Andromeda Jackson first half blood daughter of Poseidon and the fabulous Sally Jackson.
Perseus Chase and Annabeth Chase twins of Fredrerick Chase and Athena.
The Lightning Thief : Completed
Sea Of Monsters : Ongoing
The Tit...
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{A/N Guess who said the parts in bold between the story.}
Hi there, I'm Andromeda Jackson and I'm twelve years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, which is a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York.
Am I a troubled kid?
Most likely, yes.
I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove that, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan— twenty-eight mental case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.
I know—it sounds like torture. Most Yancy field trips were.
But Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes. He was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee.
You wouldn't think he'd be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn't put me to sleep.
I hoped the trip would be okay. At least, I hoped that for once I wouldn't get in trouble.
But luck doesn't seem to like me much.
See, bad things happen to me on field trips. Like at my fifth-grade school, when we went to the Saratoga battlefield, I had this accident with a Revolutionary War cannon. I wasn't aiming for the school bus, but of course, I got expelled anyway.
And before that, at my fourth-grade school, when we took a behind-the-scenes tour of the Marine World shark pool, I sort of hit the wrong lever on the catwalk and our class took an unplanned swim. And the time before that... Well, you get the idea.
I seem to have a lot of water-related accidents.
On this trip, I was determined to be good. All the way into the city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freckly, redheaded kleptomaniac girl, hitting my best friend Grover in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter-and-ketchup sandwich.
Which I didn't know how anyone could digest.
Grover was an easy target. He was scrawny and cried when he got frustrated. He must've been held back several grades because he was the only sixth grader with acne and the start of a wispy beard on his chin.
On top of all that, he was crippled.
He had a note excusing him from PE for the rest of his life because he had some kind of muscular disease in his legs. He walked funny, like every step hurt him, but don't let that fool you. You should've seen him run when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria.
