Out of My League, by Fitz and the Tantrums: Popular AU
A/N: I call this a romance, but thousands of words in, Percy hasn't met Annabeth and is still trying to figure things out. This chapter is very interlude-like, and it's really different from the first chapter (for better or worse). Enjoy?
When the spirit (which I later learned was a reformed Keres spirit) sent me dimension-hopping, I was in for a surprise.
Especially for the first time.
The spirit, who I later named Psalm, is a particularly odd brand of chaos. Psalm is considerate and kind with a slight British accent and a pleasant smile, but underneath those artificial layers, he's a tricky devil. A tricky, inexperienced devil, evidently. The first time he sends me into another universe, he slips up. To this day, I pry him for answers, even though Annabeth chastises me to leave Psalm alone. However, for the most part, all I know is that Psalm does it wrong.
He accidentally zaps most of my memories ("Memories are fragile," he will say, preppy and refined.). He sends me into a universe where I'm fifteen years old, instead of into a baby's body. He doesn't ask for my consent in any of this jumping-of-universes.
I'm nostalgic about this particular brand of "reincarnation," but it's one of the worst feelings in the world: waking in a body, a world, not quite your own. I remember this universe vividly. I was akin to a body-snatcher in this one. Sometimes, I wonder where that universe's Percy Jackson fled off to, while I occupied the body... Or, if we shared.
Oh, gods. I don't want to go there. Forget I mentioned anything. Anyway—
I end up in a universe that's...
Actually, never mind. You'll find out.
I woke up to a pounding headache, the sound of the igniter clicking on a stove in another room, and the sweet smell of maple syrup and honey. I sat there for a bit, trying to orient myself, but my head felt foggy, the memories of yesterday missing a few pieces. Sighing and sitting up, I made the bed, smoothing the wrinkles out of the soft blue blanket. My neck ached, so I cracked it, and I sluggishly stepped out of my room.
Something in my head was pulsing, knocking at the edges of my mind, with a single name.
Annabeth, Annabeth, Annabeth.
It was a rather pretty name, but I couldn't think long on it. My mind ached, and I paced down a set of blackwood stairs, the steps clicking loudly behind me.
"Hey, Mom?" I called, walking down rich brown stairs. I spun around, looking for my mom. I thought about school, and at the thought, my head thumped.
My mom poked her head out from the kitchen, and she gave me a wide, blinding smile. I offered a tiny one in return, before asking, "D'you know where the Tylenol is? I've got a shi…" I cleared my throat, "...bad headache."
"In the second drawer to the right, Percy," she said, smiling. "You know that already."
She went back to the stove, and she smoothly flipped a crisp blue pancake into a black pan. My stomach rumbled in hunger, but I took a couple pills out of the container in the drawer, drowning them down with water. A bit of water trickled down my chin, and I wiped it. I quickly sat down near the table in the kitchen, inhaling the smell of fresh pancakes in my mom's signature color of bright blue.
She expertly flipped the pancake again, throwing it onto a silver-edged plate, handing it to me. I smiled, taking in the look of warm pancakes, drizzling with syrup, sugar, and whipped cream. She quickly handed me the platter with the efficiency of a professional cook.
I added my confectionary condiments, and I took a fulfilling bite.
She made two more pancakes, then put the dish in the dishwasher. "I hope you like the pancakes, sweetheart. Things may be tough, but at least, certain things'll always stay the same." She took a peek at the grandfather clock down the hall. "Your dad's sleeping late again," my mom said with a good-natured roll of her eyes.
"My dad?" I asked, and the question sounded odd to my own ears. Of course I had a dad, of course I did. However, when I tried to think him up in my head, it was like the memory had been put behind a set of curtains, concealed.
"He's going to be late for work at this rate," Sally told me. "I'm going to head out soon, so you just make sure your dad will take you to school. Or ask Mr. Brunner to."
"Mr. Brunner?" I asked curiously, the name weirdly familiar.
"Is your headache bothering you that much?" she asked carefully. "If so, you don't have to go to school. I'll call the office up, and you can stay home, okay, sweetie?"
"Who's…Mr. Brunner?"
"Percy, you didn't answer my question. Are you okay? Is anything wrong?" Her eyes were brimmed with confusion and worry. She put the large pan away. I looked around the large kitchen, then at the pancakes skeptically. She asked, "You know who I am, right?"
"Yes, of course," I said. I could never forget my mother, but everything else, including my dad and Mr. Brunner, felt out-of-reach and foreign. "Sally Jackson." She let out a sigh of relief, and she closed me in a hug.
"You worried me there, Percy," she breathed. "I thought your memories had disappeared or something… I wouldn't want to take you to the hospital. It'd be a pain." She gave me a small, crooked smile. "You probably have a migraine, don't you? Things are fuzzy and all that… Anyway, Mr. Brunner is your butler, honey."
