Two teens sat down at a table at the Outside Café. Martel, the waiter, was confused, it was still too early for lunch, and too late for breakfast. When he got closer he noticed they were a boy and girl, a couple by their body language. The boy looked about 16-17; same for the girl he was holding hands with.
The look in their eyes as they looked at each other reminded him of old war veterans, the ones who would rather forget the horrors they've seen. Their eyes were constantly flickering around café, wary of their surroundings, tense like they were positive something would come out to attack them. When Martel got to their table, his confusion increased when they asked for lunch. Realization dawned on him as he placed the accent, "American?" He asked just to make sure his assumptions were correct.
Martel's smile was pained; he got enough of ignorant American tourists in the small café he worked in. The girl, with blonde curly hair reaching mid-back and stormy grey eyes, simply answered, "Yes." for her partner. Then the boy, with black unruly hair and sea green eyes placed his order, "And I'd love a pizza." These Americans were going to give him a head ache. Martel answered, "Of course you would, signor," with a thin smile. "And let me guess: a Coca-Cola? With ice?" The same thing they all asked for, he thought. The boy teen grinned, "Awesome."
The girls request was a little more reasonable, with a Panini and fizzy water. She must have had some knowledge of the Roman way; thank goodness there are some smart Americans out there. As Martel walked away he heard the girl talking again, "I think Italians eat a lot later in the day. They don't put..." Her voice faded as he walked further away from their table.
He then brought their order to the chef, Billy (pronounced Bee-lay), and muttered, "Americans." Billy nodded a knowing smile on his face. "You'll have to accept we live in a country that attracts tourists, most being Americans, and tourists like to eat Roman food, so then they come to us. You shall see many more Americans as you continue working here, I guarantee."
As soon as the food was ready, Martel walked out to the table again, calmer. He set the food down, and nodded to the river as he said, "It's a beautiful view. Enjoy, please." He then left the table, and headed back into the air conditioning of the inside part of the café. After, as he went to drop off their bill, He found the couple gone, with only half of their food eaten. A credit card was lying on the table with a note that read
Thanks for the service, I can see way you don't eat the pizza. If you can find a way of getting this card back to us after paying the bill, I'd be very grateful. –Percy Jackson
The name faintly rang a bell, but he dismissed it. Why would he know an American? It was a silly notion; he had only gone out of Rome once in his life, to visit cousins in America. Martel then headed back indoors, planning on sending the card hack to its rightful owner. Little did he know the owner wouldn't receive it when the card arrived in the mail a couple weeks later, with Martel successful of tracking down the address of the mysterious Percy Jackson.
Very short, I know. But then again, it's a short section in the book too. This is just a little one-shot I thought of while reading Mark of Athena (MoA) again. I had the book right next to me for reference the whole time, but just in case I slipped up and made a mistake somewhere, please tell me. Thanks a bunch! And I swear, this looked longer on notebook paper! And I do not own, Rick Riordan does.
One more thing: I had a reviewer asking why the name would seem familiar. It's because Percy has been on the news as a criminal many times in his life, So in this story, Martel has seen Percy on the news when he was in America that one time.