Look, I didn’t want to be a half-blood.

If you’re reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is:

close this book right now. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you

about your birth, and try to lead a normal life.

Being a half-blood is dangerous. It’s scary. Most of the time, it gets you

killed in painful, nasty ways.

If you’re a normal kid, reading this because you think it’s fiction, great.

Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened.

But if you recognize yourself in these pages—if you feel something

stirring inside—stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once

you know that, it’s only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they’ll

come for you.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

My name is Percy Jackson.

I’m twelve years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at

Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York.

Am I a troubled kid?

Yeah. You could say that.

I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things

really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip

to Manhattan—twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow

school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient

Greek and Roman stuff.

I know—it sounds like torture. Most Yancy field trips were.

But Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes.

Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had

thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always

smelled like coffee. You wouldn’t think he’d be cool, but he told stories and

jokes and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of

Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn’t put

me to sleep.

I hoped the trip would be okay. At least, I hoped that for once I wouldn’t

get in trouble.

Boy, was I wrong.

See, bad things happen to me on field trips. Like at my fifth-grade school,

when we went to the Saratoga battlefield, I had this accident with a

Revolutionary War cannon. I wasn’t aiming for the school bus, but of course

I got expelled anyway. And before that, at my fourth-grade school, when we

took a behind-the-scenes tour of the Marine World shark pool, I sort of hit the

wrong lever on the catwalk and our class took an unplanned swim. And the

time before that…Well, you get the idea.

This trip, I was determined to be good.

All the way into the city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freckly,

redheaded kleptomaniac girl, hitting my best friend Grover in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter-and-ketchup sandwich.

Grover was an easy target. He was scrawny. He cried when he got

frustrated. He must’ve been held back several grades, because he was the

only sixth grader with acne and the start of a wispy beard on his chin. On top

of all that, he was crippled. He had a note excusing him from PE for the rest

of his life because he had some kind of muscular disease in his legs. He

walked funny, like every step hurt him, but don’t let that fool you. You

should’ve seen him run when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria.

Anyway, Nancy Bobofit was throwing wads of sandwich that stuck in his

curly brown hair, and she knew I couldn’t do anything back to her because I

was already on probation. The headmaster had threatened me with death by

in-school suspension if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly

entertaining happened on this trip.

“I’m going to kill her,” I mumbled.

Grover tried to calm me down. “It’s okay. I like peanut butter.”

He dodged another piece of Nancy’s lunch.

“That’s it.” I started to get up, but Grover pulled me back to my seat.

“You’re already on probation,” he reminded me. “You know who’ll get

blamed if anything happens.”

Looking back on it, I wish I’d decked Nancy Bobofit right then and there.

In-school suspension would’ve been nothing compared to the mess I was

about to get myself into.

Mr. Brunner led the museum tour.

He rode up front in his wheelchair, guiding us through the big echoey

galleries, past marble statues and glass cases full of really old black-and-orange pottery.

It blew my mind that this stuff had survived for two thousand, three

thousand years.

He gathered us around a thirteen-foot-tall stone column with a big sphinx

on the top, and started telling us how it was a grave marker, a stele, for a girl

about our age. He told us about the carvings on the sides. I was trying to

listen to what he had to say, because it was kind of interesting, but everybody

around me was talking, and every time I told them to shut up, the other

teacher chaperone, Mrs. Dodds, would give me the evil eye.

Mrs. Dodds was this little math teacher from Georgia who always wore a

black leather jacket, even though she was fifty years old. She looked mean

enough to ride a Harley right into your locker. She had come to Yancy

halfway through the year, when our last math teacher had a nervous

breakdown.

From her first day, Mrs. Dodds loved Nancy Bobofit and figured I was

devil spawn. She would point her crooked finger at me and say, “Now,

honey,” real sweet, and I knew I was going to get after-school detention for a

month.

One time, after she’d made me erase answers out of old math workbooks

until midnight, I told Grover I didn’t think Mrs. Dodds was human. He

looked at me, real serious, and said, “You’re absolutely right.”

Mr. Brunner kept talking about Greek funeral art.

Finally, Nancy Bobofit snickered something about the ***** guy on the

stele, and I turned around and said, “Will you shut up?”

