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༺♔༻
Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.
Many students were completely confused was, was so bad at being a half-blood, but the demigods just nodded.
If you're reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close
this book right now. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life.
Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.
"What is so bad at being a half-blood?" a younger student asked, "You see." Thalassa said.
If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened.
But if you recognize yourself in these pages – if you feel something stirring inside – stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they'll come for you.
„ They, who are they?" a student asked.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
My name is Thalassa Jackson.
„No ist Thalia Johnson." the demigods chorused.
I'm twelve years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at
Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York.
Am I a troubled kid?
"Yep," Thalia said,"you definitely are". A "Hey" came from the direction that Thalassa sat at.
Yeah. You could say that.
"See, you said it yourself."
I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, 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.
"Sounds like torture." Hermes said, his children nodded. "Sounds like fun." came from Athena and her kids, with an death glare towards Hermes.
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.
Mr Brunner 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 armour and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn't put me to sleep.
