I DO NOT OWN PERCY JACKSON RICK RIORDAN DOES! I only have rights to Atlanta and, just Atlanta. The stories are still in Percy's POV, with my oc added in.
Chapter three: Grover Unexpectedly Loses His Pants
Confession time: I ditched Grover as soon as we got to the bus terminal.
I know, I know. It was rude. But Grover was freaking me out, looking at me like I was dead man, muttering "Why does this always happen?" and "Why does it always have to be sixth grade?"
Whenever he got upset, Grover's bladder acted up, so I wasn't surprised when, as soon as we got off the bus, he made me promise to wait for him, then made a beeline for the restroom. Instead of waiting, I got my suitcase, slipped outside, and caught the first taxi uptown.
"East One-hundred-and-forth and First," I told the driver.
A word about our mother, before you meet her.
Her name is Sally Jackson and she's the best person in the world, which just proves my theory that the best people have the rottenest luck. Her own parents died in a plane crash when she was five, and she was raised by an uncle who didn't care much about her. She wanted to be a novelist, so she spent high school working to save enough money for college with a good creative-writing program. Then her uncle got cancer, and she had to quit school her senior year to take care of him. After he died she was left with no money, no family, and no diploma.
The only good break she ever got was meeting my dad.
I don't have any memories of him, just this sort of warm glow, maybe the barest trace of his smile. Our mom doesn't like to talk about him because it makes her sad. She has no pictures.
See, they weren't married. She told me he was rich and important, and their relationship was a secret. Then one day, she set sail across the Atlantic on some important journey, and he never came back.
Lost at sea, our mom told me. Not dead. Lost at sea.
She worked odd jobs, took night classes to get her high school diploma, and raised me on her own. She never complained or got mad. Not even once. But I knew I wasn't an easy kid.
When I was five, we welcomed my little sister to our family. She's not really my sister. Mom adopted her. She's the same age as me.
Atlanta is a bit of a mystery. She seemed to appear from nowhere. She was found wondering the streets when she was little. She was in a bad accident of some kind, that nobody knew about. There were no accidents in New York that involved a little girl. She lost her most of her left arm in accident, and she had this huge lightning shaped scar that spread all over her upper body, shoulders, and neck. Worse of it all, she had no memories at all. Mom named her Atlanta, because she used to watch that Disney movie Atlantis with me a lot. I can't imagine my life without my little sister.
Finally, she married Gabe Ugliano, who was nice for the first thirty seconds we knew him then showed his true colors as a world-class jerk. When we were young, we nicknamed him Smelly Gabe. I'm sorry, but it's the truth.
The guy reeked like moldy garlic pizza wrapped in gym shorts.
Between the three of us, we made our mom's life pretty hard. The way Smelly Gabe treated her, the way he, Atlanta and I got along…well, when I came home is a good example.
I walked into our little apartment, hoping our mom would be home from work. Instead, Smelly Gabe was in the living room, playing poker with his buddies. The television blared ESPN. Chips and beer cans were strewn all over the carpet.
Hardly looking up, he said around his cigar, "So, you're home."
"Where's my mom?"
"Working," he said. "You got any cash?"
That was it. No Welcome back. Good to see you. How had your life been the last six months?
Gabe had put on weight. He looked like a tuskless walrus though Atlanta would tell me not to insult walruses, in thrift-store clothes. He had about three hairs on his head, all combed over his bald scalp, as if that made him handsome or something.
He managed the Electronics Mega-Mart in Queens, but he stayed home most of the time. I don't know why he hadn't been fired long before. He just kept on collecting paychecks, spending the money on cigars that made Atlanta and me nauseous, and on beer, of course. Always beer. Whenever we were home, he expected us to provide his gambling finds. He called that out "father and children secret." Meaning, if we told our mom, he would punch our lights out.
"I don't have cash," I told him.
He raised a greasy eyebrow.
Gabe could sniff out money like a bloodhound, which was surprising, since his own smell could've covered up everything else.
"You took a taxi from the bus station," he said. "Probably paid with a twenty. Got six, seven bucks in change. Somebody expects to live under this roof, he ought to carry his own weight.