"My…butler?" I asked. I stared down at the pancakes nervously, and I took a few bites. I didn't remember having one. I hadn't even known what a butler was until I'd watched Batman. Wasn't it an old, grey-haired guy who helped rich people, or something?
"There, you've got it," said Sally Jackson softly. She patted my shoulder, her eyes dancing with kindness, and went back to packing for work.
"Mom," I asked nervously, staring as she grabbed a stack of paper. I didn't remember my mother ever needing paperwork for work; I pried more for a memory, but I was blanking. Was it possible I was suffering with amnesia? Like the thing that happened when people hit their heads too hard in movies? "Um…where are you going?"
"Work," she said, raising a brow at my question. "I've got a new case coming up, and the defense is strong. I might need to work most of the weekend with my client." She adjusted the paperwork, unbothered, and I felt myself crinkle my brow.
A case? A defense? A client?
And there was no sarcasm in her tone. It was either my mother was a gang-leader or a lawyer, and I was leaning to the latter.
"Hey, Mom," I asked, a thought hitting me. "How's your book coming along?" It was probably the only thought I remembered about her, besides the fact that she was my loving, amazing mom. This fact was one I knew, as clear as day: Sally Jackson was an aspiring author, struggling to get a book deal.
She cocked a brow. "The one I published two years ago?" she questioned.
This didn't ring a bell, and I stopped chewing a piece of the blue pancake. "Yeah, what was it called?"
"I know you don't like the title much, Percy, but there's really no need to be mean," said Sally dryly, and she grabbed her Prada bag. "I know 'The Mind of a Lawyer: An Autobiography' is a bit on-the-nose, but I think it works."
Okay. So, I definitely didn't remember that.
"Tell your dad you're having a headache, take some medicine to school, and don't stress, mm-kay?" Sally told me, the end of her mouth tilting into a half-smile. "Have a good day, Percy. I'll talk to you soon."
Sally Jackson left, and I stared at the half-eaten blue pancakes. I scrambled out of the leather-black seat, my headache causing his head to warp the reality around me. I breathed heavily: one, two, three, four, five. Even though I did remember his mom, did remember my name was "Percy Jackson," I was not familiar with the large, luxurious house with polished marble floors, expensive plates, and a huge four-poster bed with silk-soft pillows.
It wasn't exactly a mansion, but it was richly made. The type of house only a well-paying job could get in New York.
If I even am in New York, my mind pounded anxiously.
I needed more information, that I knew true enough, and I ran upstairs on the rich, polished, wooden steps. There were fifteen rooms, and my eyes widened in interest and shock. The house had looked big, even from the bottom, but I'd completely ignored the top floor. The knobs of the doors were shiny and mainly bronze, and I opened every one of them, staring and finding other large, plush beds, decked out with soft pillows and well-made blankets. There was a painting in each room and cabinets filled with jewelry, watches, and handbags.
I stared.
I shut the drawers, walked out of the rooms, and kept investigating. It seemed like there were no people in the dozen of rooms, and it made me wonder why there were so many... The foreign house was like a mansion to me, a maze of beauty and casual luxury, and I paced around. At the moment, I didn't think I'd seen anything so stellar and blinding in my whole life. I searched for signs of my "dad," curiosity getting the better of me.
Then I heard a small snore from a room, and I walked in. Inside, a large, muscled man with a greyish beard and tan skin rested. Even though his age seemed to be old, judging by the wrinkles around his eyes and lips, he looked very ruggedly handsome, sleeping there.
I walked over, ignoring the grandeur of the room. I swallowed, then tapped the man's shoulder.
The man slept away.
I did it. Again.
More snoring noises sounded.
In a fit of desperation and barely concealed confusion, I shook the man by the shoulders. The man woke up with a gasp, his eyes flicking open at a rapid speed. As soon as I saw those eyes, I knew he was my dad. Sea-green eyes, framed with dark lashes. That was my old man, all right.
"Dad?"
My father turned to me, sputtering, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation. "I'm going to back to sleep, Jackson. Ask Brunner to take you."
"Wait," I pleaded quietly, staring at this man. I tried the title once more: "Dad, please?"
"What?" he asked gruffly.
"Um, my memory's kind of a mess right now." He raised a brow, and I shook my head. "It's not a...prank or anything. Seriously, I woke up with a headache and some sort of...pain in my bones? And I've been forgetting all sorts of things...like things I should know."
"Just ask Brunner to tutor you some more," my dad said, flipping onto his side, digging his body into the warm fabric of the mattress. "Though I don't know why you make such a big deal of academics, Jackson... You're going to inherit my company no matter what."
"Dad..." I said.
"You know, now that I do think about it," he said, his face contemplative in nature, "you are actin' a bit funny. I don't think I've heard you call me 'Dad' so many times in a day."
"Do I...do I not typically do that?"
