8. Tucked In
Mom worked the late shift on Tuesdays and Thursdays. That was okay, Percy was a big boy. He could reheat the leftover food from the night before (usually mac'n'cheese or canned soup) in the microwave, brush his teeth (sometimes, if he remembered) and put himself to bed. It was easy. He was six years old, a big boy.
Still, Percy thought, clutching the comforter that was older than the boy it wrapped around, it would be nice if Mom were home. He hunkered down in the blanket, trying not to flinch as another clasp of thunder shook the foundation of the old apartment building. He could barely hear himself breath over the torrent of rain that pounded against the window. A flash of lightning brilliantly electrified the night, filling Percy's entire room with its brilliant glow.
Percy couldn't help flinching, his little hands clasping over his ears as the storm carried on.
I'm a big boy, he thought furiously, blinking back tears as he buried his head beneath his stained blue pillow. I'm a big boy and it's just a storm. I'm a big boy.
If Mom were home, he could slip out of bed, creep past Smelly Gabe unconscious on the couch, and make his way to her bed. She would smile at him, pull back the covers so he could curl up beside her steady presence.
"My little hero, come to keep me safe," she would whisper and all the bad things in the world would just melt away.
But Mom worked the late shift on Tuesday and Thursday. Besides, Percy was a big boy. Another clasp of thunder shook the windows; Percy scrunched his eyes tightly shut, hands pressing against his ears as hard as he could, but it didn't seem to matter—the noise rattled through his very bones anyway.
I'm a big boy, I'm a big boy, I'm a big—Mommy!
Percy hiccupped a little, eyes still screwed tightly shut, his knees tucked below his chin. He huddled his shoulders, trying to make himself as small as possible to brace against the terror. . . .
It took the little boy a long while to realize he could no longer hear the thunder roll. Percy's brow furrowed but he didn't quit dare uncurl himself or open his eyes. The seconds ticked by. Never the patient one, even when gripped with terror, Percy slowly removed one hand from his ear.
Silence.
No thunder, not even a splatter of rain. Percy's eyes snapped open. Outside his window, the storm raged on but the most peculiar thing was happening. The rain, which once bounced off his window like angry hordes of bees now . . . missed. It crashed and scattered as if butting against the window but actually stopped short of the pane by a few inches or so.
Percy watched in wonder, hardly able to believe his eyes. He scrambled out of bed and darted to the window, his former terror forgotten in childish amazement. Outside, he could see the rain, saw lightning dance across the sky and debris flying in the wind but . . . he heard nothing. It was almost as if he was caught in a little bubble, a safe harbor from the storm.
Percy's fingers splayed against the cold glass, leaning forward until his nose smooshed against it and his breath fogged the incredible sight into oblivion.
In the living room, Gabe gave a giant snore.
Percy sat watching the storm a while longer before his toes grew cold and the wonder ebbed aside for sleepiness. Little Percy Jackson crawled back into bed, sleepy green eyes still watching the rain.
Percy settled back into bed, pulling the blanket up to his chin, but his little fingers didn't clutch at the fabric. The boy snuggled into his pillow blearily catching his final glimpses of the incredible storm.
Storms aren't so scary, Percy thought with a smile, closing his heavy eyes.
He felt the blanket shift, the edges curling more securely around his slight frame.
"Hm . . . love you, Mom" Percy managed to mutter, too tired to open his eyes.
His mother didn't reply, her hand brushing against his hair but not really touching him before withdrawing, leaving behind blessed silence . . . and the faint smell of the sea..
Up next: Fever