My first fanfic! Please please please comment and review! More chapters coming soon :)

1. Lies and an Overheard Conversation

Let's get one thing straight before I begin.

I have no imagination.

Never did.

Never will.

Which is quite ironic because you're going to need a monstrous imagination to believe what I'm about to tell you.

But here's another fact of life:

I don't really care if you believe me or not. All I know is that this is my story.

The Story.

And nothing you say is going to change that.

[[[[]]]

My whole life used to be this huge question mark.

It still is.

Now though, the question mark is considerably smaller.

[[[[]]]

Against all odds, I am a half-blood.

A demigod, I guess, would be the more appropriate term since I learned that there is more than one kind of half-blood.

But now I'm getting ahead of myself.

This part of The Story starts on a Saturday in early August. Saturday used to be my favorite day of the week.

The key phrase in that sentence was "used to be".

Anyway, on this particular Saturday, I walked into a closet in the new apartment on the Upper East Side. Of New York City that is.

But you already knew that.

I turned around, looking to see if I had missed the door Mom had pointed to when she told me where my room was.

But there were only three other doors along the hall: one for my parents, one for Luke, and one for the loo.

Sorry, bathroom.

It's going to take me a bit to lose the British lingo.

But again, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I turned back to the closet and realized.

This was my room.

I wish I could say I was thrilled.

But that would have been a lie.

And someone I know now doesn't like lies, but I don't like her.

To call it a bedroom would be an exaggeration.

A closet is the only word I can think of to describe this sorry excuse for a room, which only held a rusty bed-frame with a rickety old box spring, and a dresser with the mirror busted out.

I see that there's a window seat though. It almost makes the room look bigger than it's seven by seven foot dimensions.

Almost.

I sigh.

It's just like the fourteen other places I've lived.

[[[[]]]

I think of this time in The Story as black and white, because whenever I look back, I see the walls of this room painted grey, instead of yellow.

But maybe that's just me.

[[[[]]]

I leave, walking back down the hall to the kitchen.

Which is no prize either.

I wonder what it would take for my parents to get us a decent apartment. It's not like we're poor.

I don't think.

Both my mom and dad work at the Empire State Building. I don't know what they do there, but I know it's not janitors.

I grab the two cardboard boxes marked "Thalia" in my scribbled hand, and start walking back down the hall.

Do you think it's a little sad that I can throw my whole life into two cardboard boxes?

Because I do.

[[[[]]]

The second door on the right.

This is Luke's room.

I'm level with the door when I hear them.

You'd think they'd keep their voices down if they didn't want to be overheard.

But I guess my family isn't that smart.

I press my ear against the door, and can hear Luke clearly, "I just don't understand why we can't tell her."

Call me an eavesdropper, but what would you do if you heard your brother talking about you?

I pressed my ear harder against the door, and could now hear Dad say, "It's for her safety; she'll be more protected if she doesn't know."

"But," Luke starts to protest.

"The best way you can help her Luke," Mom interrupts calmly, "is if you just worry about your own training at camp. We'll just have to live it day by day here. I still think she has the potential. She just has to… channel it."

"Riiight…" I hear Luke say uncertainly. I doubt he knows what she means by that.

But I guess I don't either so I probably shouldn't be talking.

"So are we clear here, Luke? You start Monday, and we're not breathing a word of it to Thalia."

Gee, thanks Dad.

I hear Luke sigh, "Yeah, alright. I won't tell her, but I'm not saying I like it! 'Cause I don't!"

"I know," Mom, says soothingly, I can see her in my mind, walking over to pat Luke on the back. "We don't like it either."

[[[[]]]

I used to think that my well-being was the most important.

Now I think differently.

[[[[]]]

What is Luke training for?

What do I have the potential for?

What is Luke protecting me from?

These are the first questions that spring into my mind. I try to quietly make my way back to the closet, already learning where the creaks in the floor are.

I hear Mom and Dad whispering in the hall, but about what I can't tell. I sigh and shove my clothes into random drawers, messily.

I have no patience for neatly folded clothes, a trait that my mother despises.

Dropping the empty box out into the hall, I carefully open the next one.

