happy two year anniversary of the last update. what a two years it's been! sorry annabeth and percy missed all of it.


Loading Annabeth's entire family - Dad, Helen, the boys, and all - into their literally-and-figuratively crummy SUV is always an ordeal that ranks with cleaning the bathroom after a spider-sighting and proofreading one of Piper's essays. Today is no different. By the time Bobby and Matthew are buckled in, they're already squirming to get out ("Are we there yet?" "Bobby, we haven't even left." "I'm Matthew.") and, honestly, so is Annabeth.

Matthew has calmed down now, luckily, and is chomping on some cereal in the backseat. This is, however, still somewhat concerning, because they ran out of cereal two days ago.

"Where did you get that?" asks Annabeth.

Matthew waves vaguely around the car.

"Okay, then," she says.

Frederick is driving, silently as always, and Annabeth is almost glad for the sound of Matthew's munching. She rolls the window down a bit, just to feel the wind against her forehead, wondering how stupid it would look if she stuck her head out the window like a dog. (Probably pretty stupid. On the other hand, at least she'd be somewhat out of the car.)

"Are you excited?" asks Helen, finally.

"Sure."

"Are you nervous?"

"I'm alright."

"First performance!"

"Hmmph," Annabeth grunts. She turns back to the window, trying to signal the end of the conversation.

"Annabeth," Helen starts again, "if you're nervous, you know you can tell us, right? It's a completely normal response to adrenaline. I'm here for you. We really do care. You know how busy your father is, but - "

"You didn't have to come," interjects Annabeth.

"Annabeth, of course we're coming. We want to be here."

"No, we don't," says Bobby, who has apparently been eavesdropping.

"Bobby," says Helen, and Bobby sticks his tongue out at her. "Your father and I want to be here. And Matthew. Right, Matthew?"

Matthew mumbles something through a mouthful of Cheerios that doesn't particularly sound like "yes, mother, I really do want to be here!" but Helen takes it as a positive response anyways. "See?" she says.

"Okay," says Annabeth.

"You know that we want the best for you, honey, right?"

Helen wants a teenage daughter she can giggle at Real Housewives with over mugs of hot cocoa and Frederick wants a mini-Athena that won't leave him with five bottles of baby formula and a jumbo box of diapers. Annabeth wants to graduate high school and play baritone and read Hamlet and design skyscrapers without twenty grimy little-boy fingers smearing mysterious brown substances over her homework.

"Right," she says. Wrong, she thinks.


Annabeth's parents drop her off by the front door before they embark on the terrifyingly long ritual that is Straightening the Boys' Clothes. "You had a seatbelt on," she hears Helen say. "What on earth were you doing back there?"

Anticipation is heavy in the building, in the distant chatter echoing in empty hallways, in the cool breeze drafting in from the windows, in the dim light filtering through cracks in the doors. As she shuffles to the band hall, Annabeth fingers her mother's necklace. She wears it for every performance. Maybe she hopes Athena will come one day and see it and realize how much Annabeth cares, how much Annabeth remembers. Or maybe she wears it because she knows the blurry photograph of her mother enclosed in the locket will be the only part of Athena ever attending a school play.

Annabeth's dropped off her things and is going to grab a paper towel for her spit from the ladies' room when Rachel comes around the corner, a top hat and two baseball caps on her head.

"Hey, Annabeth," says Rachel, stopping. The pile of hats teeters a little. "How's life?"

"It's okay," Annabeth replies. One hand reaches towards the door, but Rachel's still looking sort of expectantly.

"I'm pretty alright, thanks for asking," Rachel says. There's a very awkward pause before she continues, "are you ready?"

"Ready?" echoes Annabeth.

"For our circus act! It's your turn to be in the cannon," says Rachel. She looks over Annabeth's face and rolls her eyes. "For the musical? The one we've been rehearsing for months? The one that's happening in T-minus 120 minutes?"

"Right," says Annabeth. "Ready as I'll ever be."

"That's the spirit," says Rachel, with no spirit.

