Then again, what I want has had very little to do with how today has gone. Why should this be any different?
Determined to end this wild coin chase once and for all, I bend my knees and use every ounce of strength I have to jump as high as I can, arms fully stretched out above me.
And I almost get it. My fingers slide against the coin’s rough edge right before I sink back down. Which seems tobe the signal it was waiting for to take off all over again.
This time it races through the door a few yards away and straight into the wing dedicated to Anaximander’s life, complete with a giant hologram of Anaximander standing in front of the solar system at the far end of the room. But even that doesn’t make me hesitate as I dash after my coin. Maybe I can corner it against one of the displays—it’s got to run out of steam sometime, right?
Only the moment I step through the huge, arched doorway, the ground beneath me starts to move. For one brief second I think we’re having an earthquake, even though Massachusetts doesn’t get earthquakes. But then I realize it’s not just the ground that’s moving. It’s this entire part of the museum—walls, ceilings, even the plants outside the perfectly symmetrical windows. Everything is moving forward and down at what feels like a ninety-degree angle—including me and my coin.
As I start to topple over, I do the only thing I can think of. I grab onto the biggest infinity sign I’ve ever seen and hold on for dear life.
10.Holo-Grin and Bear It
WHAT IS HAPPENING?
Alarm races through me as the ground keeps moving and twisting, twisting and moving, beneath me. I wait for the screams to start, for everyone to start pouring out of the amphitheater. For someone, for anyone, to make this stop. But then it registers that no one is doing anything—because there is no one. I’m alone on this bizarre, not-so-fun ride.
I mean, I know the gods have incredible powers, incredible gifts. I even know they bestow aspects of those gifts on the students of Anaximander’s as we wind our way through the program.
But this? I’ve never seen—never imagined—anything like this before.
Eventually, after what feels like hours and is probablynot more than a minute or two, the movement stops. The museum around me settles. And somehow, though I can’t imagine how, everything is still in its right place.
Everything, that is, except the coin. And the projected hologram of Anaximander himself, which was all the way across the room when things started shifting. Except instead of standing in front of the solar system, he’s now standing directly in front of me. There’s a kind smile on his face as he holds a hand out to me. “Would you like some help getting up?”
For long seconds, neither of us move. He remains where he is, holographic hand extended, while I stare up at him in total shock. He’s a hologram. A 3D hologram, but a hologram nonetheless. He’s being projected by some computer somewhere in here to put a different spin on how we learn history—or at least that’s what the brochure says.
So how can he know I’m here?
How can he have moved from the spot he’s projected at to right here, next to me?
And how in the world can he expect me to take his hand?
It makes no sense. Then again, this entire building—and the ground beneath it—just moved what I’m fairly certain is an entire ninety degrees, like it actually turned some kind of corner or something. Why am I so surprised that a hologram moved right along with it? Obviously Anaximander’s can do things—bend natural laws—in a way I’ve never seen before. So why is it so shocking that a hologram wants to help me to my feet?
Deciding the worst thing that could happen is my hand passes right through his—not even the worst thing, really, just theexpectedthing—I reach a hand out to grab onto his.
Only our hands don’t pass through each other. No, his grips mine, and while I gape at him in shock, he pulls me to my feet in one fluid motion.
“What—how—”
“No time for explanations now, Penelope,” he says in a voice that sounds strangely Americanized for a man who lived thousands of years ago in ancient Greece. “Better go catch that coin.”
I have a million questions for him that have nothing to do with that awful coin. But I know he’s right. Getting into Athena Hall is the most important thing right now, and I need the coin to do that.
Still, I hesitate as I look him over from the top of his holographic head to the tips of his holographic feet. “Are you going to be here when I get back?”
“I guess we’ll both have to see about that,” he answers, his smile growing even bigger. “Now go! The coin went that way.”
He points to a now open door halfway down the left side of his wing of the museum.
“Okay, thank you.”
I take off in the direction he’s pointing, determined to get the coin and get back here before Anaximander returns to wherever it is he came from. And I don’t mean the center of the projected solar system.
I run out the door, fully expecting to see theamphitheater right in front of me. Only it’s not there anymore. Somehow I’m back in the middle of the forest. Again.
There’s a part of me—a big part of me, this time—that wants to just sit down and cry. This is so much harder than I expected it to be, so much harder than it seems to be for everyone else. Why can’t this coin just do what it’s supposed to do and let me catch it? And why, why, why do I have to traverse the forestagain?
