Reading is Fundamental

IV - Annabeth - Literacy Night

Warnings: None

It took a few minutes, but soon everyone was situated on the couches. Athena elected herself to read.

I ACCIDENTALLY VAPORIZE MY PRE-ALGEBRA TEACHER

"How were you in the advanced math class?" Annabeth whispered, looking up at her nervous boyfriend.

He shrugged. "At my school there was only one option."

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.

Percy still looked oddly uncomfortable. "I don't know why you're so worried," she whispered. "It really wasn't that bad of an essay."

"It's not that," he admitted. "Whoever it is, they... added something to the end. Nothing terrible, but it might raise some questions."

She sat up straighter. "What do you mean? What questions?"

He smiled weakly, a desolate sense of shame hiding behind his eyes. "You'll see soon enough."

Annabeth gave him a look. He knew an answer like that would never satisfy her curiosity.

"I'll tell you later, okay?" he said.

She turned back to her mother, unhappy, but relatively mollified.

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 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.

Even across the room, Annabeth could hear the one with curly hair raise his hands into claws and laugh like an evil villain. The kids sitting around him- the pretty one and the one with a scar on his lip- didn't look very impressed.

My name is Percy Jackson.

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?

Yeah. You could say that.

I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it,

Poseidon frowned.

Annabeth covered a smile. She remembered how mopey and melodramatic he was at that age. He still got like that sometimes, but only when he was grumpy.

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.

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.

Annabeth poked Percy's arm. He looked down at her. "That's Chiron, right?" she asked, whispering.

He nodded.

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.