They stare at each other. Annabeth would like to leave, but Rachel is still forcefully turning the corners of her mouth upwards and apparently has no intention of moving. It would be more intense, probably, if Rachel wasn't balancing three hats on her head and they weren't standing outside the ladies' room. A toilet flushes inside, and the girls instinctively move away from the door.

Piper's voice echoes in Annabeth's mind. Maybe she's just trying to be nice.

"So," Annabeth tries, "what do you do on the play?"

Rachel's eyes immediately brighten - pure, bright green. They remind Annabeth of Percy's, but where his are swirling and deep, Rachel's are clear. Annabeth thinks that it should be the other way around. "I do hair and makeup now," she says, "but I did some work on the set design, too. Backdrops, some of the props, the like."

"Wow," says Annabeth, with as much enthusiasm as she can muster. A girl quietly exits the ladies' room as the conversation flags. Annabeth considers feigning a bathroom emergency but decides her dignity isn't worth it. "That is a lot."

"It's a kind of small production, so, you know. We all wear multiple hats," she says, pointing at the stack on her head.

"That's why? It's a metaphor?"

"Yes," says Rachel, over-enunciating her words. "That is the only reason I am wearing all of these hats. I just adore metaphors."

Annabeth blinks, as if clearing her vision will somehow also clear her foggy brain. "Well," she says, forcing out the words. "The backdrops are cool. I like, um, the sunset one a lot. I actually have to -"

She's cut off when Rachel laughs. It's dramatic to the point that she almost sounds like a movie villain, and someone curiously pokes his head out of a door further down the hallway. "Oh, I lied about painting all of them. I didn't paint the sunset one, actually."

Annabeth tilts her head a little awkwardly, but Rachel seems completely unembarrassed. "You...didn't?"

"Drew did."

What. "Drew?"

"Drew Tanaka?" Rachel says.

"You mean student musical director Drew Tanaka?"

Rachel's brows furrow. "Uh, yeah. Is there another Drew Tanaka at Goode?"

Annabeth's brain feels like it's slogging through the oobleck her brothers are always playing with. "No? I just - well, I didn't know that she painted."

"Oh yeah," says Rachel. "She's really good. Better at that than directing, actually. You should tell her you like it. She's been a bit upset lately, because. You know."

Annabeth nods. She does not know, unless Rachel is trying to say "because Drew is always unreasonably upset about something." Clearing her throat, she tries to leave again. "Is there anything in particular you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Well, I just wanted to meet you," says Rachel. She takes the hats off her head, eyes focused away from Annabeth's face. "Because Percy."

"Percy."

"He's always talking about you."

"He is?"

Rachel rolls her eyes and shrugs. "Oh, all the time. He says you're really good."

Annabeth's not sure what to make of this. "He's a good guy," she says. She's never admitted this to herself before, but standing with Rachel in this empty hallway, it floats, irrevocably true.

"Yeah," says Rachel. "Yeah, he is." She pauses. "I, you know, have to go, but. See you around, I guess."

Annabeth starts to say goodbye, but Rachel's already speeding away, the hats bobbing on her frizzy curls.

And as Annabeth weaves her way backstage, she peeks at the backdrops, precariously balanced against a wall. The sunset one is on top, shades of purple and blue and pink swirling like soft threads of cotton candy at its top. Below, the sun, streaked with orange, flames at the horizon and casts the harsh shadows of skyscrapers on the dirty New York pavement. Lonely figurines stand out starkly, angular faces smeared with the urgency of the early morning hours.

A memory floats into her brain. Her and Frederick and Athena, strolling through the New York City streets, Athena pointing out various architectural landmarks and Frederick historical ones, each laying a firm hand on Annabeth's young shoulders. The yeasty smell of bagels wafting itself over the sidewalks, which were dappled with the yellow pallor of the evening's streetlamps and the golden sheen of the rising sun. Her and her little family, alone in a city awaking.

Her eyes refocus on the painting. It is kind of nice, she thinks.


Annabeth is not particularly fond of children. It's not really a personal matter, nor does she blame them (that is, children, generally) for somehow personifying her worst fears (uncleanliness, rashness, completely incomprehensible random noises) – it's just the way things are. The Way Things Are, as it often is, just happens to be rather unpleasant.

