The Daughter of Poseidon

by DarkLordWolf

Notes:

• A translation of La hija de Poseidón by Fire_Storm-Ball (DarkLordWolf)

Chapter 1: Prologue

Rebirth was never part of my plan.

Dying gloriously in battle? Absolutely.

Sacking cities, crushing armies, roaring in triumph over a sea of corpses? Of course.

But being born—crying, naked, and covered in disgusting mortal fluids—was a humiliation that not even I, the great Ares, would’ve wished upon my worst enemies.

And all because of a cake.

Yes. A cursed, damn cake.

---

It happened during the Winter Solstice party on Olympus. Zeus had thrown one of his usual absurd feasts, where gods gorged themselves while competing to see who wore the most ridiculous toga. Naturally, I decided the night needed some excitement.

My brilliant idea? Swap the filling of the royal cake for a healthy serving of live snakes.

I thought it’d be hilarious.

And, well... it was.

Until one of the snakes launched itself straight at Zeus’s face.

There were screams, laughter, even some columns shaking from all the giggling—
until Zeus gave me that look.

The one that makes you wish you were a lifeless atom floating through the void.

That’s when I knew the joke would cost me.

Big time.

---

“I will take from you what you cherish most, Ares,” he thundered, his voice as dark as a brewing storm. “Your strength. Your glory. Your immortality.”

And just like that, my world exploded into blinding light…

Then into warm, sticky, vile darkness.

I had been reborn.

Literally.

In a mortal hospital, screaming like a wet rat.

---

Let me just say: a god’s fall from grace is not graceful.

There’s no epic music. No inspiring speech.

Just dirty diapers and a hunger that not even a thousand sacrifices could satisfy.

And to make the tragedy worse, my new parents—religious zealots straight out of a cartoon—named me something that should honestly be banned by the U.N.:

Abelardo Ramiro Esteban Santos.

A. R. E. S.

The irony was so perfect I wanted to laugh…

But my baby lungs could barely manage a sad little gargle.

And so began my second life.

As I’d soon discover, the only war I’d be fighting for a while… was against human stupidity.

---

My childhood? Let’s just say it was unusual.

Where other kids saw board games, I saw tactical invasions.

When they ran from a dodgeball, I was already flanking from the right.

My teachers thought I needed therapy.

My classmates thought they needed helmets.

I thought the world was a massive battlefield full of morons.

“Abelardo, share your toys.”

“Abelardo, don’t throw sand in your classmates’ faces.”

“Abelardo, knocking out the school band director is not ‘artistic expression.’”

And all I could think was: How do these weak little things survive?

---

Naturally, I adapted.

Like a lion stuck in a petting zoo, I carved out my kingdom: the playground.

There, under the blazing sun and the off-key bleating of the music teacher (who sounded like a sick goat), I ruled with an iron fist.

“Off the water fountain, tadpole,” I growled one Tuesday, shoving a freckled kid who barely managed a stammered apology.

He fell.

The others watched.

Waiting.

“What? Gonna cry all together now?” I snorted.

Yes, it was petty.

Yes, it was low.

But damn, it was the closest thing to war they’d let me have.

Until she arrived.

---

“Leave them alone, you brainless beast.”

Her voice cut through the chaos like a well-aimed spear.

I turned, ready to crush another pint-sized rebellion—
but stopped.

There she was.

Skinny. Small. Hair wild like a storm.

Eyes green as a raging sea.

And most terrifying of all: not a trace of fear.

“What did you say?” I growled.

“I said you’re a brainless beast. And I’m going to teach you some manners.”

The threat hung in the air—absurd, delicious.

Me, the god of war incarnate, being challenged by a four-foot-nothing gremlin.

It would’ve been funny...
if not for the fact that in her eyes, I saw something real.

An unbreakable will.

A genuine challenge.

And my stomach—traitorous thing—gave a little flutter.

---

What happened next was pure chaos.

We leapt at each other like rabid young lions.

Punches. Kicks. Scratches that would make tigers jealous.

She nailed me in the nose.

I shoved her to the ground.

She bit my arm.

I stomped on her shoe.

Every movement sparked something deep in my chest—
a flicker of who I used to be:
riding through broken shields, my name—Ares, Ares, Ares—echoing across the battlefield.

But now, that same blood boiled as I rolled in schoolyard dirt, fighting a fierce, sharp-eyed girl with fists like fury.

Humiliating?

Absolutely.

Thrilling?

More than I dared admit.

“Enough!” shouted the teacher.

It took two of them to pry us apart.

“SUSPENDED! Both of you!” the principal shrieked, dragging us away like two rebellious sacks of potatoes.

We walked the hallway, bruised, filthy… and grinning.

Then it happened.

Our eyes met.

Her: disheveled, with a bleeding lip.

Me: split eyebrow, burning knuckles.

A spark.

Not of hate.

Not of rivalry.

Something else.

Something nameless, in any mortal or divine tongue.

Something that burned like Tartarus fire—
but tasted sweeter than all my past victories.

Percy.

Her name echoed through the hallways and seared itself into my mind like a curse I’d never break.

Hating her would’ve been easy.

Loving her… was inevitable.

And though I didn’t know it yet,
she would become my new war.

The fiercest.

The hardest.

The truest.

The war for my own heart.

Chapter 2: My algebra teacher tried to kill me (and not with homework)

My name’s Percy.

Well… it’s actually Perseidas—yeah, like the meteor shower—because, according to my mom, el cielo se puso de fiesta the day I was born. Super cute and everything, but don’t even think about calling me that unless you’re dying to end up in the hospital. ¿No me crees? Ask Santos. The dude tried it back in second grade, just to be annoying, and his nose ended up so crooked they had to do plastic surgery to make it look halfway decent. So yeah—you decide.

I’m twelve.

Until a few months ago, I went to Yancy Academy, this super fresa boarding school way up in northern New York, for "troubled kids."

Am I a troubled kid?

Well… duh. No me gané ese título nomás por mi bonita cara, ¿eh?

I could start this story with any of the sad and chaotic chapters of my short life, but let’s keep it real—everything went al carajo de verdad last May. That’s when the sixth grade took a field trip to Manhattan: twenty-eight escuincles and two teachers squished into a big yellow school bus, headed for the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at Greek and Roman stuff.

I know, I know. Sounds like medieval torture, right? And yeah, most Yancy field trips were straight-up punishment.

But this time Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was in charge, so I had a little bit of hope.

Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged dude in a motorized wheelchair, half bald, with a beard like an old mop, always smelling like coffee and rocking a tweed jacket that needed to retire, like, ten years ago. You’d look at him and think, "Nah, this guy’s gotta be super lame," but nope—he told awesome stories, cracked hilarious jokes, and let us play games in class. Plus, he had a collection of Roman weapons and armor that was, no joke, de no manches. So yeah, he was the only teacher I didn’t fall asleep on.

I seriously dreamed this trip would go well. For once, I didn’t want to get into broncas.

Spoiler alert: I was so wrong.

See, on every single field trip, algo gacho happens to me.

Like in fifth grade, when we went to Saratoga battlefield and I—accidentally, I swear on Snoopy—fired a Revolutionary War cannon.

Did I aim it at the school bus? No, señor.

Did I get expelled? Obviously.

Or in fourth grade, when we visited Marine World Aquarium and I "accidentally" pulled the wrong lever on the walkway... and boom! Whole class swimming with sharks.

So yeah. You can guess the kind of rep I’ve got.

This time, I promised myself I’d be un angelito. So there I was, bien sentadita, trying not to punch Nancy Bobofit in the face. She’s this klepto, freckly redhead in my class who kept throwing pieces of her peanut butter and ketchup sandwich at my best friend, Grover.

Grover was like a magnet for bullies: skinny, always on the verge of crying when he got frustrated. And to top it off, he’d probably been held back a couple years, because he was the only sixth grader with zits and a fuzzy little Cantinflas mustache. He walked weird, too, like it hurt with every step, 'cause he had some kind of muscle condition in his legs.

He had a doctor’s note that got him out of PE forever, but—get this—on enchilada day in the cafeteria? The dude ran like Usain Bolt on roller skates.

Anyway, Nancy kept tossing sandwich bits into his curly hair, and my blood was boiling. But I couldn’t do a thing—I was on probation, and the principal had been super clear: “One more false move, mija, and you’re out.”

