FireBorn[OC Testing]

1• I missed it?

Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.

     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.

     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 one of 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.
     Don't say I didn't warn you.

     My name is Percy Jackson.

     I'm twelve tears 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?
     Yeah. You could say that.

     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 Manhatten—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.

     Mr Brunner was a 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.

     I hoped the trip would be okay. At least, I wouldn't get in trouble.

     Boy, was I wrong.

     See, I had a history of getting kicked out of schools—for example— there was this one time I had a field trip to the Saratoga battle field, in which I had this accident with this revolutionary war Cannon. I wasn't aiming for the bus, of course, but I got expelled anyway.

     But his trip, I was determined to be good.

     And I was doing pretty good, until we made it all the way into the city, and put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freckle, redhead kleptomaniac girl, pelting my bestfriend Grover in the back of the head with a peanut butter-and-ketchup sandwich.

     Grover was an easy target. He was a scrawny boy with a crippling disease in his legs, allowing him a doctors note to skip P.E. for the rest of his life, but he must've gotten held back a few years, considering he was the only sixth-grader with acne and the start of a wispy beard.
      But don't let his doctors note fool you. You should've seen him run when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria.

     Anyway, Nancy Bobofit was throwing wads of sandwich that stuck in his curly brown hair, and she knew I couldn't do anything back to her because I was already on probation. The headmaster threatened me with death by in-school-suspension if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly entertaining happened on this trip.

     "I'm going to kill her," I mumbled

     Grover tried to calm me down. "It's okay. I like peanut butter."

     He dodged another piece of Nancy's lunch.

        "That's it." I started to get up, but Grover pulled me back to my seat.
      
       "You're already on probation, " he reminded me. "You know who'll get blamed if anything bad happens."
    
        Looking back on it, I wish I'd decked Nancy Bobofit right then and there. In-school suspension  would've been nothing compared to the mess I was about to get into.