Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

accept responsibility for his actions. He let the gods ruin my par-
ents’ lives to save his own skin.”
“I can’t believe that.” I know Griffin can be jerky, but the boy
I met on the beach—the one I’m going through all this for—has
a good heart. “He wouldn’t do something that would knowingly
hurt—”
“He went in to testify,” she snaps. “When he came out, my parents
were banished.”
Tears stream down her cheeks. Wrapping my arms around her, I
squeeze tight. This is what Mom would call the release of repressed
emotion. I think it’s just good for her to let it all out. I can’t believe
she never talked to anyone about this before. Then again, everyone
else probably already knows the whole story. I’m just glad I could
be here for her.
For several minutes we sit there, Nicole crying and me hugging
her. Eventually, the tears stop and she begins to sniff.
“So,” I say to alleviate the post-traumatic release silence, “you
said something about strategy?”
“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly, jumping to her feet and pretending
like she was never crying. “You can’t go in without a game plan.
It’d be like . . .” She thinks for a second. “. . . running a race without
knowing the course.”
Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like this?
“Okay,” I relent. “Strategy.”
“I recommend one part helpless girl, one part ample cleavage,
and three parts ego-petting.” She must see the blank look on my
face because she adds, “Do I need to write this down?”
“No,” I reply. “But you’ll have to explain it.”
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