Chapter one:
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 and 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 never come for you.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
My name is Thalia Grace.
I'm sixteen 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 I was in eleventh- grade class took a 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. Rodger's, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes. Mr. Rodger's was this middle aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smiled 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 his 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 was 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 glass took a swim. And the time before that... Well, you get the idea. This trip, I was going to be good.
All the way into the city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freaky, redheaded kleptomaniac girl, hitting my best friend Rover in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter - and ketchup sandwich. Thomas 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 eleventh 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 P.E 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 it 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.
Thomas tried to calm me down. It's okay. I like peanut butter.
He dodged another of Nancy's lunch.
That's it. I started to get up, but Thomas 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.