"I don't know, boy," he said. "Do you?"
I couldn't exactly tell my dad that I didn't remember his real name, so I couldn't exactly call him that. I'd be heartbroken if someone close to me, like a family member, forgot about me. However, I didn't have much of a choice. I didn't know how to wheedle my dad's name, without seeming suspicious and weird.
"I don't remember you," I said. "Or your name. But I do know you're my dad."
"This isn't a funny prank, Jackson." Why did he keep calling me Jackson? "Get to school, will you? I bet Brunner's waiting for you, and I'm too tired to deal with you today, all right?"
"Um, w-what?" I stuttered.
"You told me a month ago that you want me to be honest with you, right?" My dad looked at me with a dark, unflinching gaze. "I'm being honest. Leave me alone."
I felt something in my throat work, and I nodded sharply. "Oh...okay? Good night, Dad."
I walked out of the room, and I shut the door quietly, my fingers clenching around the diamond knob tightly. I was...confused and frustrated.
"Are you still arguing with him, Percy?" a soft, musing voice asked.
My gaze made its way to a tall, well-dressed man with coffee-brown hair, pale skin, and a expression that spoke of a lot of wisdom. He wore an elegant tuxedo without a jacket, and he stood ramrod-straight, towering over me.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Chiron Brunner," said Mr. Brunner, without missing a beat.
That was...surprisingly easy. He didn't raise any brows or ask if I everything was fine when I asked. Was he a new butler, perhaps? Did rich people switch butlers out every once in a while, like batteries?
"And...you're my butler," I said disbelievingly.
"Yes, I am," said Brunner. "Now, hurry up, Perseus, and let's go. I know your tardiness is not a priority of yours, but your mother would be concerned if she called the school, and you weren't there."
"Okay," I said, my breath faltering. "I'll go change." I went into my room, locked it, and looked over at my closet. I filtered through the pants and came up with a lot of black basketball shorts and ripped jeans. I put on a set of jeans, then scanned around for a good shirt. They were all expensive brands that I couldn't pronounce, but felt like silk, satin, and cotton. For some reason or another, I looked around for a bright, sunny orange, but I found none. I shook myself out of my daze, told myself that orange was lame, and put on a men's black shirt from Prada.
I smoothed my hair with a comb and some hair-gel lying on the table. I took a peek of myself in the long mirror next to the door, did some finger-guns, and walked out. I felt like I was slowly getting my memories back by looking at myself. Maybe my headache really was the problem; if it just...went away, I'd get them back.
Brunner was waiting outside the door patiently, his eyes scanning his watch when I stepped out.
He didn't even so much as glance at my outfit, flipping his head and heading out. He was a fast guy, and I ran down the stairs after him, my breath coming out unsteady.
He walked out of the front door. The door reminded me of a church's glass window, colored glass gleaming in the sunlight. I stared, a bit starry-eyed, at the wonder of this house. I don't think I've ever seen a front door made of glass like that...
"Sir," said Mr. Brunner, gesturing to a long, sleek, black limousine. He opened the door behind, and I stepped into it. He circled the limo, and sat in the driver's seat, his expression bleached of emotion.
I wanted to ask so many questions, but I settled with: "How long have you been working here?" It was the most innocent of questions because it could easily be exchanged, even if I did have all my memories.
"Since you turned nine," he said blandly, backing out of the driveway. The car's windows were polished and clean, so I could easily observe the large, expansive house from this angle. The frame of the house gleamed, and I got the impression the wood was cherry or mahogany, painted over by a layer of silver and white.
"Seven?" I said, trying to grasp my age. I was...in my teens, right? Probably somewhere there. "Oh, I'm sorry for asking about your name, then."
"It's all right," Mr. Brunner assured me. "You often forget, anyway."
I swallowed, the words somehow perturbing. "So I...um, my mind feels fuzzy, and I have a headache, and a lot of my memories are, like, out of whack." The words sounded odd in my head. "So...is it okay if I ask some questions?"
"Of course," Mr. Brunner told me.
Mr. Brunner's eyes were steadfast on the road (which was a good thing obviously, but it was also a bit unsettling).
"Er..." I began tensely. "Who's my dad?"
A brow jumped onto Mr. Brunner's forehead, and I stared in the overhead mirror. "You weren't kidding about the amnesia," Brunner said monotonously.
"No, I'm not." Do I often lie about amnesia? was what I wanted to ask, but I didn't really want to know the answer.
"Well, even so, you might still be lying. I never know what kind of pranks you youth get up to."
"And speaking of that," I said, remembering, "how old am I?"
"You are fifteen years old, Percy Jackson."
"I am?" I asked.
"Yes."
"And about the dad question... What's his name?" I clarified to Brunner, making my voice calm and reasonable. "See, I know how he looks. Grey hair, green eyes like mine, and likes to sleep. But I don't know his name, and he didn't tell me."