This is the box that holds my life in it.

On top is my sketchbook. I open it carefully and remove the cluster of pages I've torn out over time. These are my favorite drawings, the ones that have hung in every bedroom I've had since I was able to sketch.

Digging in the bottom of the box, I find the tape. I stick each one up carefully around the frame where the mirror used to be on the dresser:

The sunset on the beach in Maine.

The elderly couple sitting on the bench in a park in New Hampshire, watching the geese.

The young couple sitting outside the ice cream parlor in Massachusetts, watching their son lick his dripping waffle cone.

The rain streaking down my bedroom window in Delaware.

The autumn leaves blowing past the trees, slowly falling into hibernation in Maine.

The portrait of Hattie.

The portrait of Ben.

I set the sketchbook on the dresser and turn back to the box.

That's when I notice my parents standing in the doorway.

Awkwardly.

"I've always loved your drawings," Dad says, coming to stand in front of my collage. "Especially this one." He points to the sunset on the beach.

"Thanks," I mumble. Mom still stands in the doorway, her smile stiff, and her eyes the color of an evening rain.

"How's everything going?" Mom asks quietly.

"Fine," I say warily.

She nods. Is that it? I look away, stepping around Dad to take out my jar of charcoal pencils and tin of collected seashells from various beaches. I set them noiselessly on the dresser and turn back to see Mom and Dad looking at each other, their eyes intense, as if having a silent conversation.

Sometimes it's scary the way they look at each other.

"Thalia," Mom begins, but then pauses, clearly looking at Dad over my head for help.

"Don't sugarcoat it, Annabeth. Just tell her."

"Um… What?" I ask. Does this have something to do with what I heard through the door? "I'm not in trouble already, right?"

Mom shakes her head, laughing uneasily, "Of course not, Thal. We just wanted to tell you that Luke is going to summer camp for the rest of the summer, and Dad and I have extended hours at work."

"Okay, that's great, but what am I supposed to do all summer?"

"You can go out if you must," Dad answered, "just leave a note, so we won't worry."

"You could just get me a cell phone," I mumbled, although I thought I already knew the answer.

"No, you don't need a cell phone," Mom said a little too harshly. "You know that by now. Besides, look how long Dad and I have been getting on without them."

I grumble a bit, turning back to the box on my bed, taking out the old Jules Verne book that was a gift from my grandpa for my tenth birthday, and set it on the dresser on top of my sketchbook.

I realize that Mom and Dad are still in the room. "What?"

They start, and both turn to look at the drawings around my dresser, avoiding my eyes.

I know they've lied.

Seeing them looking at the picture of Hattie that I'd drawn less than two weeks ago, I decide to make them squirm. "Why'd we have to move, again?"

"You know the answer to that too, Thalia," Dad says, not looking away from the charcoal drawings.

"I don't think I do. The reason always seems to change every year. That's right, every year. Don't you guys get tired of- leaving?" I catch myself before I can say lying.

"Sure Thalia, we get tired of leaving."

They never answered the first question.

"Do you think anyone ever notices that I don't like leaving every year? Maybe it was great in the beginning, when making friends was easy, but do you know how hard it is to start a new school every year?" I feel my voice rising, but Mom and Dad keep their eyes glued to the drawing of Hattie.

"Why did we have to leave Maine? Again! It was finally the place I had friends! Well…" I look at the portrait of Hattie. "A friend. And you've taken that away from me again! And never- never- have Luke or myself ever gotten an explanation for that." I stop, out of breath, and realize that I sound like a spoiled brat.

Mom and Dad finally turn around and give me the look. The look that says, I'm going to say that I'm sorry you feel that way, but what I'm really thinking is that I'm really not sorry for you at all.

"We're sorry you feel that way," Dad begins. What do you know. "But Mom and I are doing the best we can." His eyes, the same as mine, give me a cold look, "We'll let you finish unpacking now."

They leave the closet then, with a last glance back at the drawings.

I wait until the door is closed.

Then I throw myself across the bed and try to keep myself from screaming into the pillow.

I stare up at the cracked ceiling instead, hoping they feel terrible.