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@whisper119

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_{here's a subtitle for good measure}When are we ever going to have a weekend off? When we're 40 and too old to enjoy it. We have ballet all morning... and then a fun-filled three hour leadership conference at school. I had to sit through that last year. A million community leaders yammering on and on and on. Our community has leaders? Just wait till you experience Pete from Pete's pesticides and his take on punctuality. It's inspiring. Hi, girls. Hey. Boo, what are those for? They're for madame Fanny. It's a welcome back bouquet. What's wrong? Those are freeway flowers. You can tell? They're already turning brown. And there are more daisies than roses. That's always a telltale sign. And all this baby's breath screams "cheap." Baby's breath is the curly parsley of the flower world. Isn't it the thought that counts? Remember Kate Hutchins? Little redhead? She brought freeway flowers one year. Fanny thanked her, put them in a vase, then poor little Kate got pushed farther and farther to the back of the class. Till she was all the way out of the building. Then her parents sold their house. In a really bad market.

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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 what-ever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life. Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways. If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened. But if you recognize yourself in these pages-if you feel something stirring inside-stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they'll come for you. Don't say I didn't warn you. My name is Percy Jackson. I'm twelve years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York. Am I a troubled kid? Yeah. You could say that. I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan- twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.

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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 what-ever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life. Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways. If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened. But if you recognize yourself in these pages-if you feel something stirring inside-stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they'll come for you. Don't say I didn't warn you. My name is Percy Jackson. I'm twelve years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York. Am I a troubled kid? Yeah. You could say that. I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan- twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.
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