Percy was so lost.

The whiteboard was covered in handwriting he could not read in red, blue, green, and purple. Bulletpoints and asterisks, definitions, and now the teacher's passing out a thick handout. If they just gave him time, he'd be able to read the writing and take adequate notes, but the teacher slams through it, leaving Percy with a sickening sense of dizziness and only a vague idea of how Congress passes bills. It stresses him out, which in turn worsens his dyslexia. He winds up gripping his pencil so hard that he snaps it.

There are a few titters throughout the classroom, some looks, but thankfully, the bell rings, and everyone stuffs their books into their bag and scurries to their next class.

Percy shoves the pamphlet that he can't read at the moment into his bag and tries not to focus on how few notes he was able to jot down. He really was trying, damn it, but almost everyone else in his graduating class is taking mostly APs, and the teachers are accustomed to their students being able to get everything down stat. They're not used to their students having learning disabilities.

"Percy."

He breathes a curse and looks up at Ms. Kensington. He doesn't bother hiding his frustration. "Yeah?"

"You're always welcome to study with me at lunch," she says, brown eyes focused intently on him. "I think it would really help you."

"Thanks," he says tightly, and books it out of the room and into the parking lot. Never mind that that was only fourth period. He's had enough of school for the day.

He knows his mom will be disappointed when she hears of how he ditched (yet again) and how his grades (as always) are subpar. She's very understanding and supportive, and he loves her for it. But he would love to see the look on her face if he managed to get a B or a C on a test.

This is senior year. Everyone's applying for colleges, and the fact that his GPA is too low to get into the school that he really wants to go to is hard to stomach. The local community colleges don't have any Marine Biologist programs, and he has no desire to major in something he has no interest in. He wants to make his mom proud and get into his dream school. For those two reasons alone, he actually cares about his grades for once in his life. But his dyslexia is making it really hard.

Annabeth Chase quietly reads a book for AP Lit as Mr. Sanchez corrects the papers for English 12. Normally, during her aid period, they have riveting conversations ranging from stuff that actually pertained to the English classes to personal stories and rants. She'd usually help him grade too, but he likes to look over papers and grade them himself. Sometimes, he'll ask for her input.

"Ugh!"

It looks like he's just about to. Annabeth marks her page and puts the book down.

"Do they no longer teach spelling?" Mr. Sanchez asks in frustration. "And even if they don't, isn't there spellcheck? Look at this paper; I can barely make out what the words are supposed to be!"

Annabeth skims it over once and furrows her brow as Mr. Sanchez continues to rant about the state of schools these days. "I could tutor him," she says, eyes flicking up to the top of the first page to catch his name. "Percy Jackson. Or at least talk to him. I think with the right tools, this is a problem that can be easily fixed." She scoots her chair closer to his desk and steals a pen from his cup. She taps the paper with it. "Look at this: A-t-a-n-o-m-g. That's supposed to be anatomy. The paper's full of mistakes like that, but if you can make out what the words are supposed to be, it's actually fairly okay. I'd give it a C, and I'll bet you ten dollars that this Percy kid's dyslexic."

When Mr. Sanchez still has a judgmental look on his face, Annabeth rolls her eyes and reminds him, "I'm dyslexic too, and I spell perfectly given enough time, don't I?"

"Right, of course! Sorry, I forget." He spins his chair around like a little kid. "Go ahead and take the hall pass, let him know he needs to see you after school for help. This is good. This is great! I think this will really work, don't you?"

Annabeth picks her book back up. "Yeah, if he doesn't keep ditching class."

His exasperation returns and the chair-spinning stops. "You're kidding me."

"Nope. Grover saw him high-tailing it out of the parking lot after Gov."

He drops his face into his hands. "In that case, he'll have detention tomorrow morning, talk to him then?"

"Sure thing."

And she would have, if Mr. Percy Jackson had shown up for detention.