“I’m gonna kill her,” I muttered through clenched teeth.

Grover tried to calm me down.

“It’s okay. I like peanut butter,” he said, dodging another flying chunk.

I was about to get up and end Nancy’s whole career when Grover yanked me back into my seat.

“Remember you’re on thin ice,” he whispered. “And guess who they’re gonna blame if anything happens?”

Honestly? If I’d known what was coming next, I totally would’ve decked Nancy right then and there.

Getting expelled would’ve been a piece of cake compared to the desmadrito que estaba por estallar.

Mr. Brunner was leading us through the museum, gliding in his wheelchair across those echoey marble halls filled with ancient statues and pottery older than your abuelita.

I was fascinated. Like, how had these things survived for two or three thousand years?

We stopped in front of this giant stone column with a sphinx on top—like, nivel “ya valimos queso”—and Mr. Brunner explained it was a funerary stele, a monument for a girl our age. He was going on about the carvings and everything, and I really wanted to pay attention...
but everyone else was whispering and laughing like we were at recess.

Every time I tried to shush them, our other teacher, Mrs. Dodds, would shoot me a look that could kill a cockroach from fifty feet.

Mrs. Dodds taught math. She was short, from Georgia, dressed like a biker chick from a bad movie—leather jacket, permanent scowl, total "me vale todo" energy.

Rumor was the previous math teacher had ended up in a mental hospital. Totally not suspicious or anything.

From day one, Dodds decided Nancy was her favorite and I was her personal punching bag. Every time she was about to ruin my day, she started with her classic: “Now, honey…” and bam, instant punishment.

Once, after making me erase books till I got canas prematuras, I told Grover:

“She’s a monster.”

He looked at me all serious, like “ya ni cómo ayudarte,” and said:

“You’re absolutely right.”

While Mr. Brunner kept talking about Greek funerary art like nothing was happening, Nancy Bobofit laughed at a carved nude figure on the stele.

And that’s when I snapped.

“¿Te quieres callar?” I blurted out—louder than I meant to.

“Miss Jackson,” said Brunner, all serious, “do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

I went redder than a sunburnt tomato.

“No, sir,” I mumbled.

He pointed to one of the images on the stele.

“Then perhaps you can tell us what this image represents.”

I looked at the carving and—uff—relief! I actually knew this one.

“That’s Cronos eating his kids, right?” I said, feeling confident.

“Correct,” he said. “And why would he do such a thing?”

“Well…” I started digging through my brain like when you’re trying to find your keys between couch cushions, “Cronos was king of the gods—”

“Gods?” Brunner raised an eyebrow like, ‘come on, girl, échale ganas’.

“Oh! Titán—he was a Titan. And he didn’t trust his kids, who were gods. So Cronos… um… ate them? But his wife hid baby Zeus and gave him a rock wrapped in a—uh, how do you say… blanket? No, wait—oh! Yes! Swaddling cloth. That. Then Zeus grew up and made him throw up his siblings—”

“Ew!” a girl in the back gagged, like someone had just offered her sock soup.

“—and then there was this brutal war between gods and Titans,” I finished, “and the gods won.”

A few kids laughed.

Behind me, Nancy Bobofit whispered to a friend, “This is so stupid. Like this is ever gonna help us get a job. What are they gonna ask?

‘Explain why Cronos ate his kids’?”

Mr. Brunner, who had better hearing than a NASA satellite, didn’t miss a beat.

“Tell me, Miss Jackson,” he said with that I-know-I’ve-got-you smile, “why should we learn this in real life?”

“You’re toast,” Grover whispered, elbowing me.

“Shut up,” Nancy hissed, redder than her ketchup sandwich.

At least, for once, Nancy was in trouble too. Mr. Brunner was the only teacher who actually caught her mid-brat, like he had little radar dishes in his ears.

I thought about his question, shrugged, and said:

“I don’t know, sir.”

“I see,” said Mr. Brunner with a sigh, like someone who’d just lost the World Cup final. “Well, Miss Jackson, you didn’t do terribly bad. It’s true that Zeus made Kronos swallow a mix of mustard and wine, which forced him to puke up his five other kids. Since they were immortal gods, they’d been growing alive inside their father’s stomach. Then, the gods defeated Kronos, sliced him up with his own scythe, and tossed the remains into Tartarus, the darkest corner of the Underworld. Anyway,” he added, “it’s lunchtime. Miss Dodds, would you take the group outside, please?”

The class scattered like someone had yelled, “¡Pizza gratis!” The girls looked disgusted, the boys shoved each other like it was recess.

Grover and I were just about to head out when the teacher called, “Miss Jackson!”

Lo sabía. I knew it—like I know when someone says “sólo una mordida” of your chocolate, it’s gonna be gone in three seconds.

I gave Grover a little wave to go on without me and dragged my feet back toward Brunner.

“Yes, sir?” I asked, trying really hard not to sound like I wanted to bolt.

Brunner gave me that look—that look. Intense. Endless. Like he’d personally witnessed the Big Bang.

“You must learn the answer to my question,” he said, super serious.

“The one about the Titans?” I guessed.

“The one about real life. And how you’ll apply what you’re learning.”

“Ah…” I said, feeling like someone had hit the reset button on my brain.

“What you’re learning with me is critically important. I expect you to take it seriously. I will only accept the best from you, Percy Jackson.”

Y mira, la neta, in that moment I really wanted to roll my eyes and hit him with a whole buffet of sarcasm. Because sure, there were days when Brunner was cool—like when he dressed up in his Roman armor, waved his fake sword, and turned our lessons into epic battles of trivia. But he was also the same guy who expected me—with my dyslexia, my ADHD, and my barely-passing grades—to be better than everyone else. Not as good. Better.

And no matter how hard I tried, memorizing all those weird Greek names and dustier-than-a-bodega dates felt like carrying a backpack full of bricks... And spelling them right? ¡Ay, por favor!

So I just mumbled something like, “Yes, sir, I’ll try,” while he gave the marble relief a sad look, like he’d just attended the funeral of that poor girl.

He told me to go eat.

The class was spread out along the museum steps, staring at the crazy traffic on Fifth Avenue. The sky looked freaky—dark clouds swirling like squid ink, moving all strange, like a dragon throwing a tantrum up there.

I figured it was climate change’s fault. Ever since Christmas, New York weather had been loco: freak snowstorms, floods, lightning fires… I swear, it wouldn’t have shocked me to see a hurricane double-parked in Times Square.

But of course, nobody else seemed to notice.

Some kids were throwing cookies at the pigeons. Nancy Bobofit was probably trying to rob some poor señora, and Miss Dodds just stood there, watching the sky like la cosa más normal del mundo.

Grover and I sat on the edge of a fountain, far from the pack. We didn’t want to be seen hanging with the “problem kids.”

“Did he punish you?” Grover asked, chewing on a potato chip.

“Nope. Brunner doesn’t do punishments. But sometimes I wish he’d chill out a bit. I mean, I’m not a genius, ¿sabes?”

Grover stayed quiet, looking thoughtful… and silly me, I thought he was about to drop some inspiring line like, “You can conquer the world, Percy!”

Instead, he said, “Are you gonna eat your apple?”

No tenía hambre, so I gave it to him.

I watched the taxis buzz by, wishing harder than anything that I could be at my mom’s apartment, just a few blocks away.

I hadn’t seen her since Christmas.

I wanted to jump into a cab, go straight to her place, hug her like a koala and never let go. But I also knew what would come after the hug—that look.

Her face would say, “I’m happy to see you, but also kinda disappointed.”

And then, obviously, the speech: “You have to try harder,” even though this was my sixth school in six years, and we both knew how it would end—expelled again.

I wasn’t ready to see that look.

Not again.

Meanwhile, Mr. Brunner was rolling around in his motorized chair like some sort of air traffic controller, munching celery and reading a tiny paperback, with a red umbrella sticking out of the back like he was a garden table on wheels.

I was just about to unwrap my sandwich when Nancy Bobofit showed up, dragging her awful friends—guess she got tired of mugging tourists—and casually dumped half her soggy lunch right onto Grover’s lap.

“Well, look who it is,” she sneered, smiling with a mouth so crooked it looked like she’d wrestled a can opener. Her face was splattered with orange freckles like someone spray-painted her.