"Am I right, Eddie?"
Eddie, the super of the apartment building, looked at me with a twinge of sympathy. "Come on, Gabe," he said. "The kid just got home."
"Am I right?" Gave repeated.
Eddie scowled into his bowl of pretzels. The other two guys passed gas in harmony.
"Fine," I said. I dug a wade of dollars out of my pocket and threw the money on the table. "I hope you lose."
"Your report card came, brain boy!" he shouted after me. "I wouldn't act so snooty!"
I slammed the door to mine and Atlanta's room, which really wasn't our room. During school months, it was Gabe's "study." He didn't study anything in there expect old car magazines, but he loved shoving our stuff in the closet, leaving his muddy boots on my windowsill, on Atlanta's books, and doing his best to make the place smell like his nasty cologne and cigars and stale beer.
I dropped my suitcase on the bed. Home sweet home.
A moment later, Atlanta rushed into the room, clutching her shirt, and rushed to me. I opened my arms, hugging her tightly. Atlanta buried her face in my chest, hiding into it. Her short black hair had grown to her shoulders. She looked up at me, her green-blue eyes had this gold tant to them. I could just make out the lightning scar on her neck and chin. She stuck her tongue at me, smiling. I couldn't help but stick mine back at her.
She left the hug, and quickly ditched her black jacket, which smelled like Smelly Gabe's cigar. The reflection of her gold bracelets on her left arm and right arm caught my eye. I still do not understand how Gabe hasn't notice them and try to steal them. But I'm glad he hasn't.
Gabe's smell was almost worse than the nightmares about Mrs. Dodds, or the sound of that old fruit lady's shears snipping the yarn.
But as soon as I thought that, my legs felt weak. I remembered Grover's look of panic-how he'd made me promise I wouldn't go home without him. A sudden chill rolled through me. I felt like-someone-something was looking for me right now, maybe pounding it way up the stairs, growing long, horrible talons. Atlanta came back, holding my hand tightly, as if she felt the same way.
Then I heard our mom's voice. "Percy? Atlanta?"
She opened the bedroom door, and my fears melted.
Our mother can make us feel good just by walking into the room. Her eyes sparkle and change color in the light. Her smile is as warm as a quilt. She's got a few gray streaks mixed in with her long brown hair, but I never thought of her as old. When she looks at me, it's like she's seeing all the good things about me, none of the bad. I've never heard her raise her voice or say an unkind word to anyone, not even Atlanta, me, or Gabe.
"Oh, Percy." Our mom hugged us tight. "I can't believe it. You've grown since Christmas!"
Her red-white-and-blue Sweet on America uniform smelled like the best things in the world: chocolate, licorice, and all the other stuff she sold at the candy shop in Grand Central. She'd brought us a huge bag of "free samples." The way she always did when we came home.
We sat together on the edge of the bed. While we attacked the blueberry sour strings, she ran her hand through mine and Atlanta's hair and demanded to know everything I hadn't put in my letters. She didn't mention anything about my getting expelled. She didn't seem to care about that. But was I okay? Was her little boy doing all right?
Atlanta was snickering at me, as I told our mom she was smothering me, and to lay off and all that, but secretly, I was really, really glad to see her and Atlanta.
From the other room, Gabe yelled. "Hey, Sally-how about some bean dip, huh?"
I gritted my teeth, and heard Atlanta make a disgusted noise.
Our mother was the nicest lady in the world. She should've been married to a millionaire, not to some jerk like Gabe.
For their sake, I tried to sound upbeat about my last days at Yancy Academy. I told them I wasn't too down about the expulsion. I'd lasted almost the whole year this time. I'd made some new friends. I'd done pretty well in Latin. And honestly, the fights hadn't been as bad as the headmaster said. I liked Yancy Academy. I really did. I put such a good spin on the year, I almost convinced myself. I started chocking up, thinking about Grover and Mr. Brunner. Even Nancy Bobofit suddenly didn't seem so bad.
Until that trip to the museum…
"Percy?" Atlanta asked.
