  You know what’s worse than pushing a giant boulder up a hill? Pushing a giant boulder up a hill when you’re standing right behind Gaseous!

  “This . . . hot air,” gags Aphrodite, “is taking the curl out of my hair!”

  “I’d be habby to switch places wid you,” says Germes.

  “Less talking, more pushing!” shouts Coach.

  Ever so slowly, we move the rock up the hill. We’re making progress, until . . .

  “Almost there!” calls Sisyphus. “Shove it!”

  “YOU SHOVE IT!” Puneous yells back.

  Puneous gives one last giant push from the back of the pack, and we heave the rock up on top of the hill. Success!!!

  “We did it!” I croak.

  “Way to go, team!” calls Sisyphus. “You ROCK!”

  “Very funny,” growls Puneous. “Thank Gods we’ll never have to do THAT again!”

  The next day . . .

  “Rock around the clock!” cries Sisyphus.

  “Okay, that’s it!” Puneous declares. “We are not doing this ANYMORE!”

  The next day . . .

  “Rock out!” shouts Sisyphus.

  “We rocked your world, rock!” Puneous roars. “I DARE YOU to roll down again!!!”

  The next day . . .

  “Rock on!” screams Sisyphus.

  After we push the rock up the hill one more time (and the rock chases us down the hill one more time), Principal Deadipus can see that we’ve all hit rock bottom. So he and his torture team pile on even more exercise!

  “Students,” announces Deadipus, “please say hello to our next guest instructor: the Greek Goddess of victory . . . Nike!”

  “Awwww, are you a little tie-tie from pushing that teeny pebble up that tiny hill?” Nike asks us. “Well, TOO BAD—because we’re just getting started! You are going to run and jump and throw and sweat like you’ve never run, jumped, thrown, or sweated in your entire entitled lives! You’re going to hate it at first—heck, you might even hate me—but you’re going to do it anyway. Did you hear me? All of you: Just Do It™!”

  “What if we’re gassy?” asks Gaseous.

  “Just Do It™!” screams Nike.

  “Whad if we’re sickly?” asks Germes.

  “Just Do It™!” screams Nike.

  “What if we have no athletic skills whatsoever and are only here because of our bonehead brother and foolish father?” I ask.

  “JUST DO IT™!!!” screams Nike.

  Oh, well—then I guess we’re just doing it™. Nike tells us to pick an instructor and break into groups to begin our training.

  “Hey, you guys!” whispers Gaseous to the rest of the Odds. “I don’t know about you, but that Nike scares me!”

  “She freaks me oud!” gasps Germes.

  “Well, Coach Gluteus Maximus isn’t going to be any better!” I hiss.

  “Let’s get in Ms. Meticulous’s group!” says Gaseous. “She’s ancient! How hard can she be?”

  “I agree with Gaseous,” says Mathena. “Plus, if we’re lucky, maybe she’ll give us some math problems!”

  “You never stop, do you?” mutters Puneous.

  We follow Ms. Meticulous to the school track. We’re figuring she’ll take us on a nice leisurely walk. Then maybe we’ll do some old-fogey stuff like bird-watching, gardening, a little shuffleboard, and after all that “strenuous” activity, a long nap, right?

  WRONG!

  Ms. Meticulous is a BEAST! By the end of the day, we can barely walk.

  “‘Let’s get in Ms. Meticulous’s group!’” Puneous jeers at Gaseous. “‘She’s ancient! How hard can she be?’”

  “I did not see that comin’!” replies Gaseous.

  “She totally schooled us,” I say.

  “She bead us into de ground,” agrees Germes.

  “Plus, she didn’t give us any math!” moans Mathena.

  Gaseous and I limp home together. On the way, we can’t help noticing that Olympus is starting to look a little . . . different.

  “Nectarade?” I say.

  “Official sports drink of the Godlympic Games?” echoes Gaseous. “What is happening here?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “But I’ll bet you my dad does.”

  I hobble into my house and hear Dad’s voice booming out from behind the closed door of his study.

  “You tell Ambrosia O’s that if they want a piece of these games, they’re going to have to pony up! Otherwise, we’ll get another official cereal for our Godlympics!”

  I shuffle into the kitchen and ask my mom, “What’s going on?”

  “Your father is having a marketing meeting with Plutus, God of wealth and abundance,” Mom says. “More like God of greed, if you ask me.”

  “They’re marketing the Godlympics?” I say.

  “Mm-hmm,” replies Mom. “Did you see your father’s Nectarade ad? I think he looks like an esel.”

  Speaking of esels, Adonis walks in and . . . wow . . . words escape me. . . .

  “Check me out!” he brays. “Official sunglasses, official high-top sandals, and official Godlympic Games helmet!”

  “You look officially idiotic,” I say.

  “Mom, could you please ignore the official loser of the Godlympic Games and make me a sandwich?”

  “I won’t ignore your brother, but I can make you a sandwich, Adonis,” Mom says. “Smørbrød, as usual?”

  “Smørbrød? No way!” Adonis replies indignantly. “Gimme olive loaf! It’s the official lunch meat of the Godlympic Games!”

