Chapter Text
Penny Jackson was in a bad mood.
Hey, getting stood up did that to a girl, especially when that girl had been waiting for the guy to ask her out for eternity and when he finally did, she was ecstatic. She had spent hours agonizing over outfits before finally submitting to the Aphrodite Cabin’s pushes to give her a makeover. Finally, she was ready.
She stood outside her cabin for two hours before checking to see where her date was. She checked the beach, the Big House, the armory, even the stables. But Robert Elijah Dare was nowhere to be seen.
Penny managed to corner Chiron, who looked more terrified facing the 5'3 girl than anytime during the Titan War. She pressed him until he cracked and confessed that Robert had gone home for the summer, and he had known that he would be doing so for a month. More than enough time to tell her, she thought, or at least asked her out earlier.
So there she was, looking for all the world like a girl who had given up, barefoot and still in her beautiful off-the-shoulder black minidress, laying on her bunk, twisting water into random shapes miserably. Her raven hair, so carefully styled, had come down from its intricate knot and had returned to its natural state around her shoulders. A mosquito buzzed around her; she didn’t have the energy to slap it away.
Gods, what was wrong with her? Moping over a guy who didn’t care, and probably never had. This sort of stuff was reserved for other people, people who weren’t living legends.
But she didn’t want to be a living legend. She wanted to be a teenage girl. She wanted to have someone who made her laugh, someone who made her swoon, someone that made her feel not like Penelope Jackson, daughter of Poseidon, child of prophecy, but just Penny, plain and simple.
There was a knock at her door. She straightened up, letting the water drop to the floor.
Who could it be at this hour? Curfew was long past.
She opened the door cautiously, looking both ways, but there was nobody in sight.
She sighed. Probably one of the Stoll twins’ pranks.
She was closing the door when something outside of it caught her eye. She opened it back up.
There was something on the bottom of her porch, a piece of paper. An envelope, in fact. Blue. She picked it up and closed the door, locking it.
The front of the envelope read in fancy script, “To Penny Jackson” She flipped it to the other side, but it said nothing. There was no information about the addresser.
Carefully, she opened it. A piece of paper was neatly folded inside, as well as a crushed blue rose. She opened the paper and read:
Dear Penny,
You shine brighter than the sun at midday,
More lively than a rose in June.
Oh, what I would give to hear you say,
“Won’t you be my complementing moon?”
I wrote that poem just now. I hope it isn’t too bad or too forward. Well, this whole letter is too forward. I confess, I am new to this business. Of letter-writing, poetry, and well… love.
Penny’s heartbeat picked up; she was acutely aware of her bare shoulders and the goosebumps that had just picked up on them.
I hope I’m not scaring you away with this talk of love and poetry. But, well, it was the only way I could get your attention without making a complete fool of myself in front of you.
Gods, what am I doing? I should probably just throw this whole thing in the trash can. That’s the rational decision.
Why haven’t I thrown it away yet?
I guess I’m just writing to say that I’ve had a hopeless crush on you since before both of our voices dropped. You probably don’t even know who I am, however. I’m not the kind of guy to be in the spotlight, and I prefer that way. In fact, I’m wondering why I hadn’t thought of this idea earlier. This is sounding better and better by the minute.
It’s funny how that works. What seems like a bad idea early becomes a fantastic one later, and vice versa. I guess it’s just our fickle human brains and hearts, doing whatever they please, stealing in a blink, just as you have done to my heart.
I’m getting delirious. I hope that this isn’t coming off as weird or creepy to you. The last thing I want is to scare you away.
Here’s some bad poetry to close:
Your hair is black, roses are blue,
Could this be the start of something new?
Love,
Your Secret Admirer
Penny was light-headed. Was this real? Or just a cruel prank by the Stolls gone too far?
But no. This seemed genuine, down to the neat script and the pauses before mentions of love.
Someone had wrote this and meant it.
It had come at the perfect time, and it had been sent by the perfect person, or so it seemed. The mixture of wit and light humor with adorable awkwardness and vulnerability, not to mention the shy mentions of love…
Penny collapsed on her bed, holding the letter close to her heart. Beaming at the ceiling, she went into a series of silent squeals.