“I was waiting for it to cool down,” I tell him. But to be polite, I take a small sip—and realize, somehow, it’s the perfect temperature despite the steam that continues to rise from it.
Weird.
Still, time is creeping by—it’s 10:22 now, which leaves us exactly eight minutes to get to the school before we are officially late for our first day. “Don’t you think we should go?” I ask my parents. “It’s almost time—”
“Have a donut hole,” my dad suggests with a grin, gesturing to the box Paris is holding.
I don’t reallywanta donut hole—my stomach is waaaay too jumpy for food—but if it will get us out of here faster, I’ll eat as many as they need me to and pray I don’t throw up. Except, when I reach in the box, it’s to find that there’s only one small, puckered donut hole left. It’s dented on one side and only half coated in cinnamon sugar.
It’s not exactly the most appetizing-looking snack on the planet, but my parents—and the strange blue-eyed man—are watching me intently, so I pop it in my mouth and chompdown. As soon as I do, a strange taste coats my tongue, like really, really overripe fruit mixed with pepper.
It might be—and by might be, I mean itis—the grossest thing I’ve ever eaten. So gross that I think seriously about spitting it out as I try not to gag.
But Athena girls don’t spit, so I gamely keep chewing until I somehow manage to swallow the disgusting mess.
“Did you like it?” my dad asks as he reaches into the now empty box.
I’m spared from having to answer—I’m a terrible liar, by the way—once he realizes there are no more donut holes left.
“I think there’s been a mistake, PT,” he tells the farm stand owner. “I ordered half a dozen.”
“And I gave you half a dozen.” PT eyes my brother, whose mouth is covered in cinnamon sugar. “Perhaps you should ask Paris what happened to them.”
“I was hungry,” Paris says as my dad shoots him an annoyed look.
“It’s okay, Hector,” my mom soothes as she rubs a hand down my dad’s tweed-covered arm. “He didn’t know.”
“Know what?” I ask, looking back and forth between my parents as I try to figure out what’s going on. I mean, who would voluntarily want to eat one of those disgusting things anyway?
“You’re right, my love.” My father gives her—and Paris—an indulgent smile before turning back to PT. “Can we have two more donut holes, please?”
“Afraid I’m all tapped out.” PT gives an apologetic shrug. “Your family has cut it pretty close—you’re the last ones to come through.”
Last ones to come through?
A happy buzz starts deep inside me as I turn his words over in my mind. Maybe this strange man isn’t just a donut salesman. Maybe he’s connected to Anaximander’s. Maybe eating that awful donut hole was some kind of test and—
“You don’t have any more?” My mother’s voice sounds strange as she asks the question. “At all?”
PT shakes his head regretfully.
“So what do we do?” My dad looks bewildered. “How do we get them to—”
“I’m afraidyoudon’t,” PT answers gravely. “They’re going to have to go on their own.”
“That’s impossible!” For the first time, my mom actually seems worried. “This is their first year. We have to go. We have to—”
“No one goes over the bridge without a donut hole,” PT says firmly. “Rules are rules.”
Are they seriously saying those terrible donut holes are some kind of ticket to get to the school? I guess I’m lucky Paris left me one after all, even if it was completely disgusting.
“Bridge?” Paris asks, wiping a hand over his mouth in an effort to dislodge some of the cinnamon and sugar. “There aren’t any bridges out here.”
“You sure about that?” PT’s sleek brown brows rise almost to his hairline.
“Pretty sure,” my brother answers. “We were just driving on that road.”
But excitement is already pulsing through my body as I turn around to face the car.