It came out louder than I meant it to.

The whole group laughed. Mr. Brunner stopped his story.

“Mr. Jackson,” he said, “did you have a comment?”

My face was totally red. I said, “No, sir.”

Mr. Brunner pointed to one of the pictures on the stele. “Perhaps you’ll

tell us what this picture represents?”

I looked at the carving, and felt a flush of relief, because I actually

recognized it. “That’s Kronos eating his kids, right?”

“Yes,” Mr. Brunner said, obviously not satisfied. “And he did this

because…”

“Well…” I racked my brain to remember. “Kronos was the king god, and

—”

“God?” Mr. Brunner asked.

“Titan,” I corrected myself. “And…he didn’t trust his kids, who were the

gods. So, um, Kronos ate them, right? But his wife hid baby Zeus, and gave

Kronos a rock to eat instead. And later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his

dad, Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters—”

“Eeew!” said one of the girls behind me.

“—and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans,” I

continued, “and the gods won.”

Some snickers from the group.

Behind me, Nancy Bobofit mumbled to a friend, “Like we’re going to use

this in real life. Like it’s going to say on our job applications, ‘Please explain

why Kronos ate his kids.’”

“And why, Mr. Jackson,” Brunner said, “to paraphrase Miss Bobofit’s

excellent question, does this matter in real life?”

“Busted,” Grover muttered.

“Shut up,” Nancy hissed, her face even brighter red than her hair.

At least Nancy got packed, too. Mr. Brunner was the only one who ever caught her saying anything wrong. He had radar ears.

I thought about his question, and shrugged. “I don’t know, sir.”

“I see.” Mr. Brunner looked disappointed. “Well, half credit, Mr. Jackson.

Zeus did indeed feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made

him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods,

had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan’s

stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own

scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the

Underworld. On that happy note, it’s time for lunch. Mrs. Dodds, would you

lead us back outside?”

The class drifted off, the girls holding their stomachs, the guys pushing each

other around and acting like doofuses.

Grover and I were about to follow when Mr. Brunner said, “Mr.

Jackson.”

I knew that was coming.

I told Grover to keep going. Then I turned toward Mr. Brunner. “Sir?”

Mr. Brunner had this look that wouldn’t let you go—intense brown eyes

that could’ve been a thousand years old and had seen everything.

“You must learn the answer to my question,” Mr. Brunner told me.

“About the Titans?”

“About real life. And how your studies apply to it.”

“Oh.”

“What you learn from me,” he said, “is vitally important. I expect you to

treat it as such. I will accept only the best from you, Percy Jackson.”

I wanted to get angry, this guy pushed me so hard.

I mean, sure, it was kind of cool on tournament days, when he dressed up

in a suit of Roman armor and shouted: “What ho!” and challenged us, sword-

point against chalk, to run to the board and name every Greek and Roman

person who had ever lived, and their mother, and what god they worshipped.

But Mr. Brunner expected me to be as good as everybody else, despite the

fact that I have dyslexia and attention deficit disorder and I had never made

above a C– in my life. No—he didn’t expect me to be as good; he expected

me to be better. And I just couldn’t learn all those names and facts, much less

spell them correctly.

I mumbled something about trying harder, while Mr. Brunner took one

long sad look at the stele, like he’d been at this girl’s funeral.

He told me to go outside and eat my lunch.

The class gathered on the front steps of the museum, where we could watch

the foot traffic along Fifth Avenue.

Overhead, a huge storm was brewing, with clouds blacker than I’d ever

seen over the city. I figured maybe it was global warming or something,

because the weather all across New York state had been weird since

Christmas. We’d had massive snow storms, flooding, wildfires from

lightning strikes. I wouldn’t have been surprised if this was a hurricane

blowing in.

Nobody else seemed to notice. Some of the guys were pelting pigeons

with Lunchables crackers. Nancy Bobofit was trying to pickpocket something

from a lady’s purse, and, of course, Mrs. Dodds wasn’t seeing a thing.

Grover and I sat on the edge of the fountain, away from the others. We

thought that maybe if we did that, everybody wouldn’t know we were from

that school—the school for loser freaks who couldn’t make it elsewhere.

“Detention?” Grover asked.

