hello! thank you for clicking on this story, i appreciate it! just a couple warnings before you move on: camp jupiter is portrayed pretty inaccurately in this story. like, i tried, but... failed. i didn't have a copy of SoN when i wrote this, so... eh. still, though, i urge you to give it a try; it's my proudest work, and if you're into ridiculous comedies, i'm sure you'll like it.

but if you'll be leaving now anyway, thanks for coming! and everyone else, read on. (also, if it's no trouble, i'd really appreciate feedback! even just a line or two would be motivating, haha)

oh, and before i forget: cover credit to the amazing Pastry Queen! as i've said before: go burn every pastry in your house in honor of her, camp half-blood-style. it'll smell great, i promise.

"Judy."

I tried not to listen to my mother. Instead, I pretended to be engrossed in my homework and tapped away on a calculator. "42…" I muttered under my breath, hoping she would fall for it.

Naturally, she didn't.

"Judy Calderon, you will listen to me now." Her voice struck fear and forced me to face her.

"Oh, I didn't see you, there, Mom," I said smoothly. "What's up?"

"Oh, I know you heard me the whole time! No BS, Judy!" Mom yelled at me. "Where did this come from?" She waved a blue Discman in her hand. A familiar blue Discman.

Crap. She's technically cursing. I'm a goner. "Uh, I don't know, but it's nice. I guess. A little outdated." I forced a laugh. "Why?"

"No BS, Judy. Where did this come from?"

I faked a smile. "I don't-" Images of a ruined life flashed through my mind. "When we were in Florida this summer? I found it." Mom didn't say anything. I continued. "It was on this park bench. It looked really nice, and whoever owned it didn't care about; they weren't watching it, so I… took it. I mean, I would be a better owner."

"Did you see this on it?" She pointed to a cluster of words scribbled in permanent marker that I hadn't been able to wash off. "Property of Clarence Oshalane. If found, please return." Written under it was phone number.

"Oh, how did I not see that? Silly of me. But I guess it's too late n-" I stopped abruptly. That was the wrong thing to say. The minute I began saying it, I knew. "I mean, Mom, uh..."

"Judy, do you know what 'no BS' means? Because I can teach you, don't worry." My mother was exceedingly angry, and her anger was slowly growing. It felt like every time I said something, I only dug myself deeper.

"I know what BS means!" I shrieked fearfully. "Ahhh… Okay, Mom. All truth from here on out." I took a deep breath. "Well, I wanted it, Mom. Like I said, this Clarence guy was being careless with it, and I just thought that it deserved a new owner. When I saw the number, I tried to take it off because it-" I studied my nails. They were shapely and clean, but I definitely didn't examine my nails just to make sure, if you know what I mean. "-it could've gotten me caught… I thought about giving it back, but you and Dad would be really mad."

Weirdly, Mom's anger was gone by then, and it was replaced by this really sad face. You'd think it would be better, but you know when people are like, "My parents weren't angry. They were disappointed, and that was worse," and you're like, "LOL, yeah right"? This was that. And it turned out that the disappointed thing was actually true.

Still, I kept talking. "At least it wasn't an iPod or something more expensive. At least it wasn't a wallet, or a cell phone, or a purse..."

"Judy. This isn't even kleptomania anymore. This is thievery. You stole this. You know that, right?"

"Umm... I... I'm sorry, Mom," I told her, and I really was. It was the disappointed thing.

"Judy," she said. "I think you need help."

Therapy wasn't as bad as people said it was. It was like writing in a diary, except your hand didn't hurt at the end and you were given helpful advice. Sometimes my therapist tried a little too hard to act like one of my friends, but she meant well, I guess. I actually didn't end up going there very long, but it was a worthwhile experience. Probably. To tell the truth, the only thing she did that really changed me happened on the first visit.

"Judy, I don't think you have kleptomania," Ms. Malia said. "You steal things because you want them, not because you like stealing." She eyed me. "Do you like stealing?"

"It's okay, I guess. I mean, I get stuff. But I've only done it seriously once. I usually just borrow things from my brothers without asking or telling them about it and keep them for long periods of time. If they ask me where it went…" I shrugged exaggeratedly. "'I wish I knew!'"