"Your father's name is Poseidon, CEO of Olympian Industries, a joint company made by three rich brothers," Chiron told him, his grip hard on the steering wheel. They started driving out of the neighborhood, making their way onto a paved, smooth road. "The brothers are, as so: Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades."
I felt an odd pang at the back of my head, my mind flipping back and forth like a wobbly fish. Every time I thought of a memory too hard, it'd fly out of my hands, and I was left feeling more confused than ever.
"And my mother?"
"What about her?" said Brunner uninterestedly.
"Well, I know she's Sally Jackson but—"
"Sally Olympian," Mr. Brunner corrected without an echo of concern.
"No," Percy said, his head propping up from the car-seat. "No, she's definitely Sally Jackson. I remember that much."
Mr. Brunner hummed noncommittally. "She was a while ago. She changed her name when she remarried."
"Remarried my dad?"
"The full timeline is that she had an affair with Mr. Olympian fifteen years ago." Brunner stared at me in the mirror, his warm eyes dark. "Hence, your creation. Then she married Gabe Ugliano for twelve or so years—I don't think you ever forgave her for that—then divorced. Up around this time, Mr. Olympian was avoiding Ms. Olympian and you."
"And then, they got back together."
"Exactly," said Mr. Brunner. "Was that a good rendition of the dramatic tale?"
"Is Poseidon pissed at me or something?" I asked. I felt surprise color my features, and I tried to push it away.
"On the contrary, it's the opposite way around."
"Oh, okay," I said, thinking about the way he venomously spat out "Jackson," like the name was dirty.
"You never forgave him for his affairs."
"Affairs? Plural?"
"Yes, he has a few other sons with other women," Mr. Brunner said breezily. "It's a common occurrence in the Olympian family. Fame and ego are really a hotheaded combination."
The car abruptly stopped with a shuddering halt, and I stared out at a neat white building's campus, decked with navy-blue stripes and students in uniforms, and I felt my chest burst with so many feelings... I felt like I was watching some messed-up soap opera with rich people. Then I had to remind myself I was the rich person.
I didn't think it was a headache anymore.
"I have amnesia," I blurted out. "I can't go to school."
"Oh, enough with the excuses," Brunner told me tonelessly. "I've entertained you this long. Go on, Percy Jackson."
"I can't remember anything!"
"I'm sure you can't," Mr. Brunner told me in a tone that leaked of sarcasm and barely disguised hatred.
"Then why tell me about this stuff," I asked, "if you don't believe me?"
"And give you more of a reason to go complaining to your mother and father? They'd have my head, Percy Jackson," Brunner said, his eyes ferocious. "You cannot skip every day of the week. Now get...out."
His voice was gravelly, and his eyes shone with rage, hatred, and barely suppressed murderous intent. I stepped out immediately, like Chiron Brunner was a serial killer. I wanted answers, I didn't want to go to a school I didn't even remember, and I certainly didn't want this pounding headache; however, the way Mr. Brunner looked at me shook my bones... He looked like he could kill me, and that frightened me away.
Brunner brought the window down, and he said, "As protocol, if you feel unsafe at any portion of the day, you may call your bodyguard for protection. The number's on your phone, and I trust your 'amnesia' doesn't bar you from using it." Then, without another spare glance or word, the limousine pulled away, Mr. Brunner's vehicle hurriedly leaving.
I was tempted to run after it, but despite my basketball shorts and long legs, I felt weak. Plus, even if I had energy, I'd never get to the limousine in time.
I stared at the school, sure I could talk to a sane teacher about my situation. They'd send me back home, and I could talk to my mom about it (I didn't want to interact with Poseidon again, no matter what). I played with the strap of my leather backpack, swung over one arm, and walked.
There were a lot of people, and the campus felt very much like a preppy high-school. The kids didn't necessarily look rich though, I noticed. But they all had uniforms, so that might be why... I looked down at my very rich, cool outfit, and I felt suddenly out of place, compared to the navy-blue ties, white collared button-ups, and long blue pants and jackets. Didn't private schools do strict dress-coding?
If they did, then I could easily get sent home. And talk to my mom about my dilemma.
About my amnesia, my lack of memory. And also about my father.
What was going on with my family, anyway? If what serial killer-looking Brunner was saying was true, my family life was pretty fucked-up.
"Hey," a voice called from near the school entrance. "Hey, yo, Percy Jackson!"
A blond-haired, tall, broad guy walked over to me, lightly thumping me over the back. Like I was a fragile, glass doll. His blue eyes glittered, and he smiled widely, genuinely, at me. He looked at least seventeen, and the guy could've been a poster kid for popular and cool high-schoolers. I offered him a short nod and a returned, unsure smile.
"Um..." I started smartly.
