Getting a detention proved to be a lot harder than it looked.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that getting a detention is the easiest thing in the world. That all you have to do is pass notes in class, call the teacher a hag, or bring your iPod to the science lab. And then, bam, you've got one.

But, unfortunately for me, the teachers at my school decided to be extra nice that day. Which, under normal circumstances, would have been fantastic. But as I walked into trig seven minutes late, and Mrs. Landry just smiled at me and waved me to my seat, I couldn't have been more annoyed.

"What if I don't want to sit?" I challenged her. "What if I like standing up? What if being in a vertical position is an enjoyable experience for me?"

She sighed wearily. "Please, Mr. di Angelo. I don't have time for this."

"You don't? 'Cause I do. I have all the time in the world. I have so much free time after school. Which I like. A lot. And if someone were to take away that time, wow, that would be a terrible punishment. It would certainly make me learn my lesson."

People in the class were looking at me funny.

"Nobody's going to, Nico," she said, "Just as long as you take your seat."

"But—but—"

"Now."

And biology was no better.

"I like sex!" I announced as I stepped into the classroom. There was no sound but the constant hum of the air conditioner and the scratching of pencils on paper.

"Like, a lot!" I added, when it soon became apparent that no one had heard me—or that they quite possibly couldn't care less. I glanced at Mr. Stanton. He didn't even bat an eyelash. Not a single. Freaking. Eyelash. Do you know how many eyelashes the average male adult has? Well, I don't. (And if you do, then you have way too much time on your hands.) But I'm fairly sure it's a lot. And to not bat even one, that's just . . . harsh.

Now, those who know me know that my presence must always (sometimes) be acknowledged. And if it's not, then I will (might) take immediate (slightly delayed) action. So it was that in that moment, I said pretty much the most brilliant and least ditzy-sounding thing ever.

"It's totally awesome!"

I know, I know. I amaze myself as well.

"Are you quite finished?" Mr. Henson drawled from his desk in the corner. "I do have a class to teach, you know."

Realizing that my tactic had failed, I mumbled an apology and slunk off to my seat, where I proceeded to sulk broodingly for the rest of class. It really shouldn't have been this hard.

But the third time, as they say, is supposedly the charm.

Enter my history teacher, Ms. Perkins. (And yes, I am well aware that her name sounds suspiciously close to the word "perky", but do not be fooled; there is nothing perky about this woman.) Divorced three times, with her most recent spouse getting full custody of the kids, living in a run-down apartment in the bad part of town, and splitting the rent with an insufferable college drop-out who has the annoying habit of throwing spontaneous keg parties.

When you think about it, it's really no wonder that this lady was basically Hell incarnate. (This is me acknowledging the irony of that statement.)

Which is why, as I stepped over the threshold of room B127 and Ms. Perkins glowered hatefully in my direction, I welcomed the sense of severe dread that washed over me. If any teacher was going to get me in trouble, she was the one.

"Everyone take out your homework!" she barked at us.

That was it. No, "Good afternoon, class," or "Hello, all of you," like any other vaguely decent teacher would say. Just "Everyone take out your homework!"

Figures.

"You should have read chapter nine in your text book," she continued, "and answered all of the questions at the end. Nico, would you like to read your answer for question one?"

I braced myself. This was my chance.

"I . . . I wouldn't," I stammered out, heart pounding in my chest. I know you'd think it stupid to be terrified, especially considering that I've battled monsters of all shapes and sizes, but Ms. Perkins was worse than any monster. And celestial bronze wouldn't work on her.

"Oh really?" she asked, beady eyes narrowing dangerously at me. "And why is that?"

I swallowed nervously, then reminded myself that I wanted this, and if this was the price I had to pay for honor and respect, so be it. "I didn't do it."

There were gasps of surprise. There were exclamations of horror. Someone even dropped their books on the floor. Nobody in their right mind ever skipped out on Perkins's homework. That was a rule that had not been broken since 1996, when it was rumored that she had scared a poor kid so much his eyebrows had fallen off.

But on the upside, if I got out of this alive, I would be a legacy. Both at Camp Half-Blood and J. R. Carter High.

"I'm sorry," she said disbelievingly, "but I don't believe I heard you correctly. Would you care to repeat that?"

The class had gone silent. Deathly silent.

"I didn't do it," I mumbled again, keeping my eyes on my desk. There, I'd said it. Now she was going to give me a detention, and it would all be over. I'd never have to do this again. Ever. In this lifetime or the next.

"Mr. di Angelo," she stated venemously, "I'll be seeing you . . ."

In detention . . . in detention . . . in detention . . .

" . . . after class."

GODDAMNIT!

In the end, I went to detention anyways. And to be quite frank, I'd never felt like more of a loser in my whole life. But it was for the sake of my reputation, and as long as I kept telling myself that, I was okay with it.