"What?" our mom asked. Her eyes tugged at my conscience, trying to pull out the secrets. "Did something scare you?"
"No, Mom."
I felt bad for lying. I wanted to tell her and Atlanta about Mrs. Dodds and the three old ladies with the yarn, but I thought it would sound stupid.
She pursed her lips, while Atlanta pouted. They knew I was holding back, but they didn't push me.
"I have a surprise for you both," our mom said. "We're going to the beach."
My eyes widened, while Atlanta smiled big. "Montauk?" I asked.
"Three nights-same cabin."
"When?" Atlanta asked.
She smiled. "As soon as I get changed."
I couldn't believe it. We hadn't been to Montauk the last two summers, because Gabe said there wasn't enough money.
Gabe appeared in the doorway and growled, "Bean dip, Sally? Didn't you hear me?"
I wanted to punch him, but I met our mom's eyes and I understood she was offering me a deal: be nice to Gabe for a little while. Just until she was ready to leave for Montauk. Then we would get out of here.
I was on my way honey," she told Gabe. "We were just talking about the trip.
Gabe's eyes got small. "The trip? You mean you were serious about that?"
"I knew it," Atlanta muttered. "He won't let us go."
"Of course he will," our mom said evenly. "Your stepfather is just worried about money. That's all. Besides," she added, "Gabriel won't have to settle for bean dip. I'll make him enough seven-layer dip for the whole weekend. Guacamole. Sour cream. The works."
Gabe softened a bit. "So this money for your trip….it comes out of your clothes budget, right?"
"Yes, honey," our mother said.
"And you won't take my car anywhere but there and back."
"We'll be very careful."
Gabe scratched his double chin. "Maybe if you hurry with that seven-layer dip… And maybe if the kids apologies for interrupting my poker game."
Maybe if I kick you in your soft spot, I thought. And make you sing soprano for a week.
But our mom's eyes warned me not to make him mad. Why did she care what he thought?
"Sorry," Atlanta muttered.
"I'm sorry," I muttered. "I'm really sorry I interrupted your incredibly important poker game. Please go back to it right now."
Gabe's eyes narrowed. His tiny brain was probably trying to detect sarcasm in my statement.
"Yeah, whatever," he decided.
He went back to his game.
:Thank-you Atlanta, Percy," our mom said. "Once we get to Montauk, we'll talk more about…whatever you've forgotten to tell me, okay."
For a moment, I thought I saw anxiety in her eyes- the same fear I've seen in Grover during the bus ride-as if our mom too felt an odd chill in the air.
But then her smile returned, and I figured I must have been mistaken. She ruffled mine and Atlanta's hair and went to make Gabe his seven-layer dip.
An hour later we were ready to leave.
Gabe took a break from his poker game long enough to watch me lug Atlanta's and our mom's bags to the car. He kept griping and groaning about losing her cooking-and more importantly, his '78 Camaro-for the whole weekend.
"not a scratch on this car, brain boy," he warned me as I loaded the last bag. "Not one little scratch."
"Like he'd be the one driving," Atlanta muttered. "He's twelve."
But that didn't matter to Gabe. If a seagull so much as pooped on his paint job, he'd find a way to blame me and Atlanta.
Watching him lumber back toward the apartment building, I got so mad I did something I can't explain. As Gabe reached the doorway, I made the gesture I'd seen Grover make on the bus, a sort of warding-off-evil gesture, a clawed hand over my heart, then a shoving movement toward Gabe. The screen door slammed shut so hard it whacked him in the butt and sent him flying up the staircase as if he'd been shot from a cannon. Maybe it was just the wind, or some freak accident with the hinges, but I didn't stay long enough to find out.
I got in the Camaro and Atlanta told our mom to step on it.
Our rental cabin was on the south shore, way out at the tip of Long Island. It was a little pastel box with faded curtains, half sunken into dunes. There was always sand in the sheets and spiders in the cabinets, and most of the time the sea was too cold to swim in.
I loved the place.
We'd been going there since I was a baby, and Atlanta was a kid. Our mom had been going since even longer. She never exactly said, but Atlanta and I knew why the beach was special to her. It was the place where she'd met my dad.