At any rate, that's why she's struggling to keep herself from scowling as Bobby and Matthew knock each other into the row of lockers in the hallway. She half-heartedly attempts to separate the duo as they argue about whether Cap'n Crunch or Count Chocula would win in a fight, but just as hell as no fury like a woman scorned, earth has no strength like the grip of two grubby eight-year-old boys angry about cereal mascots. Someone's mother, passing by, clucks her tongue at the boys. Or maybe at Annabeth.

Frederick and Helen are off buying little bags of popcorn from the fundraising concessions stand. Both of them, because apparently, one man alone simply cannot hold enough tiny bags of popcorn to satisfy two boys. Or because Helen thought this would be a 'good bonding opportunity' for Annabeth and the twins.

She was wrong.

Annabeth can barely see the tops of Frederick and Helen's heads immersed in the chattering line, which winds around the hallway like a dazed, hungry snake. She makes another futile attempt at separating the twins when –

"Hello," says a voice. "I like your locket." The words are carefully said, as if practiced for ages just to get them perfect for this moment. It's genuine in a way that makes Annabeth ache inside but smile despite it.

She looks down at the culprit. A mop of brown curls tumbles over the girl's forehead and into one eye, some of the bunch haphazardly stuck in a bright blue hair tie. Her frilly pink shirt is wrinkled and matched with a wrinkled frilly pink skirt. It reaches just to her knees, a grimy Little Mermaid band-aid peeking out from one knee.

"Thank you," says Annabeth. Nobody has ever pointed out her necklace before.

Just like nobody has - had - ever known about her perfect stand.

The girl smiles expectantly - expecting what, Annabeth's not sure, but she says, "you're pretty," and she means it.

"I'm Estelle," says the girl. She beams and gestures to a couple in line. There's a mischievous spark to her dimples which lights up her face. "Those are my parents."

Annabeth tries to glimpse at their faces, but can't quite see. "They're very pretty, too," she says, nevertheless.

"You can't even see them," pouts Estelle.

"Well," says Annabeth. "I'm sure they're very pretty, because you're very pretty."

"I'll accept it," she says, matter-of-factly.

"Hey," says Bobby, momentarily relaxing his grip on his twin, "who would win in a fight: Cap'n Crunch or Count Chocula?"

Estelle's light brows furrow. "I've never thought about that."

"I think Cap'n Crunch would win," Bobby says.

"But he's a count," insists Matthew.

Bobby frowns. "That only means he's good at math."

"No," says Estelle, rolling her eyes. "You're thinking about Sesame Street. I think Cap'n Crunch would win, 'cause he's a sea captain and a count melts if you pour water on them."

"No, that's a witch," Annabeth interjects. "Anyways – "

But Matthew cuts her off. "Alright, then," he announces. "It's time to arm wrestle."

"You can adjuderate," Bobby concurs, pointing at Estelle.

"Adjudicate," corrects Annabeth. "No, wait – no arm wrestling, boys!"

When Frederick and Helen finally show up, the boys are lying on the sticky hallway floor, elbows locked on the ground and hands clasped. Estelle is faithfully sitting by, legs splaying out of her frilled skirt. Annabeth tries for an encouraging, responsible-babysitter smile, which falters when she sees her father's face.

Helen grips Bobby's arm, hauling him up and away from his brother. "Come on, boys," she says, "don't lie on the ground."

"They're not finished arm wrestling," Estelle nobly protests.

But Frederick is off doing his very best Queen's Guards impression and Estelle's brown-smudged cheek, her rumpled skirt, and her sprawled legs suddenly catch Annabeth's eye.

"You should go," says Annabeth, placing a hand on the younger girl's shoulder.

Estelle looks at her, eyebrow raised, and is about to say something when somebody behind Annabeth yells, "there you are!"

Annabeth pivots to see Percy, grinning. He goes down on one knee and bows to Estelle. "Madam," he says, "this is most unladylike. Allow me?"

He's carrying two saxophones and a full backpack but Estelle climbs eagerly onto his front anyways. Percy laughs, a little hair flopping over his forehead as he pulls an arm under Estelle.

