“Melanion, no!” cried Atalanta. “Don’t sign up for the race. Please!”

“Why?” asked Melanion. “Do you find me that unattractive?”

“No,” said Atalanta. “I’m just sick of racing.”

“One more race won’t kill you,” Melanion teased her. “Especially since you’ll finally have a worthy opponent.”

Atalanta eyed Melanion. “You’re a fast runner?”

“Very fast,” said Melanion.

“Then go be a track star,” she said. “Try out for the Olympic Games.”

“The Olympics are for the gods,” said Melanion.

“For now,” said Atalanta. “But, Melanion, I beg you. Find some other way to show off your speed besides racing me.”

“No other race offers such a good prize,” said Melanion.

Atalanta rolled her eyes. “You just met me. How can you possibly think you want to marry me and spend the rest of your life with me?”

Melanion grinned. “Believe me, I know. Where’s the sign-up sheet?”

“If you can’t find it, then you don’t deserve to race.” Atalanta whirled around and began running out of the stadium.

I wondered about Melanion. If he was so speedy, why had he waited so long to come and race Atalanta? I decided to follow him. I ducked behind the bleachers and took my wallet out of my robe pocket. It was a magical wallet, a gift from Persephone. It grew to hold whatever I put inside it, then shrank back down to pocket size. I pulled out my Helmet of Darkness and put it on: POOF! I vanished as fast as one of Atalanta’s smoothies.

I followed Melanion as he wove through the crowd leaving the stadium. He asked several other mortals where the sign-up sheet was. Just before V o’clock, he found it and signed his name. It was the only name on the sheet.

Melanion left the stadium. He walked past the many tents still pitched on the palace grounds. At last he came to a small tent and went inside.

In the days before they had electricity, mortals went to bed early. They cooked their supper, ate it, and by the time the fire burned down, they were snoring. But after Melanion ate his supper, he kept his fire going. So I kept watching.

It was close to midnight when I spied two cloaked figures hurrying toward Melanion’s tent. I couldn’t see their faces, but the figures glowed as only gods and goddesses glow.

The two ducked into Melanion’s tent.

“We’re here, caro mio,” one of them sang out.

“Let’s get down to business,” said the other.

What? Was Melanion in cahoots with Hera and Aphrodite?

I snuck invisibly closer to the tent to listen in. “We’ve brought the apples,” said Hera.

Apples?

I had to get inside that tent. I sucked in my godly gut and squeezed through the flap. It was a tight fit. And Melanion’s tent wasn’t very big. I had to watch my invisible self, or someone would bump into me, and I’d be busted.

“I must be nuts, trusting him with my golden apples,” said Hera.

Golden apples? What was going on?

“It’s for a good cause, Heradina,” said Aphrodite.

“All right,” said Hera. “Here, mortal, take them.” She handed III golden apples to Melanion.

I couldn’t believe it! Hera’s golden apples were her prized possessions. When Hera married Zeus, our Granny Gaia, also known as Mother Earth, gave Hera a wedding gift of a magical tree that bore golden apples. Hera loved the apples so much that she didn’t want to share them. (Not that Hera has ever been big on sharing.) So Hera took the apples to a secret garden and hired a serpent to guard them day and night. And now she was handing over her precious apples to a mortal? It didn’t make sense!

“Here’s the plan, Melanetto,” said Aphrodite. “If Atalanta pulls ahead in the race, roll a mela d’oro, a golden apple, in her path. She needs soldi, money, to help some boyfriend of hers, so she’ll go for it certo, for sure!”

“Roll it gently,” cautioned Hera. “I don’t want my golden apples all dented up.”

“Atalanta will see the mela d’oro,” Aphrodite went on. “She will run to pick it up. Then you will pull ahead in the race!”

Melanion nodded. “I get it.”

“You have III apples, III chances,” said Hera. “Don’t fail us.”

“I won’t,” said Melanion.