“Nah,” I said. “Not from Brunner. I just wish he’d lay off me sometimes.

I mean—I’m not a genius.”

Grover didn’t say anything for a while. Then, when I thought he was

going to give me some deep philosophical comment to make me feel better,

he said, “Can I have your apple?”

I didn’t have much of an appetite, so I let him take it.

I watched the stream of cabs going down Fifth Avenue, and thought about

my mom’s apartment, only a little ways uptown from where we sat. I hadn’t

seen her since Christmas. I wanted so bad to jump in a taxi and head home.

She’d hug me and be glad to see me, but she’d be disappointed, too. She’d

send me right back to Yancy, remind me that I had to try harder, even if this

was my sixth school in six years and I was probably going to be kicked out

again. I wouldn’t be able to stand that sad look she’d give me.

Mr. Brunner parked his wheelchair at the base of the handicapped ramp.

He ate celery while he read a paperback novel. A red umbrella stuck up from

the back of his chair, making it look like a motorized café table.

I was about to unwrap my sandwich when Nancy Bobofit appeared in

front of me with her ugly friends—I guess she’d gotten tired of stealing from

the tourists—and dumped her half-eaten lunch in Grover’s lap.

“Oops.” She grinned at me with her crooked teeth. Her freckles were

orange, as if somebody had spray-painted her face with liquid Cheetos.

I tried to stay cool. The school counselor had told me a million times,

“Count to ten, get control of your temper.” But I was so mad my mind went

blank. A wave roared in my ears.

I don’t remember touching her, but the next thing I knew, Nancy was

sitting on her butt in the fountain, screaming, “Percy pushed me!”

Mrs. Dodds materialized next to us.

Some of the kids were whispering: “Did you see—”

“—the water—”

“—like it grabbed her—”

I didn’t know what they were talking about. All I knew was that I was in

trouble again.

As soon as Mrs. Dodds was sure poor little Nancy was okay, promising to

get her a new shirt at the museum gift shop, etc., etc., Mrs. Dodds turned on

me. There was a triumphant fire in her eyes, as if I’d done something she’d

been waiting for all semester. “Now, honey—”

“I know,” I grumbled. “A month erasing workbooks.”

That wasn’t the right thing to say.

“Come with me,” Mrs. Dodds said.

“Wait!” Grover yelped. “It was me. I pushed her.”

I stared at him, stunned. I couldn’t believe he was trying to cover for me.

Mrs. Dodds scared Grover to death.

She glared at him so hard his whiskery chin trembled.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Underwood,” she said.

“But—”

“You—will—stay—here.”

Grover looked at me desperately.

“It’s okay, man,” I told him. “Thanks for trying.”

“Honey,” Mrs. Dodds barked at me. “Now.”

Nancy Bobofit smirked. I gave her my deluxe I’ll-kill-you-later stare.

Then I turned to face Mrs. Dodds, but she wasn’t there. She was standing at the museum entrance, way at the top of the steps, gesturing impatiently at me

to come on.

How’d she get there so fast?

I have moments like that a lot, when my brain falls asleep or something,

and the next thing I know I’ve missed something, as if a puzzle piece fell out

of the universe and left me staring at the blank place behind it. The school

counselor told me this was part of the ADHD, my brain misinterpreting

things.

I wasn’t so sure.

I went after Mrs. Dodds.

Halfway up the steps, I glanced back at Grover. He was looking pale,

cutting his eyes between me and Mr. Brunner, like he wanted Mr. Brunner to

notice what was going on, but Mr. Brunner was absorbed in his novel.

I looked back up. Mrs. Dodds had disappeared again. She was now inside

the building, at the end of the entrance hall.

Okay, I thought. She’s going to make me buy a new shirt for Nancy at the

gift shop.

But apparently that wasn’t the plan.

I followed her deeper into the museum. When I finally caught up to her,

we were back in the Greek and Roman section.

Except for us, the gallery was empty.

Mrs. Dodds stood with her arms crossed in front of a big marble frieze of

the Greek gods. She was making this weird noise in her throat, like growling.

Even without the noise, I would’ve been nervous. It’s weird being alone

with a teacher, especially Mrs. Dodds. Something about the way she looked

at the frieze, as if she wanted to pulverize it…