•Chapter 4•

Hi! Sorry for being M.I.A. for the past month and a bit. My computer crashed completely and I lost all my files, so I had to restart this chapter from scratch :(

Thank you for the new favourites/follows!

Warning: There is one character that is not Frank who is Canadian, and he is incredibly rude and stuck-up. I assure you, not all Canadians are like that. Please don't get offended by his complaints about America.

Here's a slightly longer chapter for you guys to compensate for my absence, haha :P

Happy reading!

2010

"There's nothing good to do right now!" my friend complained, flopping down onto her bed.

I looked up from my position on the floor, my fingers slowing down in their typing. "That's what happens when you finish a group project two days after it's assigned," I told my red-headed friend, turning back to the laptop. "Without the rest of us."

"Shut up." She sat up and mock-glared at me. "It's not my fault that I'm not a procrastinator—not that I want to be one. And—"

"Last time I checked, being a procrastinator means finishing up a big project or essay the night before it's due," I interrupted. "Not not doing it immediately after it was assigned."

She snorted. "Whatever. Besides," she continued, reaching for a Sharpie, "there are so many applications I need to fill out for university, as well as checking with the office if I can visit the campus, I need to finish all my homework as soon as possible so I can focus mainly on the apps." She opened the cap of the Sharpie and started to doodle on the back of her left hand. She muttered under her breath, "And filling out those apps also keeps my mind off that idiot." (Only she didn't use the word idiot.)

I feigned shock. "Did Rachel Elizabeth Dare just swear?!" I grinned, then added, "Hey, that rhymes."

She stuck her tongue out at me. "Yup. I can and I did." She sighed, capping the lid back on her Sharpie, and flopped back down. "I hate him."

I rose an eyebrow. "Red, don't you hate pretty every single guy within a ten-mile radius?"

"Pretty much," she agreed. "I have a right to hate this one, though. He's the worst. Here, take a look." She sat up again and lazily rolled off her bed, and, rummaging through her backpack—covered in doodles, of course—pulled out a few crumpled pieces of paper a minute later. Smoothing each piece out as best and she could, she passed the stack over to me.

Through lots of squinting and guessing (his handwriting was pretty much intelligible), I figured out that his name was Octavian. (I thought it was Octopus at first.)

Yeah, I seriously am the smartest person in my homeroom—no, grade. I'm also one of the top athletes in this school, and I have won more track awards than anyone in the history of this school! Another thing: How can you Americans even live here? Your education system isn't even a system, it's a mess of curriculum guidelines and terrible textbooks! Speaking of terrible, everything here sucks and it's so. Weird. For one thing, why do you guys drop the 'u' from words like "colour," "honour," and "valour"? Also, the food tastes disgusting here. It's not even real food! By the way, maple syrup in Canada tastes so much better than your plastic-y goo that you call "syrup." And did you know that I've made the Honour Roll since Grade Six? (That's when they started to hand them out.) I received my first scholarship when I was seven, and I was even featured in the newspaper twice, back when I lived in Canada! Did you know that I've already been accepted to MIT, Oxford, Cambridge, and—

I stopped reading. "Yeah," I said, rubbing my eyes. "I've read enough. He's insufferable."

Rachel Dare snorted. "'Insufferable' doesn't cut it. I've been trying to be nice to him and all that—you know how hard it is?!—and he just brags about himself or Canada some more. Like, once, he was all, 'I'm going to be the Prime Minister of Canada one day because I'm so great,' so I responded with, 'Cool! I want to be an artist.' You know what his response was? He wrote, and I quote, 'Oh, you want to be an artist? That's so lame. And stupid. No one famous in Canada is an artist.' Seriously, anything American-related you can think of, he probably has insulted, or at least complained about. He's even complained about Disneyland!" she exclaimed, enraged. "Who complains about Disneyland?!"

"Um, Re—"

Her voice rose, trampling my words. "And another time, he wrote, "'U.S., huh? More like U Suck.' What's that even supposed to mean? He's seriously such a conce—"

"Rachel," I calmly interrupted, effectively cutting her off. "You're going a mile a minute again."

She mumbled her apology, her mind clearly still occupied on Octavian.

"And his 'U Suck' thing?" I continued. Shrugging, I handed back Octopus'—I mean, Octavian's—letters to Rachel. "Maybe that was an insult?"

"Well, that's hardly an insult."