Now the goddesses drew their cloaks around their heads and hurried from the tent. I ducked out with them. I heard Hera and Aphrodite chanting the astro-traveling spell to take them back to Mount Olympus. ZIP! They were gone. I chanted the spell to get to Persephone’s apartment, and away I ZIPPED.

Persephone gasped when I told her about Aphrodite and Hera giving Melanion the golden apples. “I can’t believe Hera would do that!”

“You mean cheat in the race?” I asked.

“No, I mean risk her precious apples,” she said. “You have to tell Atalanta about this, Hades. She has to be prepared for what may happen in the race.”

“Atalanta’s with some mortal friend of Artemis’s,” I said. “Can you find out where she lives?”

Persephone quickly phoned Artemis. She got the ZIP code for the house where Atalanta was staying, and the three of us went straight there—ZIP, ZIP, ZIP!

“What’s wrong?” asked Artemis. Her garment that night was made of black-and-white pelts. It smelled awful. “Has something happened to Atalanta?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But Hera and Aphrodite are stirring up trouble.” I gave her a fast version of the story.

“I’d like to turn them both into warthogs!” snarled Artemis. “Or maybe just warts!” She led us quickly to a small house in the village and banged on the door.

A mortal woman opened it. When she saw three immortals standing on her doorstep, she nearly fainted.

“Buck up, Clymene,” said Artemis brusquely, as she breezed past our hostess into the little house. “Meet Persephone and Hades. Where’s Atalanta?”

“She—she’s resting,” said Clymene, still stunned.

“Wake her up,” ordered Artemis. “We have to speak to her.”

“Please, sit down, Queen Persephone, Lord Hades,” Clymene said, then she hurried off to get Atalanta.

Moments later, a half-awake Atalanta staggered into the living room. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes not quite open.

“Whassup?” she said.

“Remember that mortal with the ponytail you met at the stadium today?” I began, and I told her all I knew of Hera and Aphrodite’s plan to have Melanion toss the golden apples.

“But why?” asked Atalanta. “Why are they so eager to have me fall in love and marry him? They don’t even know me.”

“It’s not about you,” muttered Artemis. “It’s about them.”

Now Persephone stepped in. “I’m goddess of spring, Atalanta,” she said. “I love what I do, and I care about every single tulip bud. If I met some mortal who didn’t like flowers? I’d take it as an insult. It’s the same for Aphrodite, with love, and Hera, with marriage. When you proclaim that you will never fall in love or get married, it makes them feel bad, as if they haven’t carried out their goddess duties very well.”

“Weird,” said Atalanta. “Anyway, what am I supposed to do about the apples?”

“Just run the race as usual,” I told her. “Ignore the apples.”

“That’s right, Daughter of Artemis,” said Artemis. “That way you will win the race. That way you will never have to m-m-m—you know.”

Suddenly, Atalanta’s eyes lit up. “But what if I picked up the golden apples and won the race?”

“Why bother?” I asked. “Why risk losing it?”

“For Meleager,” said Atalanta. “Don’t you see? A golden apple must be worth at least a dekamillion dollars.”

I saw where this was headed—right into Hera and Aphrodite’s hands.

“I can use the golden apples to buy back Meleager’s log!” Atalanta was saying. She was wide awake now and very excited.

“Aren’t you forgetting?” I said. “You’ll have to hand the apple over to your father.”

“No, I won’t!” she exclaimed. “The contract my father fooled me into signing says I must give him all the cash and money I earn. But it says nothing about golden apples.”

She had a point.

But Artemis looked worried. “Are you sure you can win, Atalanta?” she said. “Because if this Mel-what’s-his-face beats you, you’ll have to—m-m-m—you know—the M-word!”

“Don’t worry, Artemis,” said Atalanta. “I won’t have to marry.”

Hearing the word, Artemis shuddered.

“What if you have to run a long way to pick up a golden apple?” asked Persephone.

“I can beat Melanion,” said Atalanta.

“But how?” said Artemis. “How do you know you’ll win?”

“Don’t ask!” said Atalanta. “Don’t ask!”