*Author's note: this chapter takes place at the same time as the previous chapter, not after.*
PJOPJOPJOPJO
I usually greet the day by backhanding my alarm clock.
And aside from a natural dislike of mornings, one of the commonalities among children of Athena is to wake up with obnoxious internal reminders of why and what you should do with your day: rants that are along the lines of 'A mind is a terrible thing to waste!' and 'Do, or do not! There is no try!' and 'You will go far! Lucky numbers: 7, 9, 22!' I can't even tell you whether or not they are results of my own overactive imagination or whether I really do have dead philosophers picking daisies in my psyche, but it seems to run in the family.
Today's: "The greatest happiness is to transform one's feelings into action." It reverberates around in my head for a few moments. I respond by pulling the covers over my head. Seriously, Shylock couldn't come up with this crap.
And, in this state, I'm certainly not expecting any visitors.
"Rise and shine, Night Owl!" Clarisse shouts as she dumps my bunk and its contents (me) onto the floor of the cabin. I sprawl on all fours like a cat, snarling, though the effect is somewhat muffled by the sheet twisted around me.
"What-" I spit, "is your problem? Aside from inbreeding?" Clarisse just smiles like a creep.
"I just think it's a little nauseating to have a camp counselor in here mooning over Jackson. We all know you little twits will be waltzing together across the dining pavilion as soon as Aphrodite cabin hosts another dance."
"I am not mooning. Mooning is completely anti-feminist. I am engaging in periods of deep introspection in response to recent life-change."
"In bed. With the lights off. In the early afternoon."
"Daughter of Athena. My methods are beyond your comprehensive capabilities." I pause. "And going to that dance was Percy's idea." Seriously. He even insisted I a flower on my wrist. How 70's.
"Just make yourself useful and get to the commencement fair. Your twerps are on the east side of the pit."
"Small?" I ask. With no major battles and no wars to fight, the satyrs have been able to find demigods at younger and younger ages, which means we have been able prepare them even sooner for the dangerous lives they will lead.
Clarisse smirks as I finally manage to unwrap myself and throw down the sheet with a grunt. "Microscopic. I swear, I was never that scrawny."
"I hear that."
"Shut it."
"Any Big Three's?"
"Nope. Though..." I'm sloppily brushing my hair when her hesitation catches my attention. I leave the brush dangling from the matted mess and turn to face her. "Yeah?"
"There's one I should mention. She's actually the reason I came to get you personally," she says. "A little first-grader. Mute."
"What are the details?" Every other year we have one camper who is just a little more damaged than the rest, who just isn't cut out for surviving, let alone being a hero. Sometimes, they're mute, or they vandalize, or they have some other quality that puts them either in a place of special care or in prison.
Sometimes, they're like Luke. But, sadly, it happens pretty frequently, and they don't always get the help they need.
"A girl. We put her up in Iris Cabin yesterday, 'cause she looks so much like Butch it's not like the Claiming will be a surprise, and she's not particularly gifted or anything. But... she likes to draw pictures. Freaky pictures."
"And Demeter Cabin holds "Edward vs. Jacob" debate on Tuesdays." With actual robes and powdered wigs. "This is just a freaky place."
Clarisse doesn't counter my banter. "You'll see for yourself," she says, so quietly my hair stands on end.
PJOPJOPJOPJO
To say my first reaction is horror is an understatement.
"I thought you said she arrived yesterday?" I demand of Clarisse, who is also staring up at the far wall of the Iris cabin.
"She did. Butch woke up this morning and said he nearly wet himself," she says, her expression grim. Because tacked onto the wall are not a half dozen scribbles of kittens or rainbows-
There are hundreds of drawings, all depicting the same thing: black skeletons, resting on what I perceive to be red fields. All the drawings are crude, childlike, and horrorific. Most are done with crayon or pencil, but a few are painted and so fresh that the paint has dripped in a disturbing manner onto the floor.
"Chiron says the craft cabinets are completely cleared out. We're not sure how she did it. And that's not all." She murmurs, as if afraid to speak too loudly into the silence, and even her footsteps are light and wary as she moves to the girl's bunk. She rips off the bedspread and I grimace.
"Have all the counselors seen this?" I ask.
"Just us and Butch."
"Where is she now?"
"With Chiron and the camp shrink."
I shake my head. "What does it mean, Clarisse?"
"You're the wise one. You tell me."
Painted onto the mattress is a mural depicting a thousand black skeletons dancing around a gaping, red pit.
After searching the Iris cabin for more weirdness and coming up empty-handed, Clarisse and I walk to where the other counselors are holding the commencement fair -a start-of-summer event that helps new campers become accustomed to the idea of being a demigod (peaceful times actually granting us the time to come up with such a thing, rather than showing a cheesy video).
"Okay, I'll admit that was a little freaky," I say, breaking the silence. "But its not the freakiest thing to go down in this place by half; she probably just needs a really, really good therapist." I begin to see about dozen groups ahead of us, moving amongst various booths and events displaying what the camp has to offer.
"You just want to think that 'cause peace has made you lazy and fat."
"What's that I smell? Is it... hypocrisy?"
She gives me a shove that would knock over a polar bear. "Your brats are over there. Try not to bore them to tears, or squash them with your cellulite."
"It's okay, Clarisse, I forgive you. Blind narcissism must be the last resort with a face like yours."
I duck under her retort and find myself peering down into tiny, terrified faces. There are eight of them, most with very recognizable family traits, a few slightly more obscure. All look frantic. I smile reassuringly, even though dealing with kids are more Percy's thing, and start in on the standard 'I will probably not eat you' speech.
"Hello, my name's Annabeth, and welcome to Camp Half-blood. Before we get to know each other and the camp, I first want to say that the purpose of this place is safety: you are safe here." This has a relaxing effect. Soon we are sitting in a circle, the kids looking around more so in interest than abject terror.
"Before I take you to the stations you see around us, let's get to know each other. One at a time, give me your name, age, and license plate number."
My lame attempt at levity is met with blank stares. Percy would roll his eyes if he were here; like I said, he's better with kids.
"Or," I add, "Just tell me the first two and anything you want to add. Let's start with you," I say, pointing to a girl who looks about ready to bounce out of her seat. Obviously a type A personality, she dives right in.
"I'm Tina, I'm five and a half, and this is Morris." She whips out, seemingly from thin air, a huge, green plastic T-rex. It's pretty badass, even if he is wearing a plaid babydoll dress.
"Why's he wearing a dress?" one boy spits.
Tina juts out her chin. "Because he wants to!"
"My name's Trent, and I'm nine," a solemn peace-maker intervenes before a fight can arise. Probably Hephaestus or Tyche. "And I like dinosaurs too." Tina beams at him.
"Me too!" says an African American girl with large, intelligent eyes. "And legos!" I secretly hope she's Athena, 'cause legos are totally awesome.
"I have some," I say. "And you can borrow them, if you like." She nods calmly, and I see a flicker of something familiar there.
But then, someone speaks up from behind me: "That means you'll finally have to take apart the London Tower, though."
Yep. Percy's voice.