Mr. Saunders was on detention duty, and he didn't looked surprised when I walked into the room. "Mr. di Angelo," he mused, "Why am I not surprised to see you here?" His gaze flitted down to the clipboard he had in his hands, and then he frowned. "That's odd. You're not on the list."

I gave him what I prayed looked like a relieved smile. "So I don't have to stay here?" I asked, trying to make my tone as hopeful as possible. All the while I scanned the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nia Mercer.

My plan worked. I knew that Saunders wouldn't be able to resist making my day miserable. He smiled cruelly. "Sorry, but I'm afraid you do. Your name might not be on the list, but I have no doubt in my mind that you got yourself into trouble. Take a seat."

Trying not to grin victoriously, because that would totally blow my cover, I scrutinized the room one last time . . . and found her. She was sitting in the corner, hunched over a notebook, her black braid hanging over the side of her desk. She didn't even look up as I slid into the chair next to her.

"Hey," I whispered in what I hoped was a friendly tone. I didn't want to seem like some creeper who'd just randomly started talking to her. Even though I kind of was. "I'm Nico," I added, when it became evident that she wasn't going to respond. I waited. Nothing but more silence. "What's your name?"

She finally glanced up at me. I almost leaped out of my seat. Her eyes were a startling shade of . . . well, there's really no way to describe the color. It was like blue ink spilled over onyx stone, and had the most piercing effect I'd ever seen.

"Nia Mercer," she stated in an astonishingly bored tone. "And if you're looking to get laid, you can migrate elsewhere." Then she turned her attention back to the notebook.

All I could do was sit there flabbergasted. It was the first time this girl had ever spoken to me, and she had accused me of hitting on her. Getting off to a rocky start? No, more like getting off to a stalactite-y start.

It took a moment, but I was finally able to form coherent words again. "I'm not looking to get laid," I told her. "I just wanted to talk to you."

She snorted. "A likely story. But I applaud your acting skills; you almost sounded sincere."

I ran a hand through my hair. I had vastly underestimated Nia's reaction. She had a lot more attitude than I thought. This was going to be tricky.

"It's not acting," I informed her. "I'm telling the truth. Believe it or not, there are teenage boys out there who don't spend every waking moment thinking about sex. And I just happen to be one of them."

She seemed reluctant to believe me. "Okay, well, if it's not sex, then what is it you want? And don't tell me you just want to talk. You wouldn't go out of your way to stalk me just so we could talk." She must've noticed the surprised look on my face, because then she sighed. "Yes, I know you've been following me. I'm a lot more observant than people give me credit for."

My cheeks flushed in embarrassment; I'd thought that I had blended in fairly well, but apparently I hadn't at all.

"Um . . . well . . ." Crap. I hadn't really thought about what I was going to say. "I wanted to ask you something . . . but it's gonna sound kind of weird."

"I've heard weird things before," she told me. "From people a lot sketchier than you, in fact. I think I can handle it."

"Okay, it's like . . ." I trailed off, choosing my words carefully. "Have you ever, um, had anything . . . odd happen to you?"

She blinked. "Everyone's had something odd happen to them."

"I know," I said. "But have you ever had anything especially odd happen?"

She smirked. "I have. Multiple times. Like today, I was tracked down by a high school guy I've never met before in my life, and he started asking me mysterious questions. Very odd."

It took a lot of willpower not to roll my eyes. "Besides that."

Nia pondered this for a minute. "Well, it depends on what you mean by 'odd'. I once saw a guy dressed as a pink chicken with a sombrero, but I somehow doubt that's what you mean."

I shook my head. "It isn't. By odd I mean . . . something that you couldn't make sense of. Something you saw that made you think you were dreaming, or hallucinating. And possibly made you think you were schizophrenic."

I thought I saw something flash in her eyes, but it was gone so fast that I couldn't be sure it was even there in the first place. "No, of course not. Where would you get an idea like that?"

I tried not to be disappointed. I mean, if someone had asked me that kind of question, I would probably have denied it, too. So there was still a chance. "Er . . ." Should I tell her that I was a demigod too? No, of course not, that would sound crazy even if she was a demigod. Maybe I shouldn't tell her anything, let her think about what I had asked . . .

Finally, I made up my mind.

"Look," I said, "If you are seeing odd things, just know that I'm seeing them too. And if you're not . . . well, then I guess I must be crazy." I smiled at her and hefted my backpack over my shoulder. "And that would really suck." Then I strode out of the room, ignoring Mr. Saunders's protests, feeling Nia's intense gaze following me the whole way.

The plan was supposed to go like this: I would waltz into detention and have a friendly chat with Nia, then get her to confess that she could see monsters, and inform her that she was a demigod. Then she would be like, "OMG!" and I would tell her that it was okay, I was one too. After that, she'd be relieved that someone as attractive as me knew what she was going through, and then we would skip off into the sunset as a movie montage started playing.