As we got closer to Montauk, she seemed to grow younger, years of worry and work disappeared from her face. Her eyes turned the color of the sea.
We got there at sunset, opened all the cabin's windows, and went through our usual cleaning routine. We walked on the beach, fed blue corn chips to the seagulls, and munched on blue jelly beans, blue saltwater taffy, and all the other free samples our mom had brought from work.
I guess I should explain the blue food.
See, Gabe had once told our mom there was no such thing. They had this fight, which seemed like a really small thing at the time. But ever since, our mom went out of her to eat blue. She baked blue birthday cakes. She mixed blueberry smoothies. She bought blue-corn tortilla chips and brought home blue candy from the shop. This-along with keeping her maiden name, Jackson, rather than calling herself Mrs. Ugliano-was proof that she wasn't totally suckered by Gabe. She did have a rebellious streak like me and Atlanta.
When it got dark, we made a fire. We roasted hot dogs and marshmallows. Mom told us stories about when she was a kid, back before her parents died in the car crash. She told us about the books she wanted to write someday, when she had enough money to quit the candy shop.
Eventually, Atlanta got the nerve to ask about what was always on my mind whenever we came to Montauk-my father. Mom's eyes went all misty. I figure she would tell us the same things she always did, but we never got tired of hearing it. I couldn't help but feel a bit bad, having a dad, when Atlanta didn't. If I ever meet my dad, I wonder if he'd be willing to adopt Atlanta, like mom did.
"He was kind, Atlanta," She said. "Tall, handsome, and powerful. But gentle, too. Percy has his black hair, you know, and his green eyes."
Mom fished a blue jelly bean out of her candy bag. "I wish he could see you, Percy. He would be so proud."
I wondered how she could say that. What was so great about me? A dyslexic, hyperactive boy with a D+ report card, kicked out of school for the sixth time in six years.
As if she could read my mind, Atlanta gave a me, a swift punch to the arm.
"How old was I?" I asked. "I mean…when he left?"
She watched the flames. "He was only with me for one summer, Percy. Right here at this beach. This cabin."
"But…he knew Percy as a baby." Atlanta said.
"No, honey. He knew I was expecting a baby, but he never saw Percy. He had to leave before he was born."
I tried to square that with the fact that I seemed to remember…something about my father. A warm glow. A smile.
I had always assumed he knew me as a baby. Our mom had never said it outright, but still, I'd felt it must be true. Now, to be told that he'd never even seen me….
I felt angry at my father. Maybe it was stupid, but I resented him for going on that ocean voyage, for not having the guts to marry my mom. He'd left us, and now we were stuck with Smelly Gabe.
"Are you going to send me away again?" I asked her. "To another boarding school?"
She pulled a marshmallow from the fire.
"I don't know, honey." Her voice was heavy. "I think…I think we'll have to do something."
"Because you don't want me around?" I regretted the words as soon as they were out. Atlanta gave me a hard punch for that.
Our mom's eyes welled with tears. She took mine and Atlanta's hand, squeezing them tight. "Oh, Percy, no, I-I have tom honey. For your own good. I have to send you away."
Her words reminded me of what Mr. Brunner had said- that it was best for me to leave Yancy.
"Because I'm not normal," I said.
"Normal is overrated," Atlanta muttered.
"You say that as if it's a bad thing, Percy. But you don't realize how important both of you are. I thought Yancy Academy would be far enough away. I thought you'd finally be safe."
"Safe from what?"
She met my eyes, and a flood of memories came back to me-all the weird, scary things that had ever happened to me, some of which I'd tried to forget.
Turning third grade, a man in a black trench coat had stalked me and Atlanta on the playground. When the teachers threatened to call police, he went away growling, but only Atlanta believed me when I told them that under his broad-brimmed hat, the man only had one eyes, right in the middle of his head.
Before that- a really early memory. I was in preschool, and a teacher accidentally put me down for a nap in a cot that a snake slithered into. Our mom screamed when she came to pick me up and found me playing with a limp, scaly rope I'd somehow managed to strangle to death with my meaty toddler hands.
