Chapter Text
Song of the Chapter: Riptide - Vance Joy (TV Series Version)
Look, I didn’t ask to be a half-blood. I still don't fully grasp what the hell that even means, other than the fact that my life is a recurring cosmic joke and the punchline often involves me lying face-down in a ditch. If you’re reading this because you think you might be one of us, my advice is simple: close this fucking book. Right now. Better yet, incinerate it and scatter the ashes in the Atlantic. Maybe then the old man will get the message.
Believe whatever lies your parents fed you about your birth. Convince yourself you’re just another "troubled" kid with a chemical imbalance and a penchant for bad luck. Go to school, do or don't do your homework, hang out with friends, maybe hit on a girl or two (or dude, whatever floats your boat). Whatever keeps you tethered to a normal, boring, miserable life. Trust me, "boring" is a luxury you can't afford to lose.
Being a half-blood is dangerous. No, seriously, it’s a known fact that these kids don’t live past eighteen. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways. (Wow, cool, totally wanted to die before becoming a legal adult—sign me the fuck up!)
If you’re a regular person reading this because you think it’s just another piece of edgy urban fiction? Great. I’m happy for you. Really. Read on and enjoy the "creative" ways I almost get decapitated. I envy the hell out of your ability to think this is all just bullshit. But if you recognize yourself in these pages—if you feel something stirring in your gut that isn't yesterday’s bad street burrito—stop. Put the book down. You might be one of us. And the second you realize that? They’ll realize it, too. Once they catch your scent, they won’t stop until you’re a memory. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m too tired to say it twice.
My name is Percy Jackson. I’m fourteen years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private high school for "troubled kids" in upstate New York. Am I a troubled kid? Yeah, you could say so. I could start at any point in my short, miserable life to prove it, but things really started going south last May.
Our ninth-grade class was taking a field trip to Manhattan—twenty-eight mental-case teenagers and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I spent the ride leaning my forehead against the glass, my skateboard tucked between my feet, wondering if I could hit a kickflip down the Met stairs without getting in trouble. The only reason I hadn't jumped out of the emergency exit was Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher.
Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair who looked like he’d been pulled out of a 1970s folk festival. Thinning hair, scruffy beard, and a frayed tweed jacket that always smelled like stale espresso and old books. He was the only teacher who didn't look at me like I was a ticking time bomb. He also had this collection of Roman armour and weapons, which was the only thing keeping my ADHD-riddled brain from flatlining during class.
I really wanted the trip to be okay. For once, I wanted to go twenty-four hours without a "disaster." See, bad things happen to me on field trips. Like in eighth grade, when I fired a Revolutionary War cannon at the school bus. Or sixth grade, when I "unintentionally" pushed my classmate into a killer whale pool at Sea World. My life is basically a series of expensive insurance claims.
All the way into the city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit. Nancy was a freckly, red-headed kleptomaniac who thought she was God’s gift to Yancy because her dad had a yacht. She spent the ride targeting Grover.
Grover was my only friend. He was scrawny and sensitive—the kind of guy who looked like he’d apologize to a door for walking through it. He must’ve been held back several grades, because he was the only fifteen-year-old with a wispy beard that looked like he’d glued moss to his chin. On top of all that, he had a note excusing him from PE for life. He walked like every step was a struggle—unless it was Enchilada Day in the cafeteria. Then, the dude moved like an Olympic sprinter.
Inside the museum, Mr. Brunner led us through the galleries. It blew my mind that this stuff had survived for three thousand years—I couldn't even keep a pair of Vans intact for three months. He stopped us in front of a thirteen-foot-tall stone column—a grave marker, a stele, for a girl just a bit younger than us. I was trying to listen, but Nancy and her clones were snickering behind me.
"Will you shut up?" I snapped. It came out louder than I meant, and a few classmates laughed under their breath.
Mr. Brunner stopped. "Mr. Jackson, did you have a contribution, or are you just practicing your stage voice?"
My face was totally red. "No, sir."
He pointed to a carving. "Perhaps you’ll tell us what this picture represents?"
I stared up at the picture. "That’s Kronos," I said, my voice flat. "He’s having his kids for dinner. Literally, he, um, was the Titan King? And a paranoid one who didn't trust his children, the gods. So he ate them. Except Zeus, whose mom fed Kronos a rock instead. Later, Zeus grew up, tricked his dad into barfing up his fully-grown siblings, and the gods kicked the Titans' asses in a massive celestial war."
"Eeew!" said one of the girls.
Behind me, Nancy Bobofit mumbled, "Like we’re going to use this in real life. Like it’s going to say on our job applications, 'Please explain why Kronos was a cannibalistic dick.'"
"And why, Mr. Jackson," Brunner said, "to paraphrase Miss Bobofit’s earlier intellectual inquiry, does this matter in real life?"
I shrugged. "I don't know, sir. It doesn't. Unless you're planning on eating your kids or getting overthrown by your siblings, it’s just a cool kids’ bedtime story."
Brunner looked disappointed. That look hurt more than a detention. "I see. Half credit, Mr. Jackson. On that note, lunch.”
Outside, a storm was brewing, clouds blacker than a burnt steak. Grover and I sat on the edge of the fountain. I had my board propped against my knee.
"Detention?" Grover asked.
"Nah," I said. "Not from Brunner. I just wish he’d lay off me. I’m fourteen, I have ADHD, and I’m a C-student. I’m not exactly a genius."
Grover didn't say anything for a while. Then he said, "Can I have your apple?"