I tried to stay calm. Count to ten, control your temper, the school counselor always said, like a scratched CD. But I was so mad, my brain just… blanked. Like, I literally forgot how to breathe.

And then—splash! Screams. Chaos. Nancy was suddenly sitting on her butt inside the fountain, wailing like she’d been thrown from the third floor.

“Percy pushed me! It was her!”

Y como si la hubieran invocado, Miss Dodds appeared next to us faster than the Road Runner.

Kids were whispering nervously:

“Did you see that...?”

“...the water...”

“...dragged her...?”

I had no clue what was going on, but I did know one thing: I was in deep trouble.

Miss Dodds rushed to help Nancy—poor, dripping Nancy—and promised her a new T-shirt from the museum gift shop. Then she turned to me with the look of someone who’d been waiting all semester to catch me.

“And now, dear,” she said sweetly, like she was about to stomp a cockroach.

“I know,” I muttered, resigned. “A month cleaning workbook pages.”

But nope. That wasn’t it.

“Come with me,” she ordered.

“Wait!” Grover jumped up, all panicky. “It was me! I pushed her!”

I stared at him, stunned. Was he seriously trying to cover for me? Grover, who was totally terrified of Miss Dodds? But she glared at him so hard, the poor guy nearly melted into the pavement.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Underwood,” she said icily. “You stay right there.”

Grover gave me a look that said perdón, amiga, and I smiled back to tell him it was okay.

“It’s fine,” I whispered. “Thanks for trying.”

“Come along, dear!” snapped the witch.

Nancy let out a snorty laugh. I gave her my best ríete ahora, que en el recreo nos vemos glare and turned on my heel. But when I looked for Miss Dodds, she wasn’t there.

She was already at the top of the museum steps, waving like everything was chill.

¿Cómo llegó ahí tan rápido? my brain hiccuped.

Weird stuff like that happened to me all the time—moments when it felt like the universe had left out a puzzle piece.

My school counselor blamed it on my ADHD… but honestly, I wasn’t so sure.

Sighing, I started walking toward her. Halfway up, I glanced back at Grover. He looked ready to cry, glancing between me and Mr. Brunner like he hoped one of us would do something. But Brunner just kept reading and munching celery like we were invisible.

I looked back up… and whoosh! Dodds had vanished inside the museum.

Okay, I thought. She’s gonna make me pay for Nancy’s dumb T-shirt. But nope. Her plan was way more twisted.

I followed her in, my heart thumping in my ears.

I caught up to her in the Greek and Roman wing. We were totally alone.

Miss Dodds stood in front of a huge marble frieze, arms crossed. She made this noise—like she was clearing her throat to scream battle cries.

And believe me, every single alarm in my head went off at once.

“You’ve been causing us problems, dear,” she said.

I went with the safe route: “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, stiff as a statue.

She adjusted her leather jacket with the swagger of a low-budget movie villain.

“Did you really think you could get away with it?” Her voice dripped with venom—pure, concentrated, ni te acerques.

“She's just a teacher,” I told myself. “She can't actually hurt me… right?”

“I-I’ll try harder, ma’am,” I stammered.

And then—KABOOM!—a thunderclap shook the entire building.

Ms. Dodds smiled. But it wasn’t a human smile.

“We’re not fools, Percy Jackson,” she hissed. “Catching you was only a matter of time. Confess… and your punishment will be lighter.”

“Confess what?” I thought, turning pale. Had she found out about my secret candy stash? The essay I totally copy-pasted from the internet? Or worse—was she gonna make me read Tom Sawyer all the way through?

“Well?” she snapped, baring her teeth.

“Ma’am, I don’t—”

“Time’s up!” she growled.

And then, ¡PUM! Things went full horror video game mode.

Her eyes started glowing like burning coals, her fingers stretched into claws, her jacket melted into shadow, and huge bat wings exploded from her back.

I froze. Like, literalmente, ice cube mode.

Ms. Dodds wasn’t human anymore. She was a full-on nightmare: wings, claws, fangs—straight out of a dollar-store horror flick.

And she was coming for me.

Out of nowhere, Mr. Brunner appeared in the gallery and shouted, “Catch!”

He threw something my way.

It was… a pen.

A freakin’ pen.

¿Me está tomando el pelo? A pen? Against bat-Godzilla?!

I caught the pen midair… and in that instant, it transformed into a gleaming bronze sword.

The sword.

The one Mr. Brunner always used during our ancient trivia duels.

Ms. Dodds whirled around, snarling, “Die, honey!”

My whole body was shaking like jelly on a trampoline during an earthquake, but as she dove toward me, I swung the sword on instinct.

SHHHING!

The blade sliced through her shoulder like smoke.

Ms. Dodds exploded—boom—into a yellow dust cloud, leaving behind a faint scream, the stench of sulfur, and the kind of cold that feels like ghosts brushing your spine.

When I came to, I was alone.

Just me, standing there, holding a regular pen.

Mr. Brunner was gone.

The museum was empty. Like nothing had happened.

My heart pounded. Had I gone crazy? Or did my sandwich come with bonus hallucination mushrooms?

I stumbled outside. It was drizzling.

Grover was still sitting by the fountain, hiding under a museum map. Nancy Bobofit was whispering with her friends, still drenched.

When she saw me, she sneered, “Hope Mrs. Kerr straightened you out.”

“Who?” I blinked.

“Our teacher, genius.”

I stared at her. Mrs. Kerr? ¡¿Qué rayos?! We’d never had a teacher named that!

I told her, but she just rolled her eyes and kept whispering.

I walked over to Grover.

“Where’s Ms. Dodds?” I asked.

Grover went paler than paper.
“Who?” he said, looking away.

Something super weird was going on.

“This isn’t funny, dude,” I told him. “I’m serious.”

Thunder cracked overhead.

I glanced at Mr. Brunner—he was still there, calm as ever, reading his little book under his red umbrella.

I marched up to him.

He looked up, absentminded.

“Oh, my pen,” he said. “I would appreciate it, Miss Jackson, if next time you brought your own writing utensil.”

I handed it over, still shaking.

“Sir,” I said, trying to sound normal (whatever that was now), “where’s Ms. Dodds?”

He stared at me like I’d just asked about a unicorn.

“Who?”

“The other chaperone,” I said. “For Intro to Algebra.”

He frowned.

“Percy, there is no Ms. Dodds on this trip. As far as I know, there’s never been a Ms. Dodds at Yancy Academy. Are you feeling all right?”

I stood there in the drizzle, feeling like a soggy, abandoned sandwich on the sidewalk: squished, cold, and very clearly unloved.

What the actual heck was going on?

Had they all planned the prank of the century? Or was I actually, like, seriously losing it? I mean, sure, trouble concentrating was one thing…

But inventing a bat-winged demon teacher? That was, like, welcome-to-the-asylum-here’s-your-party-hat level.

I looked at Grover again, hoping to catch something—a smirk, a raised eyebrow, a guilty shrug that screamed “okay, ya nos cachaste”.

But nope.

Grover looked more uncomfortable than a cat in a bathtub. He fidgeted, crumpled his map like it was chewing gum, and avoided my eyes like I was Medusa.

And the worst part? That awkwardness… it was real.

A chill ran down my spine. Not the cold kind, the “you just stepped on slippery truth and your shoes are made of soap” kind.

I closed my eyes for a second.

Come on, Percy.

Not here. Don’t break down in public.

When I opened them again, Mr. Brunner was still there, under his umbrella, flipping pages like the museum was his living room and I was invisible.

I wanted to rip the book out of his hands and yell, “Old man, I’m not crazy! I saw what I saw!”

But something stopped me. Something louder than my rage: fear.

Fear that… maybe… I hadn’t seen anything at all.

Grover crept up to me like someone trying to pet a possibly rabid stray dog.

“Hey,” he murmured. “You’re probably just tired. This field trip’s been super long. Let’s just get on the bus, okay?”

I looked at him with full-on death-glare-loaded eyes, but deep down, I knew he was right. Screaming in the museum wasn’t gonna help.

I threw my backpack over my shoulder—my battle-worn sidekick full of books, crushed dreams, and, at that moment, a ham sandwich squished into an accordion—and dragged my feet behind him.

While we walked to the bus, I couldn’t get Mr. Brunner’s words out of my head:

“You must learn the answer to my question.”