"Hey, Jackson, what's up?" the blond guy asked. He was also wearing the same uniform, but he'd taken the tie and thrown it around his neck.
"Not much," I said with a hurried laugh.
"Is your dad still being shitty?" the guy asked sympathetically. "I'm in the same boat as you, Perce."
"Is everything okay with your dad?" I said, my curiosity getting the better of me.
The guy shrugged, but there was discomfort in his blue eyes. "Same old, same old. You know the story. Not gonna bore you with the same one again."
"Can you take me to the office?" I finally said.
"For what? You're not in trouble again, are you, Perce?" asked the guy.
"In trouble for what?"
"Hah. Don't kid with me." His eyebrows waggled back and forth. "You brought the you-know-what from you-know-who to school."
"Did I?" I said curiously, my eyebrows furrowing in concern. "What...?"
The conversation soon died, as the bell rang. I looked at him determinedly. "Take me to the office," I told him. And this time, I decided to be truthful. "I'm having symptoms of amnesia."
"Woah, woah, woah, Perce," the blonde-haired guy said, scratching his head nervously. I stared at him, my eyes piercing. Unwavering. "Damn, you serious, man?"
"Yeah," I told him.
"Maybe the ball hit you too hard yesterday," he said.
Oh. That explained it. I was having amnesia from a basketball. Everything was slowly, agonizingly falling back into place.
Then why did I feel something...missing?
"So...can you get me to the office?" I said, but it sounded almost like a plead. "Mr. Brunner dropped me off without my say-so, and now I'm here, and I need to go back home or to the hospital or something..."
"Brunner? That old fart?"
"Um...yeah?" I said, confused, but I continued, "Please, just take me to the office."
"Yeah. Okay. Sure, man." The guy grabbed my arm and dragged me inside the building. It was a nice, pleasant building: made of clean, sturdy blocks with students rushing to classes. The blonde let go of my arm, and he walked forward, and I followed him expectantly.
As we walked, now side-by-side, he asked, "You remember who I am, right?"
I didn't want to admit that I had no clue who he was. He seemed nice enough. A jock type, but a dependable, trustworthy friend. I shook my head sullenly. "No, I'm sorry. It's all just...gone."
"Damn, Perce, that really hurts."
"Sorry."
"No, it's cool," he said with a good-natured chuckle. He stopped in the middle of the hall, and he turned to face me head-on. "My name's Luke. Luke Castellan. Nice to meet you."
"Percy Jackson," I replied, taking his hand in my own and shaking firmly.
He laughed and let go. "Let's get your mind all fixed, okay?"
I smiled appreciatively, letting him lead me through the building. In this odd, mixed-up world where my mom was peculiar, my dad looked at me in disgust, and my butler looked like he wanted to kill me, Luke Castellan seemed like a sort of sanctuary. He was just a nice guy with a friendly demeanor and charm.
We continued to walk, the steps clear and smooth. Then out of nowhere, Luke hummed a bit.
"What?" I asked.
"They won't believe you," Luke told me finally. His lips pursed, empathetic. "Percy... I don't know if you remember this, but...you've done something like this before."
I froze. I was suddenly very much reminded of the story of "The Boy Who Cried Wolf." Except I was the boy.
This wasn't fair. I hadn't done anything wrong. It was just...past-me.
"About having amnesia? Why did I lie about that?" I asked quietly.
"I don't know. You didn't really give me a reason, but you were going through a phase against your dad, and...I don't know." Luke breathed in deeply. "You could tell the principal about your current problem right now, but she's the ugly old woman who hates you. I don't think she'll believe you."
"Then a teacher?"
"Er..." Luke's grin was lopsided. "You're kind of a rich troublemaker. All the students love you or are jealous of you. Or a bit of both. But most of the teachers hate you."
"Really?" My voice was a squeak. That was surely an exaggeration...
Luke clapped a hand over my back, his tone brotherly. "You said it was a headache, right?" I nodded, and Luke gave me a reassuring smile. "Maybe it'll go away by the end of the week. Anyway: you know, there's no cure for amnesia, so medical help would be pointless. You'll just be seen as an attention-hog again."
I mulled through this in my head. A part of me truly wanted medical help, but I did fear judgement from Poseidon and Brunner. I also didn't want everyone to hate me, and amnesia didn't have any definite treatments either. It either went away, or didn't.
I breathed out. "Okay, thanks. Thanks, Luke. You're a real one."
Luke smiled and thumped me on the back, just as the earth-shattering school bell rang.
"We've got similar classes," Luke said. "The only ones that're different are English and math. First is English. You're in Class 4-D."
English was torture, agony, and pain combined. The class was learning something boring like adverb agreement, and I had to catch myself multiple times from falling asleep. The words were a mess of random letters from my point sitting, and trying to piece the correct spelling of each word was beyond frustrating. English was not forte clearly.
