The Lightning Thief: The Graphic Novel, Page 2

I didn’t know what she was talking about.

  All I could think of was that the teachers must’ve found the illegal stash of candy I’d been selling out of my dorm room. Or maybe they’d realized I got my essay on Tom Sawyer from the Internet without ever reading the book and now they were going to take away my grade. Or worse, they were going to make me read the book.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “Ma’am, I don’t . . .”

  “Your time is up,” she hissed.

  Then the weirdest thing happened. Her eyes began to glow like barbecue coals. Her fingers stretched, turning into talons. Her jacket melted into large, leathery wings. She wasn’t human. She was a shriveled hag with bat wings and claws and a mouth full of yellow fangs, and she was about to slice me to ribbons.

  Then things got even stranger.

  Mr. Brunner, who’d been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheeled his chair into the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand.

  “What ho, Percy!” he shouted, and tossed the pen through the air.

  Mrs. Dodds lunged at me.

  With a yelp, I dodged and felt talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatched the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hit my hand, it wasn’t a pen anymore. It was a sword—Mr. Brunner’s bronze sword, which he always used on tournament day.

  Mrs. Dodds spun toward me with a murderous look in her eyes.

  My knees were jelly. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the sword.

  She snarled, “Die, honey!”

  And she flew straight at me.

  Absolute terror ran through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally: I swung the sword.

  The metal blade hit her shoulder and passed clean through her body as if she were made of water. Hisss!

  Mrs. Dodds was a sand castle in a power fan. She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes were still watching me.

  I was alone.

  There was a ballpoint pen in my hand.

  Mr. Brunner wasn’t there. Nobody was there but me.

  My hands were still trembling. My lunch must’ve been contaminated with magic mushrooms or something.

  Had I imagined the whole thing?

  I went back outside.

  It had started to rain.

  Grover was sitting by the fountain, a museum map tented over his head. Nancy Bobofit was still standing there, soaked from her swim in the fountain, grumbling to her ugly friends. When she saw me, she said, “I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your butt.”

  I said, “Who?”

  “Our teacher. Duh!”

  I blinked. We had no teacher named Mrs. Kerr. I asked Nancy what she was talking about.

  She just rolled her eyes and turned away.

  I asked Grover where Mrs. Dodds was.

  He said, “Who?”

  But he paused first, and he wouldn’t look at me, so I thought he was messing with me.

  “Not funny, man,” I told him. “This is serious.”

  Thunder boomed overhead.

  I saw Mr. Brunner sitting under his red umbrella, reading his book, as if he’d never moved.

  I went over to him.

  He looked up, a little distracted. “Ah, that would be my pen. Please bring your own writing utensil in the future, Mr. Jackson.”

  I handed Mr. Brunner his pen. I hadn’t even realized I was still holding it.

  “Sir,” I said, “where’s Mrs. Dodds?”

  He stared at me blankly. “Who?”

  “The other chaperone. Mrs. Dodds. The pre-algebra teacher.”

  He frowned and sat forward, looking mildly concerned. “Percy, there is no Mrs. Dodds on this trip. As far as I know, there has never been a Mrs. Dodds at Yancy Academy. Are you feeling all right?”

  THREE OLD LADIES KNIT THE SOCKS OF DEATH

  I was used to the occasional weird experience, but usually they were over quickly. This twenty-four/seven hallucination was more than I could handle. For the rest of the school year, the entire campus seemed to be playing some kind of trick on me. The students acted as if they were completely and totally convinced that Mrs. Kerr—a perky blond woman whom I’d never seen in my life until she got on our bus at the end of the field trip—had been our pre-algebra teacher since Christmas.

  Every so often I would spring a Mrs. Dodds reference on somebody, just to see if I could trip them up, but they would stare at me like I was psycho.

  It got so I almost believed them—Mrs. Dodds had never existed.

  Almost.

  But Grover couldn’t fool me. When I mentioned the name Dodds to him, he would hesitate, then claim she didn’t exist. But I knew he was lying.