"Do you think we can send him a few of Mom's infamous cookies through the mail next time?" I joked, (sort of) changing the subject. "Maybe then he'll see that America isn't so bad after all."

Rachel rolled her eyes in response. "Yeah, because the cookies totally aren't going to go stale and he totally isn't going to complain," she answered sarcastically.

I shot her a cheeky grin. "Think it's worth a try?"

"Perseus Jackson, NO."

I stared at the picture in front of me. Annabeth Chase. Before, my penpal only had a name and a personality. Now, she had become a face as well. She was sort of pretty, I guess, with sun-kissed skin only people in sunny San Francisco could get, with eyes the colour of steel and a head of curly blonde hair that hung past the bottom of the picture.

My eyes shifted to the letter sitting unopened in front of me. I studied Annabeth Chase for a moment more before dropping the 2.5-by-4-inch picture on my desk and proceeded to open the crisp-white envelope.

Pulling the letter out, my eyes skimmed the first line.

Dear Percy,

First of all, I'd highly doubt that she'd be a serial killer. Seriously. Second of all, his name is Ted Bundy. And, wow you actually carry around random information about serial killers in your head? Creepy, and also surprising. Didn't think you'd be the type to carry weird information around.

As your fellow ADHD-and-dyslexia-driven person, I totally understand what you mean. It's takes a lot of self-control to not bounce off the walls or run around when you have to watch someone, but hey, you gotta do it, or else the kid might be in danger. But my ADHD is pretty mild, so maybe it's harder for you.

I'd love to write some more, but I have a Chemistry unit test today, and it's the only subject which I might not get an average of 95% or higher in.

Nice picture, by the way. (Please note the sarcasm.)

Sincerely,

Annabeth Chase

I picked up my pen and started writing back to her. Turns out Mrs. Leer had emailed our parents last week asking for photographs of us. (That totally didn't sound creepy or anything.) I think of the photograph I chose. It was taken over the summer by one of our counselors at a bootcamp a few of my friends and I went to in Florida. The picture was taken in the moment. It was snapped seconds before I got dunked in the lake by Jason, so I had a mostly-content look on my face, although my expression was in the early stages of turning into one of shock. Thanks to Leo for getting his hands on the picture and my mom for choosing it (the other two options were from last year's school picture and a picture of a toddler me, so … no), Annabeth now had gotten the impression that I had a mostly-content-though-slightly-shocked expression on my face most of the time.

Thanks, you guys.

Dear Annabeth,

I am going to pretend I didn't see that.

WHAT?! You have ADHD too?! Mine's pretty bad though. Sitting still for a full five minutes feels like torture to me, and I suck at concentrating. Well, I did. When I was eleven or twelve, I got enrolled into a program where doctors tried to suppress your ADHD and trained you to control yourself. I don't know how to explain it, but it actually helped me. It still does. The only reason why I could watch Tyson was because he loves going to the beach or swimming pool, and that was one of the instances where I could watch him without feeling bored or antsy, so I took him there every time I had to babysit him.

"Only subject which I might not get an average of 95% or higher in." You have to be kidding me. Honestly, Annabeth, if I looked up "nerd" in the dictionary, your face would be beside the definition. Chill out. You've already got at least a 90%, granted. That's an A. I'm sure you'll do fine.

Thanks for the compliment, Annabeth. :) I look good, don't I?

Pleased,

Percy Jackson

P.S. My friend has been complaining about this guy in your English class; Octavian. I've read his letters and, oh my gods, it's terrible. All he does is brag about himself or insult America. How can you guys stand him?

2015

As the plane touches down in the San Francisco International Airport, I can't help but let out a sigh of relief. Not sure why, but flying on an airplane never greatly appealed to me. With all three wheels of the plane on the cement runway, I now have a zero chance of dying, by either the plane dropping altitude because it decided to rebel and plunge into a cow-filled farm to squish the helpless cattle, or me choking on the disgusting airplane food. (Seriously, who knows what they put in there? It could be twenty-year-old cabbage or something smothered in pounds of flavour.)

I finish switching SIM cards on my phone, taking out the card I used overseas and replacing it with my American one. As I wait for the people in front of me to get off the plane, I tuck the old SIM card into my pocket and realize that it's over.

For now, at least.

I'm back home. Away from danger, away from the deaths of thousands of innocent men, women, and children. Away from the constant explosions, screams, and fires from a gun that had become my lullaby for the past nine months.

