Fomalhaut

3. I have lunch with a horse-man.

Opelousas, LA

The flight leaves at 11 and, for the first time in my life, I know I won't be late. It's like a weird-mystic feeling in my gut. I just ... know we will make it in time. That's a first.
   
I stare down at the photo strip of mom and me that we got a year ago in the old theater downtown. 11 year old me is grinning wildly in each photo, my hair sticking out every which way as I smile for the camera. I am the personification of wild, untameable energy, like a tornado.
   
Mom is beside me, a calm smile. That was the year she'd dyed her hair cherry red. Her left eye, the prosthetic, is a graphic of a smiley face emoji, something I'd begged her to buy. She is the personification of a serene breeze on a spring's morning, despite her unorthodox appearance.
   
I smile fondly at the photos.
   
And then I frown when my gaze rises to take in the mess of my room, clothes strewn about, some folded, most not. I have absolutely no idea what clothes to bring.
   
Two weeks ago, mom had bought us two tickets for a layover flight from New Orleans to Atlanta to New York City. Since the flight was at 11, that would've given me enough time to pack the day before, but I didn't. I just sat in my room, researching as much as I could about Apollo and Greek mythology.
   
I had already known a handful of things due to the required reading in my English class, but I doubt knowledge on the myths about Prometheus, Pandora, and Epimetheus is going to help a daughter of Apollo.
   
I woke up at 6 to pack, since we'd have to be at the airport a few hours before the flight, apparently. It is 7:23 right now as I am frowning at my progress.
   
I stuff a few more pairs of jeans and t-shirts in my duffel bag, before taking my backpack from the corner of my room, emptying its contents from the previous school year that had ended just a week ago. I push several personal items into this one (as well as toiletries).
   
The photo strip is the last thing I take, shoving it into a side pocket, zipping it up, and then lugging my things to the living room. I set them down on the couch. I sit down on the couch, fiddling with the pins on my backpack, while thinking of camp.
   
I tried to research it last night with the laptop I got for my 12th birthday (February 2nd, save the date) but nothing came up for it, save for some strawberry farm called Delta Strawberry Service. I looked into it, as one who likes strawberries does, and found wonderful reviews. I'll have to recommend it to mom when we get to New York.
   
According to mom, technology is dangerous for demigods (I didn't let her call me a half-blood. I used to have a friend who was called that in school and she told me never to use it because it was disrespectful, so I listened). Also, according to my mom, the laptop was a gift from an aunt who may or may not have sway over what monsters can sense. I already know I like this aunt more than my own dad.
   
Mom enters the room, tying her hair into a bun as she strides to the couch.
   
"Should we leave early, Lu? I can pick up some food on the way," she offers and I consider it for a moment before shrugging. I'm feeling particularly moody today, I guess. It's nothing against her, but I'm just a little overwhelmed. I mean, traveling across the country? Going to a camp for children of gods? This was so not what I was expecting for my summer to go when I was finally freed from the torturous confinement prison commonly known as school.
   
Don't get me wrong, the school itself was fine. The teacher's loved how good I was at recalling so much information at the drop of a hat and my art and music teachers especially enjoyed my mastery of their subjects. But, unfortunately for just about every kid ever, art and music are not the main subjects, English and math are. I like math, I'm pretty decent at it, as long as the problem is read aloud to me so I can solve it rather than write it all down.

It's English I suck at. Something about reading words has me getting headaches from the way the letters switch around so much. I'm passing in English, barely, due to the fact that I actually try to participate. I always raise my hand; I answer every question, even if I'm wrong; I do my best on tests and am always asking the teacher for advice.