“The one about real life.”

And for the first time ever, it hit me:
Real life might be way weirder, way scarier, and way more bananas than I ever imagined.

Or worse...
...I was two thunderbolts away from becoming Percy, Supreme Queen of Delusions.

Chapter 3: First Interlude: And Then The Sea Decided to Hate Me

The fight with Percy keeps echoing in my head like a stone that just won’t sink. My pride feels as twisted as my shirt after that last shove. I said things. Stupid things. Things I didn’t mean. But with her... it’s always the same.

Like speaking without a filter is just part of the ritual.

Instead of sleeping, I head straight to my safe place: the mansion’s private pool. It’s empty. Just the echo of the night, the still water... and this constant pang of guilt that refuses to let go.

I take off my shirt and dive in with a quick splash. Floating on my back, arms spread, I stare at the sky.

“I don’t get why she gets to me,” I mutter, letting the water wrap around me like a warm blanket. “She’s just a kid. A brat with those eyes that look at me like she knows me, without ever asking a single thing.”

I sigh and sink a little deeper.

And then, the water changes.

At first, it thickens—like I’m swimming through mercury, not water. Then, it moves. Not with waves. Not with wind. But like... like it has a will of its own.

“What the fuck…?” I murmur.

Something grabs my legs.

An invisible force yanks me down like a saltwater anchor bursting from the bottom. The pool, once shallow, now stretches into an endless abyss.

I try to swim up.

Nothing.

Every stroke is like punching through liquid cement.

And then… I see it.

Deep below, a figure.

Tall. Radiant. Holding a trident in one hand, wearing a look that doesn’t say “god.” It screams executioner.

Poseidon.

The sea made man. Oceanic wrath wrapped in a beard and old grudges.

His eyes are black voids—and they’re not here to judge. They’re here to destroy.

I try to scream, but all that escapes are bubbles.

I try to move... and Poseidon clenches his fist.

Pain hits instantly.

Like the water itself is crawling into my lungs. Like I’m being crushed from the inside out. My heart pounds so violently I hear it in my ears.

Why? I think. What did I do?

But no answer comes.

Just the bone-deep certainty: he wants me dead.

And then—just like that—the water shifts again. A current slams into me, hurling me upward like the sea itself wants me gone.

I crash onto the edge of the pool, gasping, shaking, soaked to the bone, every muscle locked up like stone.

“What… was that?” I whisper, staring at the now-still water.

No waves. No wind. No Poseidon.

But I know.

The message was clear:

Don’t come near her again.

And the worst part?

Near who?

Chapter 4: The Old Ladies with the Broken Thread

I was kinda used to having weird experiences once in a while, but usually, they passed quickly, like those middle school crushes. This hallucination 24/7, though, was too much even for me.

For the rest of the semester, it felt like the whole school had conspired to drive me crazy. The teachers, the students, even the janitor! They all acted like Mrs. Kerr — a bubbly blonde I had never seen before, who just calmly boarded the bus at the end of the field trip — had been our algebra teacher since Christmas. ¿Perdón?

Every now and then, I’d bring up Mrs. Dodds’ name just to see if someone would slip up. But nothing. They looked at me like I had said hamburgers could talk. And I started to doubt myself. I almost believed them.

Almost.

Because Grover couldn’t fool me. Every time I mentioned "Dodds," his internet connection would cut out for a second. He’d blink strangely and then swear she never existed. Uh-huh. Rookie liar.

Something had happened at the museum. I could feel it in my bones. But I didn’t have much time to think about it during the day; I was too busy surviving classes, homework, and school drama. But at night... oh, at night came the nightmares. I’d wake up sweating, seeing Mrs. Dodds turning into a monster, with claws and bat wings, like Freddy Krueger’s twin sister who had a college degree.

On top of that, the weather was crazier than me. One night, a storm hit so hard it shattered the windows in my room. Then, a tornado zipped by just eighty kilometers away from Yancy Academy, and that made the news in Social Studies. We also saw that year there had been a bunch of plane crashes in the Atlantic. Coincidences... right.

I became a mini emo version of myself. Moody, sarcastic, and with my grades falling faster than my chances of surviving high school. I fought more with Nancy Bobofit and her clones, and ended up being sent to the hallway more times than I can count on my fingers — and toes.

Then one day, Mr. Nicoll, fed up with my lack of enthusiasm for his beloved dictations, asked me for the umpteenth time why I didn’t study. I snapped, “¡Porque usted es un viejo ebrio!” I didn’t even know exactly what it meant, but it sounded offensive enough to make me feel satisfied.

A week later, the letter arrived at my mom’s hands. Official: Percy Jackson, expelled again. The next year? No chance I was going back to Yancy.

And I was totally fine with it. Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself. Deep down, all I really wanted was to go home with my mom. Even if it meant going back to the Upper East Side, attending a public school, and cruzarme con Santos.

Yes, that Santos. Remember when I told you about breaking his nose? Well, the result was that my mom had to negotiate with his family, work for them in their mansion, and on top of that, we had to move into the annex apartment on the top floor to wait on them like royalty.

Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Santos spent more time at his fancy private school and in expensive summer camps than at home. And when he was home, at least his Aunt Sofia was around. Unlike him and the rest of his snobby family, I got along great with her. Every time I got expelled (which was basically every year), she’d ask for my help with things like organizing her books or picking out clothes, and she’d pay me anywhere between five hundred to a thousand dollars for being so nice. It was like being her mini personal assistant, with a good salary and zero stress.

Thanks to her, who refused to speak to me in anything but Mexican Spanish, I learned to speak it as if it were my first language. In fact, once, she saved me from getting mugged on the bus. True story.

Still, there were things I’d miss about Yancy. The view of the woods from my window, the Hudson in the distance, the smell of pine trees when it rained... And, of course, I’d miss Grover. He was kinda weird, yeah, but a good guy. I was worried about how he’d survive without me next year. And I was also going to miss Latin class. Mr. Brunner’s craziness, his weird contests, and that strange faith he had in me... like he knew something I didn’t.

Finals were coming up, and I only studied for Latin. Brunner had said that subject was a matter of life or death, and though I didn’t know exactly why... it was starting to sound pretty logical.

The afternoon before the exam, I got so nervous that I threw my Cambridge Guide to Greek Mythology across the room. The words weren’t words anymore; they were acrobatics, flips, spins... a mess. How was I supposed to remember who Chiron was and who Charon was? Polydectes or Polydeuces? It all sounded like names of legendary Pokémon!

I paced the room like I had ants in my clothes. I thought about Mr. Brunner’s gaze, so intense, so I-see-your-soul.

“I will only accept the best from you, Percy Jackson.”

I sighed and picked up the book. Maybe if I asked for his help... he might even give me a clue. And I could apologize for what was going to be a disastrous exam. I didn’t want to leave Yancy with him thinking I didn’t even try.

I headed down to the offices. They were almost all dark and empty, but Brunner’s door was slightly ajar, with light filtering out into the hallway. I got closer. I was just three steps away when... I heard voices.

Brunner asked something, and I heard Grover’s unmistakable voice:

"... I’m worried about Percy, sir."

It was Grover.

Wham! I froze.

I don’t usually eavesdrop (well, not much), but come on... who wouldn’t do it if you heard your teacher and best friend talking about you behind your back?

I sneaked closer. Step by step.

"... just this summer". Grover was saying. "A Erinyes at school! And they know..."

"If we push her, it’ll only make things worse", Brunner replied. "We need her to mature more."

"But she might not have time. The solstice..."

"We’ll have to figure it out without Percy. Let her enjoy her ignorance while she can."

Ignorance? What were they talking about?

"She saw it!", Grover said.

"It was just her imagination", Brunner replied. "The mist will convince the students and staff".

"Sir, I... I can’t fail again..." Grover sounded like he was about to cry. "You know what that would mean."

"You haven’t failed, Grover", Brunner said softly. "I should’ve realized what it was sooner. Now, the important thing is to keep Percy alive... until next fall."

Keep me alive? ¿¡Qué!?

Boom! The book fell from my hands. My heart was about to jump out of my chest. I picked it up, backed away... and saw a shadow.

Something—bigger than Brunner—moved behind the glass, with something that looked like a bow in its hands.