This memory has haunted me for several years.

"Well," Ms. Malia began, "I still don't think you have kleptomania. But the point of this is that you have to work on willpower."

"What do you mean?"

She looks at me. "Well, you have to realize you were doing something wrong, which I know you have. You have to work on it now. Willpower. Ignore the need. Listen to your conscience."

"My conscience? I don't actually hear from my conscience all that much anymore." Yes, I really said that. I was embarrassing when I was thirteen. I'm pretty sure I've brought this up already.

"Oh. Well, that makes sense. This happens a lot, so don't worry," she assured me. "Have you ever seen Pinocchio?"

I raised an eyebrow. "The cartoon with the puppet that wants to be a real boy?"

"That one. Do you remember who Jiminy Cricket was?" she asked.

"He was Pinocchio's conscience," I said, inwardly groaning.

"Do you see where I'm going with this?" she asked perkily.

"You mean you want me to create a hypothetical conscience who will show up whenever I'm about to do something bad?" I ask skeptically. "Like on TV?"

"Exactly! It can be anyone you want, a movie star, a cartoon character, some sort of religious figure, historical person, anyone!" She was animated and obviously very excited about the idea.

"I understand," I told her. I just don't think it'll work.

"Great, because our time's run out! See you next week!" she said uncannily energetically, clapping her hands together.

And that was how I began my hypothetical relationship with Franklin Pierce, which I refuse to expand on. Not now, at least.

I stopped going to the therapist on March 23rd, and I wasn't required to spend an hour with her a week, which was a relief. The next two months passed uneventfully.

Then, June 18th came. It was the last day of finals, and I was happy and totally ready to hang out with my friends for the next three months. And sleep. But things didn't go as planned.

I suspected my mom was doing weird things earlier in the week, when she started making strange faces at me while she was surfing the Internet. It was definitely unsettling. I would've tried to figure out what she was doing, but, you know, I kind of had finals.

Anyway, I came home early that Friday, and the house was empty. My brother and other brother were both hanging out with their circle of friends, but I was super tired from studying and testing and whatnot and decided to take a nap. So I opened the door to my house, and there on the kitchen table was an open copy of Family Circle. That's not the important part. What's important was the folded letter set to bookmark the page. (It was useless since the thing was open, but I could really care less.) At least, it seemed important.

Alright, I know I'm interrupting my own narration, but this is somewhat important, so bear with me.

My mother is famous. You're jealous.

Okay, she's somewhat famous. She wrote this super popular song in the nineties that everyone loved. It's a wonderful song, and this is coming from the perspective of her teenage daughter. It's common knowledge that teenagers are programmed to hate their parents and everything that they do until they become a certain age. What is that age, you ask? I wouldn't know. I'm a teenager. But I'm getting frightfully (frightfully) off-topic.

You've heard the song before. You probably don't think you've heard some nineties song 'cause you're not some nineties kid, but trust me: If you have parents that love you or some kind of adult in your life or friend with a good taste in music, you've heard this song. Hell, if you've waited in a doctor's office or gone shopping at Wal-Mart, you've heard the song. It's played daily by easy-listening radio stations everywhere.

Anyway, it was my mother's first song, and, coincidentally (not really) it was her peak. She tried to write another hit, but she just came up with this trash embodying the embarrassing pop of the nineties.

But that's not the point. I know, I'd think that was the point, too, but it isn't. I'm sorry.

The point: At the height of her popularity, she met this guy. He was a nice guy, so they, uh, slept together. In the morning, since she was "young and afraid of commitment" she slipped out, leaving a note that said "I can't do this. Sorry. " It makes me embarrassed to be related to her. So heartless.

Anyway, it turned out she was knocked up with me, (which gives a whole new meaning to "one-hit wonder") so after her failed attempt at a musical career, she got a stable job and met Dad. It turned out she could live off of the royalties of her super-hit, but her business was flourishing, so she just kept working and now we're rich.

Okay, so now you're questioning. If I'm so freaking rich, why did I need to steal a Discman, of all things?

Thing is, my mother promised to get me an iPod if I got above 80 in all my subjects at the end of seventh grade. But I got a 78 in pesky Social Studies, and my mom got me nothing. Quite mean, you'd agree. I deserved it, all right? (At least, that's how I felt at the time.)