In every single school, something creepy had happened, something unsafe, and I was forced to move.
I knew I should tell our mom and Atlanta about the old ladies at the fruit stand, and Mrs. Dodds at the art museum, about my weird hallucination that I sliced my math teacher into dust with a sword. But I couldn't make myself tell them. I had a strange feeling the news would end our trip to Montauk, and I didn't want that.
"I've tried to keep you close to me as I could," our mom said. "They told me that was a mistake. But there's only one other option, Percy-the place your father wanted to send you. And I just…I just can't stand to do it."
"Percy's dad wanted him to go to a special school?" Atlanta asked.
"Not a school," she said softly. "A summer camp."
My head was spinning. Why would my dad-who hadn't even stayed around long enough to see me born-talk to my mom about summer camp? And if it was so important, why hadn't she ever mentioned it before?
"I'm sorry, Percy," she said, seeing the look in my eyes. "But I can't talk about it. I-I couldn't send you to that place. It might mean saying good-bye to you for good."
Atlanta tensed up beside me, reaching out with her missing arm wanting to hold onto my other hand.
"For you good? But if it's only a summer camp…"
She turned toward the fire, and I knew from her expression that if I asked her any more questions she would start to cry.
That night I had a vivid dream.
It was storming on the beach, and two beautiful animals, a white horse and golden eagle, were trying to kill each other at the edge of the surf. The eagle swooped down and slashed the horse's muzzle with its huge talons. The horse reared up and kicked at the eagle's wings. As they fought, the ground rumbled, and monstrous voice chuckled somewhere beneath the earth, goading the animals to fight harder.
I ran toward them, knowing I had to stop them from killing each other, but I was running in slow motion. I knew I would be too late. I saw the eagle dive down, its beak aimed at the horse's wide eyes, and I screamed, No!
I woke with a start. Atlanta had also awake, clutching onto her shirt.
Outside, it really was storming. The kind of Storm that cracked trees and blows down houses. There was no horse or eagle on the beach, just making false daylight, and twenty-foot waves pounding the dunes like artillery.
With the next thunderclap, our mom woke. She sat up eyes wide, and said, "Hurricane."
I knew that was crazy. Long Island never sees hurricanes this early in the summer. But the ocean seemed to have forgotten. Over the roar of the wind, I heard a distant bellow, an angry, tortured sound that made my hair stand on end.
Then a much closer noise, like mallets in the sand. A desperate voice-someone yelling, pounding on our cabin door.
Our mother sprang out of bed in her nightgown and threw open the door.
Grover stood framed in the doorway against a backdrop of pouring rain. But he wasn't…he wasn't exactly Grover.
"Searching all night," he gasped. "What were you thinking?"
Our mother looked at me in terror-not scared of Grover, but of why he'd come/
"Percy," she said, shouting to be heard over the rain. "What happened at school? What didn't you tell me?"
I felt Atlanta hug my arm tightly, shaking from a mix of the cold and fear. I was frozen, looking at Grover. I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
"O Zeu kai alloi theoi!" He yelled. "It's right behind me! Didn't you tell her?"
I was too shocked to register that he'd just cursed in Ancient Greek, and I'd understand him perfectly. I was too shocked to wonder how Grover had gotten here by himself in the middle of the night. Because Grover didn't have his pants-and where he his legs should be…where his legs should be…
Our mom looked at me sternly and talked in a tone she'd never used before: "Percy. Tell me now!"
I stammered something about the old ladies at the fruit stand, and Mrs. Dodds, Atlanta hugging me tighter, and our mom stared at me, her face deathly pale in the lightning flashes of lightning.
She grabbed her purse, tossed me and Atlanta out rain jackets, and said "Get in the car. All three of out. Go!"
Grover ran for the Camero-but he wasn't running, exactly. He was trotting, shaking his shaggy hindquarters, and suddenly his story about muscular disorder in his legs made sense to me. I understand how he could run so fast and still limp when he walked.
Because where his feet should be, there were no feet.
There were cloven hooves.