The teacher was a young man in his early thirties with shiny, slight curled golden hair that gleamed like amber and twinkling eyes. According to the white-board, written in a flourish, the man's name was Mr. Apollo, and he often burst into song and rhyme randomly. He was also an ego trip, who constantly talked himself up, even though he was teaching a set of bored pubescent teenagers, halfway to dream-land from the looks of it.
My odd, different set of clothing didn't raise so much as an eyebrow. Mr. Apollo only applauded my style with a smile, and told me to take a seat. "Not late!" Mr. Apollo said. "'Late' is just fashionably early in another life! Take a seat, Percy!"
The students glanced at my designer-branded clothing, before turning away. It was obvious that for me, wealthy as I was, the dress code didn't apply. It was really odd, and I swallowed uncomfortably. Judging by the looks, this seemed like a common occurrence.
I didn't know how that made me feel about...about myself.
"We're working on poems next," said Mr. Apollo. "Specifically, haikus."
Easy, I thought to myself. For haikus, the pattern for the syllables was five, seven, five, right?
On the spot, I came up with this:
Damn, my life really sucks,
Amnesia can suck my butt,
I don't know what else to write.
I wish I could actually recite the poem, I thought to myself bitterly, watching Mr. Apollo gush about haikus and recite at least thirteen of his own. "This one is my best," he'd say, and would give simply the most subpar haiku I'd ever heard. Even my half-assed, depressing one was ten times better than Apollo's random attempts at haiku-ing. I cringed and winced multiple times, as the eccentric teacher continued on.
Anyway, haikus aside, the class was boring. The kids all idly looked around, bored out of their wits. The class smelled of sweat, teenage boredom, and someone opening Cheetos in the back row. A frizzy-haired redhead in the back was plucking the little cheese puffs, licking her fingers obscenely behind Apollo's back, and stealing erasers and pencils from the other students. I was tempted to tattle to Mr. Apollo about it, but knowing Apollo, he'd ask for some Cheetos and give us a life lesson about the history of Cheetos.
So I sat there and tried to focus.
It was really fucking hard when no one else could.
Except...
A girl two desks from the front-row was tightly holding a number-two pencil, writing notes. I blinked and stared, craning my neck to see if she actually cared about this dip-shit's haiku lessons. Maybe she was doodling or writing a eulogy, hell if I knew.
The person next to me raised a brow, leaning backward to make room for my eyes.
The girl was writing notes from Mr. Apollo's teaching. Notes about mood significance and different types of poems filled the page. It wasn't neat; she didn't highlight things in color-coordinated highlighters, and the writing wasn't perfect, but it was purposeful. Her writing twisted together in a messy cursive-like scrawl. I looked from the notes to the girl.
Her hair was blonde, pulled into a bun, stray curls falling out. Grey eyes, steadfast and stormy, both intense and beautiful as sterling, darted from her notebook to Mr. Apollo's cheery words.
She seemed...
"Any questions?" Mr. Apollo finally asked, done with his half-hour spiel. The blonde girl raised her hand, a slight flick of her arm. "Ah, yes, Annabeth. Go on."
Annabeth, Annabeth, Annabeth.
My mouth went dry.
This name... This culmination of three separate syllables, partaking together to form something tangible, familiar, on my tongue. This was Annabeth.
I closed my eyes for a second, trying to pick apart at my memories, but I didn't recall anything. I'd woken up with the name "Annabeth" in my head; did that mean something? It had to... Annabeth wasn't a common name.
Annabeth said, "I'm wondering what the final project will be. How much of our grade will it be worth?"
Mr. Apollo chuckled, happy that some student engaged with him in teaching. I blinked curiously.
Could she be a trigger for my memory?
I titled my head to the left side, and I watched her with wide sea-green eyes. The girl—Annabeth—said, "I was wondering what the final project will be about and how much it will be worth her final grade."
I grimaced at the thought of a "final project." Staring at her notes and appearance, Annabeth did feel a lot like a teacher's pet type. Not an annoying one, per se, but a girl who was ignored by the rest of the class.
A girl who cared too much about her grades.
Could this be a memory returning? I thought hopefully.
Mr. Apollo seemed to think over Annabeth's request. "We're going to have fun on the final poetry project. Don't worry so much about it, Annabeth. Your 4.0 GPA isn't going to hurt from it," Mr. Apollo said brightly. A few of the students laughed. "Everyone, get a partner for the peer-reviewing."
I scanned the room for Luke, then realized the junior wasn't in this class. I adjusted my black shirt's collar nervously, staring.
"Partners?" asked the guy next to me. His skin was dark as ebony, and his arms were wide and well-muscled. He gave me the impression of a guy who worked out every day. I nodded, tense. "Hey, Jackson, lighten up. It's just poetry. Just come up with some mumbo-jumbo about the sun, and Apollo will eat it up."
"Okay," I said, even though when it came out, it was a question.
