Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Chalice of the Gods(18)

“That’s right,” Grover said. “They’d ask forgiveness, and Hebe would give them sanctuary.”

“But this isn’t her holy day, is it?” I asked. “No way we could be that lucky.”

“Probably not,” Annabeth said. “But we’ll have to try.”

The doors shuddered, bending inward under the weight of the evil poultry.

“Grover,” Annabeth said, “do what you can to barricade the doors. Percy and I will look for the right song.”

“Song?” I asked. “You’re not really talking about a ‘Shallow’ duet?”

“No, an apology song, Seaweed Brain! We beg Hebe for forgiveness. Once she shows, we ask for sanctuary and a second chance.”

“What if she refuses?”

Annabeth looked at Li’l Killer. “Then I hope Plan Chick works. Otherwise, we’re dead.”





Gotta love those Annabeth pep talks.

They always boil down to

If A = B => Okay; if A ≠ B=> Dead.

I didn’t know why we’d abducted Li’l Killer, or what Annabeth planned to do with her, but I hoped it wouldn’t come to Plan Chick. Unfortunately, that meant I had to pin my hopes on Plan Percy Sings, which sounded just as likely to get us murdered.

While Grover piled furniture in front of the doors, Annabeth and I ran to the stage and fired up the karaoke machine. (There is a statement I never thought I would make.) Li’l Killer made herself at home, rummaging under the tables for crumbs, moldy pizza, or fresh fingers to bite.

Annabeth scowled at the karaoke screen. “Is there a search function on this? Maybe I could cross-reference apology and forgiveness.”

“ ‘Sorry Not Sorry,’ ” I suggested.

“Percy—”

“Okay, okay.” I racked my brain. “What’s the song where that one dude sings, like, ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you and make you cry’?”

“We didn’t actually make Hebe cry. . . . Oh, wait, you mean the John Lennon song? ‘Jealous Guy’?”

“I guess.”

“Did you just call John Lennon ‘that one dude’?”

“Whatever. See if they have the song!”

The chickens were at the gates, slamming against the panels, rattling the frames, perforating the mahogany with beak-size holes. Grover huffed and puffed as he dragged tables over to block the entrance, but there was only so much one preadolescent satyr could do. I was about to go over and help him when Annabeth said, “Found it!”

She punched a button, and the first bars of “Jealous Guy” started to play.

I wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or not. Now I had to sing the song, and I can’t sing. “You want to take the lead?”

“Oh, no,” Annabeth said. “You’re the one who made Hebe mad!”

“Me? That was all of us!”

“Ninety percent you.”

“Only ninety percent, though. I’m improving!”

Grover wedged another table against the doors. “Just crank up the music! We’ll both back you up!”

The teleprompter started scrolling, and Annabeth handed me the mic. (That’s another statement I never thought I’d make.)

I remembered the song from my childhood. My mom had played it all the time, even though it made her cry. I hate to see my mom cry, which is why it had stuck in my brain.

Looking back, I’m not sure if the song had made her think of Poseidon, or if she was playing it as a suggestion to my first stepdad, like, Perhaps you should apologize for being you. If it was the latter, Smelly Gabe never got the message.

The song started out slow, like a funeral dirge. As soon as I started mumbling the verse, the chickens battered against the doors even harder. No doubt they realized I had to be stopped at all costs before a perfectly good song was tortured to death. It didn’t help that I had my squeaky eight-year-old voice back. That was another thing I didn’t miss about elementary school.

Annabeth “helped” (full sarcastic air quotes) by warbling all the words half a beat behind me. This is how you know you’ve found true love: when your significant other is just as bad at singing as you are.

I got to the chorus and yelled, “This one’s for you, Hebe!”

(I’d also like to point out that when I typed chorus just now, it initially autocorrected to curse, which seems right.)

“. . . hurt you,” I muttered. “Cry. Jealous. Oh, yeah!”

Our chick friend Li’l Killer scurried under the corner booth to hide. She peeked out at me with an offended look as if she was thinking, I’m two days old and I could sing better than that.

By the second verse, Annabeth was getting into it. She threw her arm around me and belted out that she, too, was just a jealous guy. Her enthusiasm improved the song by negative five percent.

Finally, as we launched into the second chorus/curse, a whirlwind of glitter and prize tickets materialized in the middle of the dance floor. Hebe appeared, her fingers wedged in her ears. “Stop it! Stop it, already!”

The karaoke machine died. Li’l Killer disappeared back under the booth. The doors stopped shaking as the army of chickens ceased its assault.

“O great and extremely young Hebe!” I said. “We are so sorry—”