  Something was going on. Something had happened at the museum.

  I didn’t have much time to think about it during the days, but at night, visions of Mrs. Dodds with talons and leathery wings would wake me up in a cold sweat.

  The freak weather continued, which didn’t help my mood. One night, a thunderstorm blew out the windows in my dorm room. A few days later, the biggest tornado ever spotted in the Hudson Valley touched down only fifty miles from Yancy Academy. One of the current events we studied in social studies class was the unusual number of small planes that had gone down in sudden squalls in the Atlantic that year.

  I started feeling cranky and irritable most of the time. My grades slipped from Ds to Fs. I got into more fights with Nancy Bobofit and her friends. I was sent out into the hallway in almost every class.

  Finally, when our English teacher, Mr. Nicoll, asked me for the millionth time why I was too lazy to study for spelling tests, I snapped. I called him an old sot. I wasn’t even sure what it meant, but it sounded good.

  The headmaster sent my mom a letter the following week, making it official: I would not be invited back next year to Yancy Academy.

  Fine, I told myself. Just fine.

  I was homesick.

  I wanted to be with my mom in our little apartment on the Upper East Side, even if I had to go to public school and put up with my obnoxious stepfather and his stupid poker parties.

  And yet . . . there were things I’d miss at Yancy. The view of the woods out my dorm window, the Hudson River in the distance, the smell of pine trees. I’d miss Grover, who’d been a good friend, even if he was a little strange. I worried how he’d survive next year without me.

  I’d miss Latin class, too—Mr. Brunner’s crazy tournament days and his faith that I could do well.

  As exam week got closer, Latin was the only test I studied for. I hadn’t forgotten what Mr. Brunner had told me about this subject being life-and-death for me. I wasn’t sure why, but I’d started to believe him.

  The evening before my final, I got so frustrated I threw the Cambridge Guide to Greek Mythology across my dorm room. Words had started swimming off the page, circling my head, the letters doing one-eighties as if they were riding skateboards. There was no way I was going to remember the difference between Chiron and Charon, or Polydictes and Polydeuces. And conjugating those Latin verbs? Forget it.

  I paced the room, feeling like ants were crawling around inside my shirt.

  I remembered Mr. Brunner’s serious expression, his thousand-year-old eyes. I will accept only the best from you, Percy Jackson.

  I took a deep breath. I picked up the mythology book.

  I’d never asked a teacher for help before. Maybe if I talked to Mr. Brunner, he could give me some pointers. At least I could apologize for the big fat F I was about to score on his exam. I didn’t want to leave Yancy Academy with him thinking I hadn’t tried.

  I walked downstairs to the faculty offices. Most of them were dark and empty, but Mr. Brunner’s door was ajar, light from his window stretching across the hallway floor.

  I was three steps from the door handle when I heard voices inside the office. Mr. Brunner asked a question. A voice that was definitely Grover�
��s said “. . . worried about Percy, sir.”

  I froze.

  I’m not usually an eavesdropper, but I dare you to try not listening if you hear your best friend talking about you to an adult.

  I inched closer.

  “. . . alone this summer,” Grover was saying. “I mean, a Kindly One in the school! Now that we know for sure, and they know too—”

  “We would only make matters worse by rushing him,” Mr. Brunner said. “We need the boy to mature more.”

  “But he may not have time. The summer solstice deadline—”

  “Will have to be resolved without him, Grover. Let him enjoy his ignorance while he still can.”

  “Sir, he saw her. . . .”

  “His imagination,” Mr. Brunner insisted. “The Mist over the students and staff will be enough to convince him of that.”

  “Sir, I . . . I can’t fail in my duties again.” Grover’s voice was choked with emotion. “You know what that would mean.”

  “You haven’t failed, Grover,” Mr. Brunner said kindly. “I should have seen her for what she was. Now let’s just worry about keeping Percy alive until next fall—”

  The mythology book dropped out of my hand and hit the floor with a thud.