I ran. I ducked into an empty room and stood still, holding my breath.

A few seconds later, I heard the sound of soft hooves, clop, clop, clop. And sniffing... right outside the door. A dark figure stood there, then continued its way.

Sweat was dripping down my neck.

Then I heard Brunner speak again:

"Nothing... my nerves haven’t been the same since the winter solstice."

"Mine neither", Grover murmured. "But I could’ve sworn..."

"Go back to your dorm", Brunner ordered. "Tomorrow’s a big day of exams."

"Don’t remind me."

The light in the office went out.

I waited, as if an eternity had passed, before daring to leave. I went back to my room. Grover was lying in bed, pretending to study as if he hadn’t just been conspiring with Agent Brunner five minutes ago.

"Hey",l he said, half asleep. "Ready for the exam?"

I didn’t answer.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Everything okay?"

"I'm just... tired."

I turned so he wouldn’t see my face. I climbed into bed.

I didn’t quite understand what I had just overheard. I wanted to think it was all just my imagination... but there was one thing crystal clear:

Grover and Brunner knew something.

And I was caught up in something much bigger than my terrible spelling grades.

---

The next afternoon, I walked out of the three-hour Latin exam with my brain feeling like mashed papas. All those Greek and Roman names were floating around in my head like alphabet soup, and I’m pretty sure I spelled every single one wrong. I was just stepping out the door when Mr. Brunner called my name.

For a second, my stomach did this twisty, freaky thing. I thought maybe he’d found out I’d overheard him and Grover talking the night before... but nope. Not that.

“Percy,” he said, all gentle and wise-sounding, “don’t be discouraged about leaving Yancy. It’s... for the best.”

He said it like he was giving me some deep, ancient wisdom, but to me it sounded exactly like cuando te cortan con una sonrisa bien falsa. And he wasn’t whispering or anything—everyone coming out of the exam could hear him loud and clear. Nancy Bobofit shot me one of her bruja-level smirks and blew me some fake kissy faces that made me wanna sneeze on her face. Con ganas.

“Sure, sir,” I mumbled, wishing I could just disappear into the floor or teletransportarme, no sé.

“What I mean is...” He started rocking his wheelchair back and forth, like he didn’t really know what he meant either. “You see, this wasn’t the right place for you. It was only a matter of time.”

¡Auch! That one hit hard. Like, burn-level hard.

This was my favorite teacher. The only one who had told me all year he believed in me. And now he was basically saying I didn’t measure up. Like it was some kind of talent show and I’d just flopped in front of the whole jury. ¡Qué oso!

“Right,” I said, my voice kinda shaky.

“No, that’s not it at all. You’re misunderstanding me,” he rushed, clearly frustrated. “What I’m trying to say is... you’re not normal, Percy. And there’s nothing wrong with—uh—”

“¡Gracias!” I snapped. “Thank you so much, señor, for reminding me of that.”

“Percy...”

But I was already walking away.

---

The last day of the term, I packed my stuff with the enthusiasm of a rock. The other kids were joking around, all excited, bragging about their super wow vacation plans—one was going hiking in Switzerland, another was going on a month-long Caribbean cruise... You know, your typical “juvenile delinquents,” but, like, Versace edition. Their parents were CEOs, ambassadors, or some of those famosillos that show up in expensive magazines.

Me? I was just a total nobody, fresh out of a family of even more nobodies.

When someone asked what I was doing over the summer, I just said I was going back to the city. Obvio I didn’t mention I’d be trying to get a job walking dogs or selling... ay, cómo se dice... oh! subscriptions, and spending my afternoons stressing about whether I’d find a school that’d take me for the fall.

I even thought maybe I could sell Alicia’s clothes—Santos’ older sister. That girl literally never wore the same thing twice because, according to her, “eso es de pobres.” Her closet was so massive it looked like a suburban house. Not even in my Los Sims game had I seen that much clothing in one place. Ni en modo trampa, ¿eh?

“Ah,” one of the rich kids said, trying way too hard to sound cool. “That’s... neat.”

And just like that, they went back to talking among themselves like I was invisible.
Classic.

---

The only person I really didn’t want to say goodbye to was Grover.
But turns out, I didn’t have to—he’d booked a ticket on the same Greyhound bus as me! So there we were, heading back to Manhattan. But the whole ride, Grover kept scanning the aisle like he was some kind of FBI agent. He stared at every single passenger like he was waiting for one of them to turn into a monster or something.

And that’s when I realized: he always got like this when we left Yancy. I used to think he was just scared people would make fun of him... but hello, no one on that bus looked brave enough to bully a sock.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

"You’re looking for Benévolas, right?"

Grover jumped so hard he nearly fell off his seat.
"What... what did you say?"

I told him I’d heard him and Mr. Brunner talking the night before the exam.

His eyelid twitched. True story.
"What exactly did you hear?", he asked, all low and nervous.

"Oh, no mucho. Just something about a 'summer solstice deadline'. What even is that?"

Grover winced like he’d just gotten a cramp in his soul.
"Look, Percy… I was just worried about you, okay? Y’know, ‘cause of the whole demon-teacher hallucination thing..."

"Grover..."

"I told Mr. Brunner maybe it was stress or something, since, ya know, there’s no such person as Mrs. Dodds and—"

"Grover, you’d make a terrible liar. Like, you wouldn’t even get cast in a low-budget telenovela."

His ears turned the color of cherry Jell-O. He pulled out this grimy, crumpled business card from his shirt pocket.

"Here. In case you need me this summer."

The font was so bad my dyslexic brain almost gave up, but I finally made it out:

Grover Underwood
Protector
Camp Half-Blood
Long Island, New York
(800) 009-0009

"What's 'Camp Hal-'?

Don’t say it out loud!" he whispered, panicking. "It’s... it’s my summer address."

¿Perdón? Summer address? Grover had a vacation home and didn’t tell me? I thought his family was like mine—broke AF. Never in my life had I imagined he had more privileges than me.

"Cool", I said, trying not to sound as salty as I felt. "Sounds like an invite to your summer mansion or something."

He nodded, all serious.

"Or... in case you need me.

"Why would I need you?" I snapped, harsher than I meant to.

Grover swallowed like he’d just eaten a rock.
"Well... the truth is, I kinda... um... I’m supposed to protect you."

I stared at him, super confundida. All year I had been the one defending him. I had his back, I made sure no one picked on him. I even lost sleep worrying about the guy. And now he thinks he’s my bodyguard?

"Grover", I said, squinting at him, "what exactly do you think you're protecting me from?"

And that’s when the bus screeched so hard I almost face-planted into the seat in front of me. There was this metallic screech, and suddenly black, stinky smoke started billowing out of the dashboard. The driver said a bunch of curse words (some I’d never even heard before, and I grew up in la ciudad, okay?), then managed to pull the Greyhound over.

He jumped out like his pants were on fire and started poking and smacking the engine. After a few minutes of fighting with some cables, he yelled that we had to get off the bus.

We were in the middle of nada. Literal nothing. One of those roads even GPS doesn’t bother with. On our side: trees, maple, and trash. Like, lots of trash. The kind people throw out like the forest is their backyard. Across the four-lane road, shimmering with heat, there was a tiny fruit stand that looked straight out of an old-timey commercial.

And I’m not talking just any stand. No, señor. There were boxes of cherries so red they looked suspicious, shiny apples, nuts, apricots, and jars of cider that probably smelled better than Yancy’s dining hall ever did. In the center? A claw-foot bathtub. Full of ice. Yeah. A bathtub. Random.com.

There weren’t any customers. Just three old ladies sitting on rocking chairs like they were on their porch watching telenovelas. And get this—they were knitting the biggest socks I had ever seen. Like, mammoth-size. One lady did one sock, the other did the other, and the one in the middle just held this giant basket of electric blue yarn.

They looked straight out of a horror story. Wrinkly pale faces like dried prunes, white hair tied with ribbons, and skinny arms sticking out of robes that looked older than the pyramids.

And then I noticed—they were looking at me. All three. Dead-on. Like I was the only channel on and they didn’t wanna change it.

I turned to say something to Grover... and saw him. His face was the color of plain yogurt, and his nose was twitching like crazy.

"Grover?" I asked, kinda worried. "Hey..."

"Tell me they’re not looking at you. Please, tell me they’re not looking at you."