As if on instinct, I reach over to the seat beside me on my right, looking for the soft, warm hand that belongs to—

But she isn't here, I realize with a jolt. What good is it if I'm safe here in San Francisco when Annabeth is in danger of losing her life?

The aisle is almost deserted now, save for the flight attendants and a few passengers. I put on my jacket, ensuring I haven't left anything around my seat, pick up my duffel bag from the compartment above my head, and exit the plane, bidding the attendants goodbye.

I exit the doorways behind the customs counter and enter the arrival hall, where a huge crowd of people, some with large signs, some with arms laden with gifts, stand. No doubt they are waiting for their loved ones.

A little high-pitched voice on my left breaks me out of my thoughts. "Triton!" she yells happily, heading straight for me. "You're here!" The little girl, maybe around six or so, reaches me and hugs my waist, smiling up at me, her two front teeth missing. "Welcome to San Francisco!"

Startled, I smile at the child, her hair in two braids, and gently remove her arms from my waist. Kneeling down to her level, I say, "Thank you for welcoming me here, but I'm not Triton, I'm afraid. My name is Percy."

She frowns. "'Percy'?" she repeats. "Oops." She giggles, then adds, "But you look like him … I think. He has black hair and green eyes, just like you!"

"Julia!" A woman in her late twenties to early thirties comes running up to us. "Oh, Julia, there you are," she says breathlessly, skidding to a stop, her voice filled with relief. "You were beside me one moment and gone the next. Don't run off like that next time, understand?" she scolds.

"Okay, Mommy," Julia answers. "I won't do that again." Brightening, she exclaims, pointing to me, "But guess what? I found Triton's twin!"

I laugh. "I'm not Triton's twin," I tell Julia.

"You sure?"

"Yup."

"Really sure? Really really really sure?"

"Uh huh."

"Oh," she says, mostly to herself. "Okay, then." She carries on to prod my cheek with a finger.

"Julia, don't do that," her mother reprimands. "It's rude."

"Sorry, Percy," she says, but noting the mischievous glint in her eyes, I can tell that she really isn't.

I chuckle. "It's okay."

Julia's mother looks at her watch. "Honey, it's time to go. Triton should be coming out any moment now."

"Oh. Okay."

Turning to me, the woman says quietly, so that Julia won't be able to hear, "Thank you for handling Julia the way you did. She loves to meet new people and is incredibly friendly, but many people don't welcome her enthusiasm and, more often than not, push her away. So, again, thank you."

I smile a little and shrug. "It's no problem," I answer. "She reminds me of my" —girlfriend's siblings, I almost say— "friend's siblings, when they were younger."

"Then you certainly had experience." Smiling, she bids me goodbye.

"Bye, Percy-Triton!" Julia yells, grinning at the name she'd given me.

"Bye!" I smile and wave at the mother-daughter duo. As they disappear from view, I pull out my phone and text Annabeth's step-mother. I'm at the SFIA arrival section now. Where do I meet you?

Slipping the cell phone back into my pocket, I step outside and into the fresh, cool air of San Francisco. The fading pink-and-orange colour of the remaining dawn fills the sky of San Fran. My phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see that it's a text from Mrs. Chase.

I hope you've had a decent flight. Or, well, as decent as it can get while flying for 17 hours straight, even if you did have a few overlays. Frederick will be picking you up. He says he'll be here at around 8:20 or so. I let out a small groan when I read that. It's 7:35 right now, according to the big clock mounted on the wall. I continue reading her message. I gave him your number so he can reach you at all times. See you soon, Percy!

I reluctantly go back inside, and sit down on a cold, hard bench near the entrance. Thinking back to my little encounter with Julia and her mother, I realize one thing: Her mother was right. I did handle Julia quite well—including the unexpected hug. It was Annabeth who taught me how to deal with kids. Even if she was being modest, she was convinced that she would be a terrible mother. We frequently had small disputes over the matter of having children once we were married. I was right all along; Annabeth would be a wonderful mother. And, when she wakes up, I vow to convince her of that very fact.

As said earlier, please don't be mad at me for writing Octavian's complaints down. I don't agree with his views, and, like what Rachel said, who complains about Disneyland? And also, confession: I like to use Aunt Jemima's syrup as opposed to maple syrup. Yup, I'm a terrible Canadian, alright. Is Octavian going to disown me or banish me from Canada, then? ;)

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Thanks for reading!

-K