  Officially SMH! “If you’ll excuse me,” I say, “I’m going to drag my aching body down to Fryonysus’s and get some unofficial food in an unofficial diner.”

  “ARRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!”

  Whenever I’m having a bad day (like today!), I can always count on Fryonysus to turn my mood around. He’s like an island of calm in a sea of madness. As I enter his diner, I heave a happy sigh. I know I’ll be able to tune out for a while, especially now that Fryonysus’s is the official diner of the Godlympic Games. Wait—whaaaaat?

  Say it ain’t so, Fryo!

  “Hey, Oddy!” cries Fryonysus, wrapping me up in his stockpile of arms. “Pop a squat next to your pals and I’ll grab you some grub!”

  The gang’s all here—and the gang looks awful. Gaseous, Mathena, Puneous, and Germes are splayed out in our usual booth. Their plates of food sit in front of them, untouched.

  “I’b hungry,” murmurs Germes, “but I’b too tired to lift my fork!”

  “It took me an hour to climb up to this booth!” moans Puneous.

  “I fell asleep on my abacus,” groans Mathena. “Now I’ve got lines all over my face!”

  “I’m so pooped,” Gaseous whimpers, “I can’t even toot!”

  “That’s the only good news I’ve heard,” I say. “This is crazy, you guys. If you ask me, this whole Godlympics thing is getting way out of control.”

  “Ya think?” Mathena replies. “My mom’s putting so much pressure on me! Oh, and she wants her owl to be the official bird of the Godlympic Games!”

  “I think my dad’s eagle already claimed that.” I sigh.

  “My parents bug me every day!” Puneous says. “‘How fast did you go today? Are you going to win? Will we have to move?’ They make me so mad that I’m short with them all the time!”

  “I never thought I’d hear myself say this,” I add, “but I’d rather be back in school!”

  “You know I would!” adds Mathena.

  “I miss de lice id my locker,” mutters Germes. “And I’b sick of dese goofy games!”

  “I don’t even want to think about them anymore!” Gaseous growls.

  Just then, Fryonysus emerges from his kitchen carrying five plates.

  “For my favorite athletes, your favorite treat!” he says. “Onion rings!”

  “They’re the official fried food of the Godlympic Games!”

  Hmmm.

  On second thought, make that WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

  So this is our new normal.

  And so is this.

  Adonis and I stumble into our house at the end of another grueling day. We’re beyond beat. But that doesn’t seem to faze Dad.

  “Nike tells me she’s very disappointed,” Dad says. “She wants you all to—

  “Let me guess,” I reply. “Just Do It™?”

  “Ms. Meticulous’s reports about you aren’t exactly glowing, Oddonis,” says Dad. “But you’re not as important as your brother—

  “Unnskylld meg?” snaps Mom. (That’s “Excuse me?” in Norwegian.)

  “I mean athletically!” barks Dad. “Adonis and the other Gods are our top dogs! Our big cheeses! Our head honchos!”

  “Well, this dog’s going to lie down for a while,” Adonis says with a yawn.

  “Not today, son,” replies Dad. “You and Trianus are doing an ad for MVPees—the official wee-wee pads of the Godlympic Games! After that, you have an interview with Gods Illustrated magazine, a private training session with the coach, then an ice bath, a quick dinner, and straight to bed. Remember: you’ve got a IV:00 run tomorrow morning!”

  “Yes, sir,” answers Adonis dejectedly.

  Yikes. For once, I’m happy I stink at sports! I feel bad for Adonis, though. Dad keeps pushing and pushing and pushing him. It’s like these Godlympics—which were supposed to be our thing—have become Dad’s thing now. It kinda takes the fun out of it, ya know? I hate to say it, but it even kind of makes me wish I were Roman. I’ll bet they’re not going crazy over this stuff!

  Just then, the doorbell rings and I open the door to find . . . more stuff!

  “Special delivery!” says Hermes.

  “Are all these for us?” I ask.

  “For your dad.” Hermes sighs. “Official merchandise.”

  “This is nuts,” I say.

  “You’re telling me!” complains Hermes. “Ever since the games were announced, everyone’s been buying this junk around the clock! I haven’t stopped for a minute! What do they think I am—some kind of Amazon???”

  “I’m sorry, Hermes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m also sorry you have to wear that scarf.”

  “Yeah,” says Hermes. “Your dad told me he’d name it after me if I wore it. Hermes: the official scarf of the Godlympic Games. Oh, and I almost forgot: there’s a letter for you, too. Cute stamp.”

  Oddpollo sent me a letter! Me! I’ve NEVER gotten a letter! (I mean, except from my mom—which of course doesn’t count.) But why is Oddpollo writing me?

  Dear Oddy,

  Hey, it’s Oddpollo. How’s it going? I’m fine. Oh, one more thing:

  HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Everyone here has gone completely cuckoo! My dad is OBSESSED with winning these stupid Godlympics. It’s all he thinks about! He’s got Coach Trapezius training us, like, a gazillion hours a day.

 

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