"Uh... they are. Why? ¿No crees que me vería chula con esos calcetines gigantes?"

"It’s not funny, Percy. Not funny at all."

Then the lady in the middle pulled out this HUGE pair of scissors. Like, gold and silver and long enough to prune a tree. Grover gasped like he’d just swallowed a fly.

"Get on the bus," he said, trembling. "NOW."

"What? It’s like a thousand degrees in there! We’re gonna melt—"

"I SAID GET ON THE BUS!"

He was already halfway up the steps before I could argue.
But I... I stayed. I couldn’t move.

Across the road, the old ladies still stared. And then, it happened: the one in the middle cut the thread. And I swear on everything I love—even my old pink iPod—that I heard the snip, right over the traffic noise.

The other two rolled up the socks like they were wrapping a gift for, I dunno, Bigfoot? Godzilla?

At the back of the bus, the driver yanked a smoking piece of metal out of the engine and turned the key. The bus shook like it was getting electrocuted—and then, it roared to life.
Everyone clapped like we were at halftime.

"Stupid junkheap!" the driver yelled, whacking the bus with his hat. "EVERYBODY ON!"

As the bus started moving again, I felt awful. Like I had heatstroke plus the flu plus a big ol’ this-is-so-not-okay vibe. Grover wasn’t doing any better. He was trembling like a jelly during an earthquake and his teeth were chattering.

"Grover..."

"Yeah?"

"What aren’t you telling me?"

He wiped his forehead with his sleeve like even his soul was sweating.

"Percy... what did you see at the fruit stand?"

"You mean the old ladies? What about them? They’re not like Mrs. Dodds, right?"

His face turned into a whole Greek tragedy. Not the cute kind. The nightmare kind.

"Tell me exactly what you saw," he said.

"Well... the one in the middle took out scissors. And cut the thread."

Grover closed his eyes and made this weird hand sign. Not a cross, nothing I knew. Just... something ancient. Gave me goosebumps.

"You saw her cut the yarn?"

"Yeah. Why?"

But even as I said it... I already knew. I felt it. Something was super, super wrong.

"I hope this isn’t happening," Grover whispered, biting his thumb. "I really hope this isn’t like last time..."

"What last time?"

"Always sixth grade. They never get past sixth."

"Grover," I said, throat tight, "what the hell are you talking about?"

"Let me walk you home. Promise me."

It was a weird request. But I nodded.

"Okay. I promise."

"Is... is this like a superstition or something?" I asked.

Grover didn’t answer. He was silent, like his thoughts were too heavy to speak.

"Grover... that yarn the old lady cut… does it mean someone’s gonna die?"

He looked at me like he was already picking out flowers for my funeral.

Chapter 5: Second Interlude – Lobster, Tension, and Christmas Hatred with a Golden Bow

Christmas Eve, 2002. The Santos Mansion.

The dining room looks like it was ripped straight out of a luxury magazine — golden ornaments at the center of the table, warm lights, string music in the background... everything shines with a kind of over-the-top opulence that honestly feels more like a stage set than a family home.

And there, right in the middle of that endless Christmas table, like she has no idea the emotional chaos she’s stirring up, sits Percy Jackson.

She’s wearing clothes that are clearly borrowed, her braid is uneven, and her face screams she’d rather be eating a torta de tamal on a street corner than sitting here surrounded by porcelain dishes and people who talk like they’re chewing gold.

She helps herself to lobster like she knows it costs a fortune. Like she dares the whispers from Aunt Magdalena about "poorly raised girls who don’t know how to use a knife and fork" to say something to her face. Like Alicia’s death glare is background noise at best.

I watch her from my end of the table, trapped between adults who smell like old money and inflated egos.

I don’t eat. I just watch.

And with every move she makes — every bite, every quick glance at the shrimp, every mocking little smirk she throws at the staff — something in my chest tightens. Like I’m watching a storm disguised as a girl.

Then the wine arrives.

One of the servants approaches with a gleaming tray.

"Señorito Abelardo," he says with a slight bow. "From the guest of honor."

The glass is crystal. The wine, deep red — like melted rubies. No one says who this "guest of honor" is, but I don’t need to be Athena’s kid to know something is very wrong.

I take the glass. Hold it up. There's... a strange smell. Something salty.

"¿Vino del mar...?" I murmur.

Silena, sitting a few seats down, catches my eye and makes a subtle gesture — something between be careful and it’s your call.

And me, with my signature Olympic-level stubbornness, I take a sip.

And the world closes in.

Not like when you get drunk. No.

More like when you're drowning.

The liquid slides down my throat like a living wave. Salty. Viscous. Burning. It catches in my airway — I cough, I choke, I spit — but I can’t stop it.

"What the hell…?!"

It’s like the ocean is inside me now.

My lungs burn. My vision blurs. I can’t breathe.

And then I see him.

Not in front of me.

In the reflection of the wine glass.

Faint. Blurred. A flash of white beard and eyes that churn like a sea storm.

Poseidon.

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t move.

He just watches me from the bottom of that wine like he’s daring me to swallow the whole ocean and live.

I stand up so fast I knock the glass over. The wine splashes across the tablecloth. Every head turns toward me.

"You okay?" Silena asks softly, already halfway out of her chair.

I’m gasping, knuckles white as I grip the table.

"I don’t know," I mutter. "It felt like I just wrestled a wave."

"What did they give you?"

"I don’t know. But someone hates me."

"You know why?"

I grit my teeth.

"No. And it’s driving me insane."

---

Later that night, out in the garden, while the adults toast like everything’s perfect, Percy strolls past me, sipping on a mandarin sorbet. She’s got that look — the smug, quiet satisfaction of a girl who just won a secret war no one else noticed.

"Nice dive at the table," she says, not even looking at me.

I turn toward her, my mouth drier than the Sahara.

"Did you enjoy the lobster?"

She nods.

"And you?"

I want to say no. I really do.

But then I catch her smile.

And I get it — the bitterness in my mouth tonight has nothing to do with the wine.

It’s about the emotional tide she stirs up just by existing.

And about the sea god who, for some reason, wants to see me drown.

Literally.

Chapter 6: Grover is a half donkey?!

Okay, time to confess: I ditched Grover the moment we got to the bus terminal.

I know, I know, ni al caso, it was a terrible move. But he was driving me nuts. He kept looking at me like I was already dead and mumbling stuff like, “Why does this always happen?” and “Why does it have to be in sixth grade?”

And when Grover gets nervous... well, so does his bladder. So I wasn’t even surprised when, as soon as we got off the bus, he begged me to wait while he went for an emergency pee break.

Spoiler: I didn’t wait.

I grabbed my suitcase, slipped away quietly, and took the first cab I could find heading north.

“To the East Side, One Hundred and Fourth Street with First Avenue,” I told the driver, trying to sound like a super independent twelve-year-old.

Now... before you meet my mom, let me tell you a few things.

Her name is Sally Jackson and she is, no kidding, the kindest person in the whole freaking universe. Which only proves my theory that the most amazing people are also the ones with the worst luck.

Her parents died in a plane crash when she was five, and she got stuck with an uncle who treated her more like a burden than a niece. She dreamed of becoming a writer—a real novelist—so she spent all of high school working like crazy to save up and study creative writing in college.

But pum, her uncle got cancer, and she had to give everything up to take care of him. When he died, she was left with no family, no money, and no high school diploma.

The only bright spot in that whole mess? Meeting my dad.

And here's where things get mysterious…

I don’t have any clear memories of him. Just this warm feeling, like maybe his smile hugged me once. My mom almost never talks about him because it still breaks her heart. And no, there's not a single photo. Nada. Cero visual evidence.

According to her, he was important, rich, and their relationship was... secret. One day, he sailed off to the Atlantic on some important mission and just... never came back.

Not dead, according to her. Just... lost at sea. And the way she says it? Like she really believes he’s still out there somewhere, between the waves.

After that, Mom did the impossible: worked whatever job she could find, went to night school to finish her GED, and somehow managed to raise me all by herself.

She never complained. Never yelled at me, not even when I was a total disaster.

But of course, life isn’t some cheesy romantic comedy. Everything fell apart when—remember?—I broke Santos’s nose and the medical bill was so long it probably reached Jupiter.