A few of the students behind me gave me annoyed looks, as if, You should've joined us, but I only shrugged apologetically back.
The other students filed around for partners. I saw Annabeth look around, her face scrunched up in some unplaceable emotion, as no one approached he. I didn't think the other students feared her, but she definitely didn't look popular.
"Once you get a partner," I vaguely heard Mr. Apollo call above the chatter, "start working on a poem. The prompt is feelings. Don't give me that look! You have them, I have them, we all have them. No, Grace, you're not allowed to curse!" The teacher went on to talk about something, but I zoned out midway.
"Um, her," I said to the boy next to me, gesturing subtly at Annabeth. "Does she have a partner?"
The boy raised a fine, dark brow. "No? Does she ever?" He laughed a bit.
I quieted my voice, and I told him, "I, er, don't know who you are. I have amnesia. So could you...fill me in?"
"Amnesia?" he asked. "The thing where you lose your memories?"
"That's the one," I said with an awkward smile and finger-guns. "I thought that if I go through a school day, they might come back."
"Oh. Well, then, I'm Charles Beckendorf. Captain on the school basketball team. The team and you usually just call me 'Beck' or 'Beckendorf.'"
"Oh, okay." It didn't ring any bells, but Charles seemed nice enough. "I'm sorry about the amnesia thing."
He clapped my back happily. "No problem. You don't need your memory to play basketball, anyway."
Right. The basketball thing. I ignored it, focusing on this final project. "Um...so what do you want to write about?"
"Something about Silena," he said. "That's my girlfriend, by the way." He tapped my head. "I talk about her every day. You remember that at least, right?"
I shook my head, my face pinched up with regret. "No. But you sound like you really love her."
"Sound?" Beck laughed. "She's my entire world." He tilted his head. "Well, her and basketball. And mechanics."
"Nice," I said. "How is your poem going to go? Any ideas so far?"
"Flowers and autumn, the day I met you,
Grace and beauty, warmth and joy,
Eyes as blue as the sea, as the sky,
In every world, I'll love you. And in every life."
"That's..." I began, "...really pretty. And thoughtful."
Beck shrugged and scratched his neck. "It's just the starting lines, but yeah, Silena means a lot to me."
"You met her in fall?"
"Yes. I met her on the basketball court actually," Beck admitted. "She was a competitive cheerleader. She gave me a kiss on our final game. I know, I know, that's quick, but it was love-at-first-sight, you know?" He sighed happily.
"That's nice," I said genuinely.
"How about you?" he asked. I felt a blush spread on my cheeks, making him snort in laughter. "No, not that. I don't have any interest in the great Percy Jackson's love life. I meant, what do you want to do for your poem?"
"I don't know. I don't really have many feelings. Amnesia and all that."
Beck nodded understandingly. "I get that." We settled into a rhythm that required no talking, and I began writing in my notebook, something about blonde hair and grey eyes and the feeling of déjà vu. I promise it wasn't as creepy as it sounded. It was just hard to write about something when my memories were limited and scarce; Annabeth was just so present in my mind. It was hard to ignore an anchor, berthing the ship in place. The same applied to Annabeth.
"Hey, about that girl..." I said, completely out-of-the-blue. "Annabeth..."
"What about her?" Beck asked noncommittally, doodling away gears and engineer designs in his notebook.
My voice was so very quiet, in hopes of her not listening in. "Did I...know her in any way? Her name sounds familiar."
"I don't think so," he said. "She usually just minds her own business."
"Are you sure?" I pressed, more insistent. "I just... It's weird, Beck."
His eyes skirted over me, assessing. His lips twisted into a playful smile. "Don't tell me what I think you're thinking."
"That...she might know about my amnesia?"
"That itty-bitty, too-cool-for-school Percy Jackson has a crush."
My face heated up uncomfortably. I pursed my lips, trying to weigh what words would be the most convincing. "No...no, it's not like that."
"Yeah, okay," said Beck. He looked clearly unconvinced. He gestured to my blank-paged notebook. "Come on. Get your head outta the gutter, and focus."
And I did. I really did, and you know what, Charles Beckendorf was right:
I ended up writing a hasty two-liner about a glowing, glittering sun.
I tried to talk to Annabeth Chase sometime during our third break after P.E. class.
Before I talk about our conversation, let me get this clear:
She was like a ghost in this big school. As soon as she stepped out of the class, it was like she blended in with the rest of the crowded hallway, chameleon-style. Like chau, and she was gone. Through my classes, I looked for her unique grey eyes, but she seemed to only be in my English class. It made sense, though: she seemed very smart, and my classes were average or below-average, hence we only shared the grade-required English class.
While I searched, lots of people talked about me in the halls. I knew it must've been because of the whole drama between Poseidon, my mom, and me, but I also had the nagging feeling that, maybe, I'd... Well, no, that was a stupid thought.