  Mr. Brunner went silent.

  My heart hammering, I picked up the book and backed down the hall.

  A shadow slid across the lighted glass of Brunner’s office door, the shadow of something much taller than my wheelchair-bound teacher, holding something that looked suspiciously like an archer’s bow.

  I opened the nearest door and slipped inside.

  A few seconds later I heard a slow clop-clop-clop, like muffled wood blocks, then a sound like an animal snuffling right outside my door. A large, dark shape paused in front of the glass, then moved on.

  A bead of sweat trickled down my neck.

  Somewhere in the hallway, Mr. Brunner spoke. “Nothing,” he murmured. “My nerves haven’t been right since the winter solstice.”

  “Mine neither,” Grover said. “But I could have sworn . . .”

  “Go back to the dorm,” Mr. Brunner told him. “You’ve got a long day of exams tomorrow.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  The lights went out in Mr. Brunner’s office.

  I waited in the dark for what seemed like forever.

  Finally, I slipped out into the hallway and made my way back up to the dorm.

  Grover was lying on his bed, studying his Latin exam notes like he’d been there all night.

  “Hey,” he said, bleary-eyed. “You going to be ready for this test?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You look awful.” He frowned. “Is everything okay?”

  “Just . . . tired.”

  I turned so he couldn’t read my expression, and started getting ready for bed.

  I didn’t understand what I’d heard downstairs. I wanted to believe I’d imagined the whole thing.

  But one thing was clear: Grover and Mr. Brunner were talking about me behind my back. They thought I was in some kind of danger.

  The next afternoon, as I was leaving the three-hour Latin exam, my eyes swimming with all the Greek and Roman names I’d misspelled, Mr. Brunner called me back inside.

  For a moment, I was worried he’d found out about my eavesdropping the night before, but that didn’t seem to be the problem.

  “Percy,” he said. “Don’t be discouraged about leaving Yancy. It’s . . . it’s for the best.”

  His tone was kind, but the words still embarrassed me. Even though he was speaking quietly, the other kids finishing the test could hear. Nancy Bobofit smirked at me and made sarcastic little kissing motions with her lips.

  I mumbled, “Okay, sir.”

  “I mean . . .” Mr. Brunner wheeled his chair back and forth, like he wasn’t sure what to say. “This isn’t the right place for you. It was only a matter of time.”

  My eyes stung.

  Here was my favorite teacher, in front of the class, telling me I couldn’t handle it. After saying he believed in me all year, now he was telling me I was destined to get kicked out.

  “Right,” I said, trembling.

  “No, no,” Mr. Brunner said. “Oh, confound it all. What I’m trying to say . . . you’re not normal, Percy. That’s nothing to be—”

  “Thanks,” I blurted. “Thanks a lot, sir, for reminding me.”

  “Percy—”

  But I was already gone.

  On the last day of the term, I shoved my clothes into my suitcase.

  The other guys were joking around, talking about their vacation plans. One of them was going on a hiking trip to Switzerland. Another was cruising the Caribbean for a month. They were juvenile delinquents, like me, but they were rich juvenile delinquents. Their daddies were executives, or ambassadors, or celebrities. I was a nobody, from a family of nobodies.

  They asked me what I’d be doing this summer and I told them I was going back to the city.

  What I didn’t tell them was that I’d have to get a summer job walking dogs or selling magazine subscriptions, and spend my free time worrying about where I’d go to school in the fall.

  “Oh,” one of the guys said. “That’s cool.”

  They went back to their conversation as if I’d never existed.

  The only person I dreaded saying good-bye to was Grover, but as it turned out, I didn’t have to. He’d booked a ticket to Manhattan on the same Greyhound as I had, so there we were, together again, heading into the city.

  During the whole bus ride, Grover kept glancing nervously down the aisle, watching the other passengers. It occurred to me that he’d always acted nervous and fidgety when we left Yancy, as if he expected something bad to happen. Before, I’d always assumed he was worried about getting teased. But there was nobody to tease him on the Greyhound.

  Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  I said, “Looking for Kindly Ones?”

  Grover nearly jumped out of his seat. “Wha—what do you mean?”

  I confessed about eavesdropping on him and Mr. Brunner the night before the exam.

  Grover’s eye twitched. “How much did you hear?”

  “Oh . . . not much. What’s the summer solstice deadline?”

  He winced. “Look, Percy . . . I was just worried for you, see? I mean, hallucinating about demon math teachers . . .”

  “Grover—”

  “And I was telling Mr. Brunner that maybe you were overstressed or something, because there was no such person as Mrs. Dodds, and . . .”

  “Grover, you’re a really, really bad liar.”

  His ears turned pink.

  From his shirt pocket, he fished out a grubby business card. “Just take this, okay? In case you need me this summer.”

  The card was in fancy script, which was murder on my dyslexic eyes, but I finally made out something like:

  Grover Underwood

  Keeper

  Half-Blood Hill

  Long Island, New York

  (800) 009-0009

  “What’s Half—”

  “Don’t say it aloud!” he yelped. “That’s my, um . . . summer address.”

  My heart sank. Grover had a summer home. I’d never considered that his family might be as rich as the others at Yancy.

  “Okay,” I said glumly. “So, like, if I want to come visit your mansion.”

  He nodded. “Or . . . or if you need me.”

  “Why would I need you?”

  It came out harsher than I meant it to.

  Grover blushed right down to his Adam’s apple. “Look, Percy, the truth is, I—I kind of have to protect you.”

  I stared at him.

  All year long, I’d gotten in fights, keeping bullies away from him. I’d lost sleep worrying that he’d get beaten up next year without me. And here he was acting like he was the one who defended me.

  “Grover,” I said, “what exactly are you protecting me from?”

  There was a huge grinding noise
under our feet. Black smoke poured from the dashboard and the whole bus filled with a smell like rotten eggs. The driver cursed and limped the Greyhound over to the side of the highway.

  After a few minutes clanking around in the engine compartment, the driver announced that we’d all have to get off. Grover and I filed outside with everybody else.

  We were on a stretch of country road—no place you’d notice if you didn’t break down there. On our side of the highway was nothing but maple trees and litter from passing cars. On the other side, across four lanes of asphalt shimmering with afternoon heat, was an old-fashioned fruit stand.

  The stuff on sale looked really good: heaping boxes of bloodred cherries and apples, walnuts and apricots, jugs of cider in a claw-foot tub full of ice. There were no customers, just three old ladies sitting in rocking chairs in the shade of a maple tree, knitting the biggest pair of socks I’d ever seen.

  I mean these socks were the size of sweaters, but they were clearly socks. The lady on the right knitted one of them. The lady on the left knitted the other. The lady in the middle held an enormous basket of electric-blue yarn.

  All three women looked ancient, with pale faces wrinkled like fruit leather, silver hair tied back in white bandannas, bony arms sticking out of bleached cotton dresses.

  The weirdest thing was, they seemed to be looking right at me.

  I looked over at Grover to say something about this and saw that the blood had drained from his face. His nose was twitching.

  “Grover?” I said. “Hey, man—”

  “Tell me they’re not looking at you. They are, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah. Weird, huh? You think those socks would fit me?”

  “Not funny, Percy. Not funny at all.”

  The old lady in the middle took out a huge pair of scissors—gold and silver, long-bladed, like shears. I heard Grover catch his breath.

  “We’re getting on the bus,” he told me. “Come on.”

  “What?” I said. “It’s a thousand degrees in there.”

  “Come on!” He pried open the door and climbed inside, but I stayed back.

  Across the road, the old ladies were still watching me. The middle one cut the yarn, and I swear I could hear that snip across four lanes of traffic. Her two friends balled up the electric-blue socks, leaving me wondering who they could possibly be for—Sasquatch or Godzilla.