That’s when Esteban Santos, Santos’s dad (yep, that guy), offered my mom a deal. And guess what? She said yes. Which is how we ended up living in his mansion. Because obvio, that always goes great... spoiler alert: it didn’t.

Just one week in the Santos house and I knew the whole family was your classic religious-traditional-hypocritical combo.

The worst of them all? Daniela Santos, aka Señorita Pataleta. That lady was convinced my mom and I were there so I could be turned into the perfect wife for her precious son. Like... what?! That’s not even a valid life plan for a twelve-year-old. Qué miedo.

Thank the gods her sister Sofía was actually sweet and tried to defend us... though sometimes even she couldn’t stop the human tantrum that was Ms. Pataleta from going full meltdown.

The first time I saw her throw a fit, I knew I had to name her that: Señorita Pataleta. I mean, come on. The name fit her better than her designer shoes.

She and I? Total chaos. Like, Team Disaster. Which, of course, made everything harder for my mom.

Coming back home proved that. I snuck in through the garden hoping to find Mom resting, or cooking, or just existing, but nope.

The first thing I saw? Señorita Pataleta sitting like some evil queen from a period drama, sipping tea with her friends. Right next to her: Alicia—Regina George 2.0—pouting because, apparently, her credit card had been taken away again as punishment. Drama queen level: expert.

There was this giant table in the middle of the garden, full of food—like, enough to feed a whole middle school for a month. But obviously, only five percent would actually be eaten, and the rest would be “donated” to the staff. With luck.

As I walked past, I started drooling at all those ridiculously expensive seafood dishes. And it’s not like I eat that stuff on the regular, okay? The only time I’ve had lobster was thanks to Señorita Perfect insisting I go to that ridiculous Christmas party in 2002 as her son's date.

That party was more boring than a documentary without a narrator… but uff, the lobster. Worth it.

When she saw me, Señorita Pataleta didn’t even flinch. Just raised one perfectly waxed eyebrow and said, in this fake-sweet voice that gave me goosebumps (the bad kind):

"¡Pero miren quién llegó! ¡Qué sorpresa tan linda!" She patted the empty seat next to her like she was Snow White’s evil stepmother in a good mood.

I walked over slowly, knowing full well this was a trap... but hey, the show must go on.

“Come, dear, sit with us. We were just talking about you,” she said, offering me a linen napkin all lady-like, as if she hadn’t treated me like wallpaper for the last six months.

I didn’t say a word. Just smiled, sat down like a little angel straight out of a cereal commercial... and served myself a giant portion of lobster. Because let’s be real: this might be the last time I get to eat something this fancy without having to wash twenty plates and polish three chandeliers afterward.

Regina George 2.0 shot me a look like I’d just farted in her perfume store. She wrinkled her nose and snapped:

"Is she seriously sitting here? Mom, for real? The serfdom has their place..."

“¡Alicia!” Señorita Pataleta cut her off, still smiling like a Disney villain. “That’s enough. Perséfone will be your sister-in-law soon. Let’s not say ugly things in front of our guests.”

Perséfone.

Yep. That’s the name she insisted on calling me, because, according to her: “It sounds so much more elegant than... what was it? Perseo?”

And the saddest part? She didn’t even bother learning it right.

I took a deep breath, adjusted myself in the chair with my best niña buena de misa posture, and as everyone laughed at some boring joke about Europe trips or caviar prices (so relatable, right?), I leaned just enough for Regina George 2.0 to see me...

And I stuck out my tongue. Super discreetly.

Satisfaction level: Evil Queen in training.

---

The lunch was... wow. Like, ridiculously delicious.

I honestly couldn’t tell you how long it lasted. Between the mountain of fancy dishes, those magazine-worthy desserts, the sugary coos and fake compliments Miss Perfecta’s amigas —who clearly shared like... one brain cell between all of them— and Regina George 2.0’s non-stop drama queen-level complaints, the day slipped by and suddenly... boom, it was nighttime. I didn’t even realize it.

I ate so much I swear I hit the worst food coma in the history of food comas. As soon as I stepped into the house and dropped my suitcase in the hallway, I launched myself onto the couch and died. Well, not died-died, obviously. More like a post-Olympic feast level coma. You get it.

When I opened my eyes the next morning, I was in my room, wearing my pajamas and feeling like I’d time-traveled. Still half-asleep, I stumbled my way to the dining room... and there it was: breakfast waiting on the table like a gift from the gods. Blue pancakes with eggs and bacon.

Almost cried, not gonna lie.

Weirdly, there wasn’t a note from Mom —you know, her usual “Sorry, can’t stay for breakfast, te amo”— but whatever. I didn’t overthink it. I grabbed my plate, flopped down on the couch, turned on the TV and put on The Smurfs. (Ultimate comfort show, unlocked.)

And then I heard it—like someone had cranked the volume up on my heart:

“¿Percy?”

She opened the door and just like that, all my worries melted away.

My mom has this magical power, I swear. The moment she walks into a room, everything feels okay. Her eyes shine like they’re made of starlight or something, and they change color depending on the light—sometimes greenish, sometimes gray. Her smile is warm, like one of those grandma-knitted blankets that make you feel safe.

She’s got a few silver strands in her long brown hair, but I’ve never seen her as old. When she looks at me, it’s like she only sees the best parts, like the messy stuff doesn’t even exist. I’ve never heard her raise her voice, never heard her say anything mean—not to me, not even to Santos (ugh, that guy).

“Oh, mi Percy…” she said, hugging me so tight I thought my spine would crack. “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown since Christmas!”

Her red, white, and blue uniform from the mansion’s kitchen smelled like all the best things in the universe—chocolate, licorice, and those other fancy treats Regina George 2.0 always sneaks behind her parents’ backs. And as always, Mom had brought me “free samples,” her secret code for I miss you. I love you. Here’s some legal sugar.

We curled up on the couch together. While I devoured the sour blueberry strips like they were the only food on Earth, she gently stroked my hair and asked me about everything I hadn’t written in my letters.

She didn’t mention the expulsion. Not even once.
Like it didn’t matter.
Like the only thing that mattered was that I was home, eating with her.

And me? Was I okay? Was her little girl holding it together?

I told her not to worry, to chill, to stop being so intense... but the truth?
The real truth?

I was happier than a cat with a brand new cardboard box.
Because nothing in this entire messed up world compares to having your mom right next to you.

Then the radio turned on. Loud and clear.
Miss Anneth’s voice came through the speakers, calling for my mom and instantly ruining the perfect moment.

Mom answered right away. I figured she must’ve taken time off work just to come see me… until I heard Mrs. Anneth apologizing for interrupting her at the start of her vacation and explaining they needed her help with lunch prep.

I froze.

Wait, what?

And then I heard the name of one of the dishes they needed her for and my stomach turned.
That dish. That evil dish.

I frowned, super disgustada. And the reason? Obvious. That dish was only made for one person in that house: Santos.

I’d tried it once, when I was like... ten. La Señorita Pataleta had offered it to me like it was some great honor. I’d barely taken two bites before my mouth caught fire and my stomach straight-up rebelled. It was so spicy, I didn’t even make it to the bathroom—I puked all over her perfect linen tablecloth.

Naturally, she lost it.
Started scolding me like I’d done it on purpose, like I was the problem.
And there I was, retching up my soul in front of the entire dinner party.

Thankfully, her sister Sofía had stepped in, scolded her back, and took me to the family doctor.

Just remembering it made my jaw clench—you know that grinding noise? That one I do when I’m about to explode. Yeah, that one. I didn’t even try to hide it.

Of course, Mom noticed right away.

When the call ended, she turned to me with her usual sunshine smile and said:

“I’m on vacation, Percy. I asked for it this morning,” she said casually. “Right before Esteban went off to ‘work.’”
She even added a little wink after saying “work.”

I caught it—that classic euphemism wink of hers—but didn’t press.

Then she lit up and said, “I have a surprise for you.”

My eyes went wide. Like... unicorn-level wide.

“What?” I asked, trying to play it cool even though my heart was basically doing backflips.

“We’re going to the beach.”

And boom.
Her smile was so bright I swear it could’ve powered a small city.

¡La playa!

My eyes went even wider, and I gasped so loud I almost swallowed a blueberry whole.

“To Montauk?” I asked, my eyes practically doing cartwheels.