But it actually went like this: I had to fake being in detention, awkwardly introduce myself to her, then ask her if she had ever thought she was hallucinating at one point or another in her life. To which she had responded with a strange look and told me no. And then I informed her that I myself was seeing strange things, and walked away hoping that she would take the bait. And, after days of waiting, I finally realized that she had absolutely no way to contact me and that I hadn't given her my number or even my last name, so she was still probably wondering who the hell I was.

So I was forced to hide in the boys' bathroom for an hour after school ended on Friday, waiting for Nia to get out of detention. Because, let's face it, there was no way I was voluntarily checking in again. And if you think an hour passes slowly when you're sitting in class, try waiting in a reeking bathroom with obscenities scratched into the walls and having ADHD.

It was no walk in the park, I'll tell you that.

But, finally, the bell rang, signaling the end of detention. I exited the bathroom as quickly as I could, only to bump straight into Nia. Literally. Her books and binders scattered across the ground, papers spilling everywhere. She cursed under her breath.

"Sorry," I apologized, stooping to help pick everything up. "Didn't see you there!"

"Obviously," she snapped. "Why else would you—" she cut herself of, and her irritated expression turned to one of surprise. "Hey, you're that cryptic guy who asked me weird questions and then vanished into oblivion! Marco, right?" She didn't wait for me to answer. "Okay, what you did, just dropping in like that and disappearing? That. Was. Not. Cool. You at least could've given me your number. Or your last name, so I could look you up! For all I know, you could be a psychotic serial killer who—"

"First of all," I interrupted, "it's Nico, not Marco. And second of all, my last name's di Angelo, and the fact that I just gave it to you kind of proves that I'm not a major creeper. And why would you even want to contact me in the first place? I asked you what I wanted to and you gave me your answers. That's all there is to it."

"No," she countered, "that's not all there is to it! I have a question of my own, and I have every intention of getting an answer from you."

I sighed. "Fine, ask away."

She bit her lip and glanced around nervously. "Can we go somewhere else? I don't want anyone to overhear."

"Absolutely," I said, hiding a smile. The fact that she wanted to talk in private was a very good sign. It most likely meant that she was going to fess up to being able to see through the mist.

I followed eagerly behind her as she navigated through the hallways to an empty music room. Once inside, she closed the door behind her and took a deep breath, brushing her glossy black braid over her shoulder. It occured to me that hair that long must be an absolute bitch to wash, and I was suddenly thankful for my short (if slightly messy) cut.

"Why me?" she blurted suddenly, gazing intensely at me with those inky onyx-blue eyes.

"I . . . I beg your pardon?" I asked, not quite sure what she meant.

"Why me?" she repeated. "Why did you single me out from everybody else? What was it about me that made you think I saw those . . . things you mentioned?"

I shrugged uncomfortably, fairly certain that if I brought up the Dylan/Jolie debacle, she would slam me into a wall as well.

"People who see those things—" I paused. "—people like me, have certain characteristics that distinguish us from others. Like, for instance, we're all ADHD and dyslexic, and most of us are always getting into trouble. And, um, we kind of have bad tempers." I eyed her meaningfully as I said the last part. She glared at me.

"That hardly means anything! Almost all teenagers get into trouble, and I can name dozens of people who have bad tempers. And I'm not ADHD or dyslexic."

I shook my head. "Even so, there's just something about you that's . . . different." I stopped, suddenly hesitant. "Wait—did you just say that you're not ADHD or dyslexic?"

She smirked. "Yup. I get straight A's in every subject. Well, except for math. I really suck at math. But then again, who doesn't? Except for mathematicians, or whatever, but they're pretty much automatons so they don't count."

I slumped down in the nearest chair, suddenly unbearably weary. I'd gone to all of this effort, and for what? I'd gotten a goth mortal girl to think I was nuts. And now she was probably going to tell all of her other girl friends, so not only would my reputation at Camp Half-Blood be ruined, but I'd have no love life either.

She must've noticed my abrupt hopelessness, because her expression softened a little.

"Hey, it's okay. We all make mistakes. And I'd give you a pep talk about it, but that's way too clichéd for my taste." She grinned ruefully at me.

"That's fine, just . . ." I trailed off, wanting to ask my question again, praying to gods that she'd answer differently this time. "You're sure that you haven't seen anything weird? Because you could tell me, if you did. I swear I wouldn't tell anyone. And you wouldn't be alone, either. There are loads of others like me!"

She looked at me, and for a moment, her expression was both wistful and pained, as if she wanted to say yes. But it cleared in a second, and she just blinked and shook her head at me. "I'm so sorry Nico. But I never have."

She swung the door open and stepped out into the hallway, shutting it behind her with a soft click.

Completely unaware that she had just crushed what was left of my hope.

A quick thank you to my lovely beta, Riptide Anaklusmos, for helping me edit this chapter! And a thank you to all of those who reviewed; you made my day!

Disclaimer: I do not own the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series.