Unless...
Was it possible that I was popular here? Cool and suave and everybody's favorite, funny guy? I seemed like the richest person here, and also like a bit of a jerk honestly, and maybe that was magnetic for regular people. Either way, the looks and talks were weird.
I just wanted my memories back, so I could piece this mess together.
Anyway. About Annabeth.
I looked all over the place. During breaks, I paced across the hallway, stared through windows into the cafeteria, and I didn't find her everywhere. Some of my basketball "friends" came over to me, patted me, and I asked if they'd seen Annabeth. They only shrugged.
I spent my next few classes with Luke, and he talked about how the teachers were such a bore here. I nodded, without truly hearing, and continued scanning for Annabeth.
I looked over at Luke, tired of searching, with wide green eyes. "Hey, Luke, do you know who Annabeth is?"
His eyes darkened. "Yeah. You could say that."
"Her name is just...familiar. I know Annabeth Chase," I told him. "I need to ask her if we've met before. This could be the trigger for my memories!"
"I don't think she knows you," Luke said with a grimace. "Also, Percy, you should know this: Annabeth and I...we have...history."
Oh.
Oh.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude," I told Luke honestly, my voice cracking, as I verbally backed off. "If I knew you guys were together—"
Luke laughed, high and loud. "No, not like that. She was like a sister to me, before she stabbed me in the back."
"Oh. Still," I said. My tone was dull. "What'd she do?"
"It's complicated," he admitted, and that was that. "So...you think talking with Annabeth will help you get your memories back?"
"Yes," I said automatically.
"Then she'll be in the library." Luke pointed in the direction of a white-painted building outside the window. The library was sturdy and forbidding. "I don't want to come though. Sorry."
I nodded knowingly, and I made my way to Annabeth, feeling as light as a bird.
She was sitting on the far end of the library, two composition notebooks out and the novel, Wuthering Heights, out. In Greek.
I didn't remember being able to speak Greek. This was something I'd remember, right?
I remembered being able to speak English, so why had Greek so suddenly fled my mind?
I stood in the middle of the library for a few moments, acting like a nervous, blushing mess. The librarian at the counter gave me a dirty look, and I politely offered a tight smile, before making my way to the wooden table.
The library was huge. Books of all genres, fiction and nonfiction, covered rows and rows of dark wooden shelves, and I took a look around, before redirecting my eyes back to Annabeth. I didn't know how I wanted to go about this: I'd just been telling everyone about my amnesia, hoping they'd believe me, but I didn't want Annabeth to get the wrong impression about me.
"Hey?" I squeaked out quietly.
I was next to her seat, standing up and fiddling with my hands behind my back. Annabeth didn't so much as flinch, as hard as ice. She looked around the table, as if looking for some other person I was talking to, and finally, she realized I was talking to her. And with a quick glance at me, she turned back to the Greek book. Getting ignored was like being gut-punched.
"Hey," I told her, and I sat next to her (surely, that wasn't weird). "I'm Percy Jackson."
"I'm well aware," she told me idly, her gaze still fixed on Wuthering Heights.
I resisted the urge to wise-crack: Nice to meet you, 'Well Aware.' Instead, I swallowed, tense, and I turned my gaze to the table. The librarian eyed us curiously, and I felt gooseflesh spread over my skin, tight and pointed.
"Annabeth," I told her, and the name was like a symphony. Beautiful, elegant, crisp. I wondered if it was possible for people to feel such a way, just from a name. "I have amnesia."
She raised a plucky eyebrow. She turned her head to face me, her eyes oozing with the energy of four words: oh, do you now?
I swallowed. "I know, I know, but it's true. My memory is completely whack."
I only remembered my mom's name...and hers. That had to mean something. Something important.
"And I'm just supposed to believe you."
"That's the idea, yeah."
"Go talk to a doctor," Annabeth said with an eye-roll. She propped her novel up, digging her face into the pages. "And leave me alone."
"No, seriously!" I said. "I don't remember anything. Somehow though, I know you. I've...seen you before. I know your name. You're... We..."
And Annabeth picked up her books, grabbed the simplistic backpack that laid on her seat, and left.
Frustration and bitterness ate at me. I could only watch with a pained expression, the flash of her blonde hair disappearing outside the oaken doors.
A/N: I was originally going to have it a chapter-per-universe, but it started to get too long. There will be an "Out of My League" pt. 2 later.
You will find a billion plot-holes in this chapter. Enjoy the search. I wrote this late, and it came out as literal crack where I thought of the weirdest shit imaginable. My mind was like, Let's flesh this out, and my fingers were like, Nah. This came out. I have no plans of editing. Somehow, I wanted to write about Annabeth and Percy falling in love thirty times, and it ended up...like this? I don't know, guys. This is what happens when I try writing a romance. I end up going way off topic.