All right.

The letter practically begged me to open it. Call me weird for thinking mail bookmarking a page in an open Family Circle on the kitchen table would be worth a read, but I had some sort of tired reasoning in my head, believe me. I think.

So I reached for the letter... and Franklin Pierce materialized next to me.

Before you judge me, understand this: I was thirteen, Franklin Pierce had the coolest-looking portrait ever, and I needed some sort of hypothetical conscience. Why not the über-famous Franklin Pierce?

Exactly. There is no reason why not.

Deal.

Anyway, standing in front of me was Franklin Pierce with his cool haircut, fancy tux, and British accent for no reason whatsoever. Okay, so you can't see the accent, but I think it's worth mentioning.

"And we were doing so well..." President Franklin said, shaking his head and looking down.

"Please," I told him, rolling my eyes. (I do indeed speak to figments of my imagination when no one is around.) "This isn't stealing, just borrowing. Plus, it's asking to be read. Look at it, gawking at me in its comfy magazine home!"

"You're being ridiculous. Ending your 'being somewhat decent' streak just to read someone's mail… What could you possibly stand to gain from reading a letter sitting out on the kitchen table?" he asked, and I stopped to think for second.

"Well," I began, "Mom was-"

Franklin chuckled at me. "I know all about your mother. I'm you," he informed me.

"Don't break the fourth wall!" I yelled at him. "Anyway…"

"Judy… Do you really think if the letter held something so important, it would be lying the kitchen table, in plain sight, right where you could see it?" he redundantly asked me.

Thinking about it, I realized that what he was saying was completely logical. "You know, Franklin?"

"President Franklin Pierce."

"Shut up, you're hypothetical. Anyway, you know what?"

"You're about to say I'm correct, which I am, due to the fact that I am, in fact, you. If I were incorrect, you would probably need to resume your visits to your therapist. In any case, I'm somewhat glad you're not stupid enough to sacrifice your streak for a middle-aged woman's mail."

"Judy," I heard my mom say, and I felt a gentle shake. I kept my eyes closed and didn't move an inch, hoping she'd eventually go away. "Judy, if you don't get up now, you're officially grounded. Officially," she whispered softly, her tone not matching her words. I figured she was bluffing, so I stayed still. "Well then… We'll do this later, I guess. Oh, and you're really grounded."

The door shut, and I fell back asleep.

When I woke up, it was dark out. Not caring much, since school was pretty much over, not counting the number-necessary days, I wandered out my door.

Half-asleep and zombielike, I bumped into my eleven year-old brother, Sean. He smirked at me. "Woke up from your coma?" he asked jokingly, and, before I could process what he was saying, let alone reply, he went into his room to do eleven year-old things.

Having not realized this, I said, "Oh… yeah," to the air. Then, Sean's door opened again a crack and his frowning head popped out. "Why did you even get up if you're so tired? Anyway, Mom's been looking for you. She's in the kitchen." His head disappeared and the door closed behind him.

I was on the verge of turning around and going back to my room, but right then, out the kitchen door came my mother. "Ah, Judy, I've been wanting to talk to you, but you chose this particular day to pass out."

I wrinkled my nose. "What do you want, Mom?" I yawned.

"Still tired? If you don't go to sleep now, you probably won't be able to sleep at all tonight. But this is extremely important. Wait here for a second," she told me, and went back into the kitchen. She came back with a glass of water and a piece of paper.

"Is that for me?" I asked. "Is that supposed to wake me up or something?"

"Well, you're pretty suitably awake now, but I need you to be awake enough so you won't be able to convince yourself you're dreaming."

This alarmed me, needless to say. "What do you mean?" I chuckled nervously.

"In time," she said purposely cryptically in a pathetic attempt to sound mysterious. She led me to my room.

I sat on tn my bed and laid back down. Mom closed the door. "Am I in trouble?" I asked her. "Wait, why would I be dreaming about getting in trouble?"

"You're not in trouble, Judy. Well, kind of. Maybe. So, Judy, do you have anything to say to me?"

I instantly drew a blank. "Uhh... no?" A silence passed. "Oh! I love you, Mom! Does this have something to do with my graduation next week?"