It's kind of cute, Annabeth thinks, absently.

Frederick watches him, unmoving, while Helen holds the two squirming twins apart at her sides.

"Thanks," bursts Annabeth, but he's already gone, Estelle giggling in his arms.


Annabeth means to thank Percy later, but when he plops down in his seat in front of her, she says, "you're early," instead.

Percy stares at her. "Yeah. My mom - uh, I mean, my family? Brought me. Today." He clears his throat. "Tonight, actually."

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he says. "Fantastic. Bees' knees. How are you?"

"I'm alright."

Percy nods. "That's good," he says, opening his case and rather exaggeratedly hiding behind it.

"Are you mad?" asks Annabeth.

"No," says Percy. There's a little trouble line between his eyes, partially covered by a droopy lock of hair. Annabeth thinks, briefly, that it's kind of cute. "No, it's – I thought – you were kind of upset? Like, totally justified. But I just thought…"

"Oh," says Annabeth.

The conversation flags. Annabeth wants to say something, like "I know," or "I'm sorry," or, "I had this really weird thought that you were kind of cute when I saw you with that little girl that is possibly your sister."

"I was talking to Rachel earlier," Annabeth says.

"Really?" asks Percy. The line between his eyes wavers. "Rachel's great, isn't she?"

"Sure."

Percy grins. "I'm glad you two are getting along. I kind of thought – I know she can be a little blunt, you know? But she really does care. We, uh. I really missed you on Saturday."

He's always talking about you, Annabeth remembers. She feels herself blushing, and asks hurriedly, "when did you two meet?"

"On vacation, a couple years back," Percy says. He twirls a pencil between his fingers. "My mom was doing research for one of her books at the Hoover Dam – she's an author – and we met there. And I thought she was a local, just doing some sight-seeing in her own town or something, I guess, but then when school started, I saw her in the hallway and realized she's from 'round here."

"You guys seem close."

"We've been friends for a while. We've gone through everything together. We even tried, like, one date, and immediately bailed."

Something shifts in Annabeth's stomach. She doesn't like Percy Jackson, she tells herself, with his stupid smirk and stupid curly hair and stupid amazing brother skills.

"That bad, huh?" she says, forcing a smile on her lips. Don't look at his hair. Don't look at his eyes. Don't look at his messy handwriting all over his music.

But Percy just shrugs. "I thought it was okay, as far as first dates go. Not that I have lots of experience with that sort of thing. Dating. But she was like, 'I just don't want to do your bidding.' She's the free-spirit type. But we're cool now." He leans back in his chair and tips over his stand, knocking free papers everywhere.

Annabeth looks at his hair. His eyes. His messy handwriting all over his music. She stands up, her baritone clanging against her lucky stand. "I – I have to go."

"Thanks for the help," says Percy, kneeling as he gathers up stray papers. But he's smiling. At her.

Annabeth leaves in a hurry.

She's made it back into the hallway when she hears, "hey! Break a leg."

Annabeth turns around suddenly, trying to place the young face. "What?"

The girl's eyebrows crinkle. "You okay?"

"I, uh, am really sorry. I've forgotten your name?"

"I'm Lacey," says the girl. "You're Annabeth. I was just asking if you were feeling alright? Emotionally, I mean, not physically. Though if you are in terrible pain, you can tell me that, too. I think the nurses have already left, but I took an online EMT course. I'm not certified or anything, and I'm pretty sure it was a scam. But if you're about to die, I might be able to pull off CPR."

Gwen is back, which means Lacey's demoted to concession duties, but she doesn't seem to mind. One hand is buried in a bag of popcorn and Annabeth can see a kernel stuck between her teeth through her bright smile.

"I'm not on stage," says Annabeth.

Lacey shrugs. "You can still break a leg."

"Well, then," Annabeth stutters. "You too?"

"Of course," says Lacey, with a grin, revealing another corn-kernel tooth. "I'll be the very best popcorn-distributor the filthy hallways of Goode High have ever seen."