I absent-mindedly held out the apple for Grover to take while I watched the cabs going down Fifth Avenue. I hadn't seen my mom since Christmas. I wanted so bad to jump in a taxi, but I knew if I got expelled again, I’d see that heartbroken look on her face.
Then Nancy Bobofit appeared. She snatched Grover’s vintage leather messenger bag off the steps and dumped the contents into the dirty New York pavement. Books, inhalers, and a crumpled photo of his family spilled out. She laughed, stepping on the photo with her designer boot. "Oops. Guess I'm just clumsy. My bad."
My vision started to go blurry. It wasn't just anger; it was a roar in my ears.
"Pick it up, Nancy," I said. My voice sounded deeper, even to me.
"Or what, Jackson? You'll get Mr. Brunner to write me a sternly worded letter?" She leaned in, smelling like expensive perfume and unearned confidence. She flicked her lit cigarette right toward Grover’s face.
I didn't think. I didn't move a muscle. But I felt a massive pull in the pit of my stomach. The fountain behind us didn't just splash; it snarled. A literal hand of water shot out of the basin, wrapped around Nancy’s waist, and launched her backward into the water.
"Percy pushed me!" she shrieked, surfacing like a drowned rat.
Mrs. Dodds materialized next to us. She was our math teacher—fifty years old, black leather jacket, looked like she’d joined a biker gang just to beat people up. There was a triumphant fire in her eyes. "Now, Percy—"
"I know," I snapped. "A month erasing textbooks. Just get it over with."
"Come with me," she hissed.
Reluctantly, I scooped up my stuff and followed her back inside the Met. She was moving freakishly fast. By the time I caught up, we were back in the Greek section. The gallery was empty. She stood with her arms crossed, turned away from me. It took a moment for me to realize that the weird growling noises were coming from her throat, which sounded like a blender full of glass.
"You’ve been giving us problems, Percy," she said. Her voice sounded like metal scraping on bone. She slowly turned around, snarling at me, "Did you really think you would get away with it? Confess, and you will suffer less pain."
"Mrs, I don't know what you're—"
"Your time is up!" she hissed.
Then the world broke. Her eyes began to glow like barbecue coals. Her fingers stretched into yellow, jagged talons. Her leather jacket melted into leathery wings. She was a shrivelled hag with bat wings and a mouth full of yellow fangs, and she was about to slice me to ribbons.
Mrs. Dodds hurled herself and talons at me. She barely raked my eyes out, but I managed to jump to the side, smashing into the base of a 1000-year-old statue as I slid on the cold museum floor. I cracked my head on the impact and started to see stars.
In between my blurry vision, suddenly, Mr. Brunner wheeled his chair into the doorway. "What ho, Percy!" he shouted. He looked more surprised to see me on the floor in pain than the freaking bat lady that was starting to mark her prey again from across the room. His vision centred on me and tossed a pen he pulled from his pocket through the air.
I snatched the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hit my hand, it wasn't plastic. It was a three-foot bronze sword.
“What the fu-”
I didn’t have time to finish my statement of surprise as Mrs. Dodds flew straight at me. Absolute terror ran through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally: I closed my eyes and swung.
I heard the metal blade hit her and passed clean through her body. Hisss! Through slightly open eyes, I saw Mrs. Dodds turn into a sandcastle in a power fan. She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulphur and a dying screech.
Still kneeling on the ground, my back sweating the cold marble statue base again, I peered my eyes wide open. I was alone. I looked back and forth through the room. Nothing, no one in sight. Mr. Brunner wasn't there.
I looked down at my hands. There was a ballpoint pen in my hand. I could have sworn that was a sword all but 30 seconds ago. My hands were shaking so bad I thought my fingers would fall off. Holy shit, I thought. My lunch must’ve been contaminated with something seriously illegal.
I went back outside. It had started to rain. Grover was sitting by the fountain with a map over his head. Nancy was still there, soaked and miserable.
"I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your ass," she sneered.
"Who?" I asked.
"Our teacher. Duh! You high or something, Jackson?"
I blinked. "Nancy, where’s Mrs. Dodds?"
She just rolled her eyes. "Who the hell is Mrs. Dodds? Seriously, you've finally lost your mind."
Nancy stalked off towards the bus. Confused, I turned and asked Grover. He paused, his whiskery chin trembling, and he wouldn't look at me. "Who?"
"Not funny, man," I told him. "This is serious. I just turned a teacher into gold dust."
Grover just looked at me, with an almost face of pity, and slowly grabbed his stuff and trekked off to the bus as well. What the hell is going on? My mind was racing.
I saw Mr. Brunner sitting under his red umbrella near the bus. I went over to him, feeling like the main character in a psychological thriller.
"Ah, I see you found my pen," he said, distracted. "Normally, I’d ask for it back, but I feel as though it fits rather nicely in your hand."
"Ah, okay,” I said as I slowly pocketed the pen. “Sir, where’s Mrs. Dodds?"
He stared at me blankly. "Who?"
"The other chaperone. Mrs. Dodds. The math teacher who looks like she kills puppies for fun."
He frowned and sat forward, looking mildly concerned. "Percy, there is no Mrs. Dodds on this trip. As far as I know, there has never been a Mrs. Dodds at Yancy Academy. Are you feeling all right?"
My hand was still in my pocket; my fingers wrapped around the pen. I swear I could almost feel it vibrate. Then I looked at the dark, churning sky.
I wasn't alright. I was definitely, 100% losing my fucking mind.