She looked at me like I was insane. "You mean to say you didn't?" she asked without any explanation. "I was so sure that you would. I should know; I'm your mother. But I guess you wouldn't be able to fall asleep after learning from it." She let out a deep sigh. "Does this look familiar?" she questioned, holding up a folded piece of paper bearing a ridiculous amount of similarity to the letter inside the Family Circle from earlier.

"That's the letter from this afternoon inside the magazine! The one I almost read!" I said instantly. "Right?"

"The one you almost read?" she asked. I was about to explain, but she cut me off. "Never mind, I don't want to know. Anyway, read it." She handed it to me. I took it.

I felt significantly peeved about the fact that I was supposed to read it, and silently cursed Franklin Pierce and his nonfamous presidency. "Okay." The room was quiet while I read it. "Mom."

"Well?"

"Is this some kind of joke? Some kind of not-tasteful, unfunny, lame joke?" I asked redundantly. "I mean, seriously." I faked a deep, overdramatic voice. "Signed, Mercury. Mercury? Seriously? What, is it obscure reference day? Roman gods? Seriously, if you want a practical mythology joke, nerd, why the most obscure mythology ever? What is Roman mythology? Egyptian mythology, Native American mythology, I recognize - okay, Native American's a stretch, I only know the Great Tree thing, I think that was them - but Roman mythology? I mean, even Greek mythology! How did I forget that? Hercules, best Disney movie ever!"

"Time to stop talking, my daughter. I thought it was a joke, too, but I did a little research in my spare time-"

"Skipped Desperate Housewives?"

"No!" she said. "Never. But during the commercials... How about this: Mercury, Roman god of lying? Roman god of thievery? I don't know, Judy, but those traits seem to personify you." I didn't say anything. She continued, "Seriously, though, Judy, think about it. You didn't get the stealing trait from me, and you've never needed to steal, right? Farthest thing from it. So we'll check this summer camp out, and if there's nothing there, we'll come back, okay? There's an address."

I looked back at the letter. "Yeah, in California! It's across the country, Mom!" I said. "And seriously, you're going to fall for this? This 'the Roman gods are real' thing? Why would obscure mythology turn out to be the real thing? Why not God-god, Allah, or the Hindu gods?"

"Look, Judy. If there's nothing there, we'll spend the weekend in California. You don't want to go to California? We can go to Carl Jr.'s. Those burgers are heavenly. Anyway, we're agnostic."

In the end, I decided to go. Sean and Kyle were pissed that I got to take a trip to Cali, while Dad just thought it was a strange way to waste money. Still, we could afford it, so we went.

That was how I found myself there, in the middle of nowhere, with just me and my mother. We walked for a while, and then Mom stopped abruptly. "Judy. I think I dropped something back there. Wait here, okay? Actually, just keep walking, I'll catch up."

"Mom, I'll come with you."

She gave me a weird look. "No, Judy, keep walking. It'll save time and we can spend more time doing vacation things here. I'll catch up, okay? I need exercise anyway."

"Mom, no."

"Look, Judy, just do this, okay? Or else you're grounded on your first week of freedom. And we'll do absolutely nothing but shop for clothes this whole weekend."

"Mom."

"Judy, I'm going to go, and if you follow me, or just wait for me here, I am keeping my word."

"Mom, you're being ridiculous."

"Judy, if you don't go now, we will stand here arguing forever. I'm not backing down."

I wondered why my mother was acting so peculiar, but I finally decided to back down. "Fine, Mom. Just don't take long, okay?"

"Okay. Catch up with you later, Judy."

I didn't laugh; I was kind of pissed at her. "Bye, Mom." I made a point of not looking back at her as I walked. Until I'd been walking too long of a time, and I didn't know where I was anymore. I looked around for my mother. She was nowhere in sight. "Mom? Mom! Mom!"

I tried to retrace my steps, but there wasn't any path. It was my fault; I shouldn't have left her in this area. Now she was probably lost, too.

I stayed completely still for hours. That's what they told you if you got lost: stay completely still.

And then, I was face to face with a pack of wolves and imminent death.

"It's OK to call; now I'll answer for myself. Come pick me up; I've landed."
- Ben Folds, "Landed"