The boys had fallen from the afternoon's sugar high by halfway to intermission, so as they leave, Annabeth and Helen pile them, asleep, into the car. Annabeth pauses as she buckles Bobby in, soft brown eyelashes shadowed on his face from the parking lot's bright lights. There's a spattering of freckles between his eyes, just like the ones on Annabeth's face and on her father's. It's funny - Annabeth hasn't thought about her dad's freckles since she was a little girl, bouncing on his lap and tracing his nose with her pudgy fingers. She glances over at him, impatiently tapping his keys on the car's roof as he waits for his children to settle in, and tries to make them out again.

They settle back into the car, a cold burst of A/C hitting her face as the engine hum drones out the adrenaline of the night, merging with the twins' quiet snores. Annabeth leans her face against the cold window, eyes unfocused on the passing streetlamps, echoes of music dancing still in her head.

"The Portia knock-off was terribly flat in her solo," observes her father.

"Priscilla," says Annabeth. "And she was probably just nervous."

She watches her father's shadow shrug. "Hazards of being a performer. Kids these days assume showbiz careers will be handed to them on a silver platter. A product of celebrity culture. The truth is that it's hard and most people are simply incapable of dealing with the pressures."

Annabeth has no particular fancy for any of the actors, but as part of the production, she feels a certain obligatory pride towards it. Something about Frederick's statement makes her eyes sting.

"They tried their best," says Helen. "I thought it was pretty good, for a high school production."

The truth is that Annabeth already knew this, but it's only now that she realizes it. It's not like she had any illusions that Mr. Broadway himself would appear at the scuffed doorstep of Goode High and ship the cast and crew off to some theater to play alongside Hamilton, but still. She tries to think back to the highlights of the night - the ending note fading away. The sudden dimming of lights after Julian's assassination. Uh - Lacey's excitement at the concessions?

The acting isn't particularly moving. The story is half-hearted. Even Annabeth's beloved pit orchestra is dreadfully mediocre. They are not good. In fact, they are so not good that one might appropriately call them bad.

The revelation is piercing. A million memories come flooding back, a tide of screw-ups and awkward transitions and forgotten lines, washed from her mind by the immediacy of the bright stage lights. Heartbreaking, she thinks, the worst person you know just made a great point. Helen's tried their best is generous.

"Did you see that little girl running around the concessions?" she hears Frederick ask Helen. "The one who kept whispering during the show? So distracting for everyone. If you can't keep your children quiet for twenty minutes, you shouldn't be bringing them to a two-hour long play." Annabeth can imagine him shaking his head, criticizing the downfall of the world.

"Cute girl," says Helen, "but so messily dressed, poor thing." She tuts, examining her lipstick in the car mirror.

Annabeth can only imagine what Athena would think about Estelle's habit of playfully pulling at her skirt. Little girls should learn to be more respectful, she'd probably say. And they certainly shouldn't be showing that much of their legs.

"Her brother, too," says Frederick, "swinging her around in public, in a skirt. At a formal production, of all things."

"It's either a terrible high school musical or a professional production," says Annabeth, her voice crackly. She clears her throat. "Pick one."

"Annabeth," says Helen quietly, snapping the car's sunshade back up. "Your brothers are sleeping."

"I'll stop if you stop complaining about four-year-olds," says Annabeth.

Frederick sighs. "It's really her brother I blame –"

"Percy," Annabeth says.

"Is that the boy's name? Percy?" He says boy like Annabeth would say spiders or mess or getting a D on an exam.

"I wish you wouldn't talk about him like that," she says.

Her father taps the steering wheel. "Do you know this boy, Annabeth?"

"I just want you to…" she trails off.

One of the twins mumbles in his sleep and the car goes silent again until Frederick turns on some classical music radio station as Annabeth syncs her breathing to Clair de Lune. She doesn't know what she wants her parents to do. She can still hear Percy's voice, raspy from the edge of puberty, his curly hair falling over his forehead, framing his cheesy grin. She can still remember the strange, funny feeling in her stomach when watching him play with his sister, watching him gather his music scattered on the floor, the way she froze and needed air, breath, space.

What does she want her father to say? How can she know, when she doesn't know what to think, herself?


see you soon for the next one - promise it'll be less than two years from now.