“Three nights, same cabin,” Mom said like it was no big deal—pero obvio it was a big deal. A huge one.

“When?” I asked, already bouncing like I had springs in my shoes. And okay, maybe part excitement... and part ¿cómo se dice... ah, sí! nerves. Because it felt too good to be true.

Mom smiled even more, which was wild, because she was already smiling like I was her favorite person on Earth. Then she said it, so casually it made me blink twice:

“As soon as I finish work.”

No manches. I couldn’t believe it.

We hadn’t gone to Montauk the last two summers—her job always got in the way. But now... Montauk! The beach, the boardwalk, those ridiculously huge ice creams… It was like the perfect escape button had finally been pressed.

I launched myself into her arms.

“¡Gracias, gracias, gracias! This is gonna be epic.”

And in that exact moment, I just knew—even if things were weirder than a telenovela plot twist—at least I’d get three whole days to be just a twelve-year-old girl at the beach. No Santos drama. No emergency calls. No creepy grandmas knitting monster-sized socks.

Just sun, sand, and full-on Percy Jackson-style adventures.

---

An hour later, we were ready to leave. The kitchen staff took a break from their routine to help us load our bags into the Santos’ Ford Transit. I thought it was kinda weird that they lent us the van, since it was usually just for the cleaning crew, but whatever... I wasn’t about to make a big deal out of it.

The cooks were all grumbling because we were leaving, and Miss Anneth—who always helped me when she had a free moment, and we even watched soap operas together when there was nothing to do—looked super sad. You could see it on her face.

I hopped into the Ford, glanced at my mom, and said, “Písale, ma!”

I knew things weren’t perfect, but at least we had left the chaos behind.

Our bungalow was at the southern tip of Long Island. It was a tiny little house, painted in pastel colors, with faded curtains and half-buried among the dunes. There was always sand in the sheets, a random little spider in the corners... and the sea, always cold, but I loved it.

We’d been going there since I was little, and my mom, even before that. She never said it outright, but I knew why the place was so special to her: it was where she met my dad.

As we got closer to Montauk, my mom started looking younger, like the years of hard work and worries were melting away. Her eyes sparkled with the colors of the sea, and for a second, she looked like a much younger version of herself.

We arrived at sunset, opened the windows, and began the classic welcome-cleaning routine. Then we took a walk on the beach, tossing blue popcorn to the seagulls, eating blue gummies, blue chewy candies, and all kinds of blue treats my mom had brought as "free samples" from the store where she worked.

And now that I think about it... I should probably explain the whole blue food thing.

It turns out Gabe, my mom’s ex, once told her there was no such thing as blue food. It was a totally dumb fight, like, low-level soap opera drama. Ever since then, Mom became obsessed with everything blue: she made blue birthday cakes, blueberry smoothies, bought blue corn nachos... even the gum had to be blue! It was like her little rebellion against the world... or more like, against Gabe.

By nightfall, we had a bonfire. We roasted sausages and marshmallows while Mom told me stories about her childhood, before her parents died in a plane crash. She also talked about the books she wanted to write one day, if she could ever save up enough money to quit the candy shop.

And that’s when I gathered the courage to ask her the question I’d been dying to ask since we arrived:

" Mom… what was my dad like?"

"Mom… what was my dad like?"

Her eyes started to water, and even though I thought she'd say the usual, I honestly never got tired of hearing it.

"He was kind, Percy," she told me. "Tall, handsome, and strong. But also very gentle. You have his black hair, you know, and those big green eyes. I wish I could see you, Percy. He would be so proud of you…"

I kept thinking: proud of what? A hyperactive, dyslexic girl with bad grades and expelled from school for the sixth time? Yeah, sure!

"How old was he when… he left?" I asked, hesitating.

My mom stared at the flames, as if searching for something very old in her memory.

"He was with me for just one summer, Percy. Right here, on this beach. In this little cabin."

"But did he meet me? I mean, when I was a baby?"

"No, sweetie," she replied softly. "He knew I was pregnant, but he never saw you. He had to leave before you were born."

That hit me like a punch in the gut. I always thought he had met me, that I at least had a blurry memory of his smile, like a warm light. But now... now she was telling me he’d never seen me.

And I don’t know why, but I felt a knot in my chest. I blamed him. I know, super silly, but it felt like he had just left us hanging. He went off to sea, didn’t marry my mom, and now we were tangled up with the Santos… all because of me.

"Are you going to send me away again?" I asked in a small voice. "To another boarding school?"

My mom pulled a marshmallow out of the fire and stared at it, like she was looking for answers in it.

"I don’t know, my love," she said seriously. "I think... we might have to do something different."

"Because you don’t want me around?" I said, and regretted it the second I let it out.

Her eyes filled with tears. She took my hand tightly, like she was trying to tell me a thousand things without saying a word.

"Oh, Percy, don’t say that. I... I have to do this. For your own good. I have to send you away."

And then it hit me, what Mr. Brunner had said... that maybe it would be better to leave Yancy.

"Because I’m not normal," I whispered.

"You say that like it’s a bad thing, Percy," my mom said, with a look that was both sad and proud. "But you don’t know how important you are. I thought Yancy was far enough. I thought you’d be safe there."

"Safe from what?" I asked, feeling like my head was going to explode.

We stared at each other, and bam, like in a movie, all those strange memories I always tried to forget started flooding back.

Like third grade, when a guy in a trench coat chased me around the playground. The teachers told him to leave or they'd call the cops, and he grumbled off. But no one believed me when I said he had only one eye in the middle of his forehead.

Or that time in preschool, when they accidentally put me down for a nap in a crib with a snake. My mom arrived just as I was playing with it like it was a jump rope.

Weird stuff always happened in every school. And that’s why we had to keep moving.

I wanted to tell her about the old ladies at the fruit stand, about Mrs. Dodds, about how I went crazy and thought I had a magic sword... but no. I felt like if I said anything, our little getaway to Montauk would be over. And I didn’t want that.

"I’ve tried to keep you with me as long as possible," she said. "They warned me it was a mistake. But there’s only one option left, Percy: the place your father wanted to send you.

And I... I can’t stand the thought of it."

"My dad wanted me to go to a special school?"

"It’s not a school. It’s a summer camp."

A what? My dad — who hadn’t even stayed to see me born — talked to my mom about a camp? And now she was telling me about it?

"I’m sorry, Percy," she said, seeing my face of what the heck? "I can’t talk about it. Maybe... maybe it would have meant saying goodbye to you forever."

"Forever? But it’s just a camp…"

She turned toward the fire, and the look on her face made it clear that if I pushed any further, she’d start crying.

---

That night, I had an ultramega real dream. A storm was raging over the beach. A white horse and a golden eagle were totally going at it in the waves. The eagle was scratching the horse’s snout with its claws; the horse was kicking at the eagle’s wings. The ground shook, and a monstrous voice was laughing from the depths, urging them to fight even more viciously.

I ran toward them, knowing I had to stop them, but it felt like running in jelly. Everything was so slow. I screamed: "¡Nooo!"

Just as the eagle was about to gouge out the horse’s eyes.

I woke up with my heart racing.

And outside—boom—there was a real storm. Crazy winds, lightning, waves like sea monsters.

My mom also jumped up, sitting up in bed, eyes wide open, and said: "A hurricane."

A what? That didn’t make sense! Hurricanes don’t hit Long Island in the summer. But clearly, the weather was like, "I don’t care about your rules."

And then, through the thunder and howling wind, I heard a banging at the door. Someone was outside. Someone who couldn’t wait.

My mom got up in her nightgown, opened the door, and… there was Grover, soaking wet, looking like he was in full-on panic mode. But it wasn’t exactly Grover.

"I’ve been looking for you all night!" he gasped. "How could you leave without me!?"

My mom went pale. Not because of Grover… but because of what his appearance meant.

"Percy!" she shouted. "What happened at school? What didn’t you tell me?"

I froze. Because Grover… Grover didn’t have legs. Well, yeah, he had legs, but they weren’t human.

"O Zeu kai alloi theoi!" Grover shouted, and I understood him. I understood him in ancient Greek.

¡¿Qué chingados estaba pasando?!

And then it all clicked: his way of walking, his “muscle pain,” his ability to run like he had rockets on his feet...

He didn’t have feet.

He had hooves.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Percy Jackson and the Cursed God.