Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Chalice of the Gods(63)

“I’ll show you after dinner,” I promised. “Probably best if we don’t get spaghetti sauce on it.”

Once we’d cleaned up the dishes, I brought out the letter and set it on the living room table. Everybody leaned in like they were looking at a board game.

“It’s blank,” my mom noted.

“Lovely paper, though,” Paul said.

“If you got an essay on this paper,” I said, “would you just give it an A-plus without reading it?”

Paul grinned. “I would probably write ‘Nice try with the lovely paper, but you still need to provide examples that prove your thesis.’ ”

“Well, there goes that idea,” I grumbled.

My mom picked up the letter and looked at both sides. “Is it written in some sort of invisible ink?”

“I have to do it myself.” I explained what Ganymede had told me—that I could say whatever I wanted, within reason, and once I had done a good job, his signature would appear at the bottom.

Paul frowned. “That seems a bit . . .”

“Too trusting?” Annabeth guessed.

“I was going to say lazy on Ganymede’s part.” Paul glanced at the ceiling. “Though I hope that doesn’t get me zapped with a lightning bolt.”

“Nah,” I said. “The gods would take that as a compliment. They raise lazy to an art form.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” Paul said.

I knew he was being facetious, but the comment made me wince. I’d been offered that work, and I’d turned it down. But the more I thought about Ganymede, the happier I was with my choice. His job was anything but nice.

My mom set the paper back on the table. “How does it know when to start writing?”

“Dunno,” I admitted. “Maybe I just say ‘Dear Admissions Office.’ ”

I should have known better. Fancy calligraphy blazed to life across the top of the paper, each letter forming in fiery bronze ink with a sound like a burning fuse: Dear Admissions Office.

“Well, crap,” I said.

Well, crap, wrote the fancy calligraphy.

“No! Delete!” I said.

Thankfully, the writing erased itself.

I looked at Annabeth, who was trying hard not to laugh.

“This isn’t funny,” I said, “Delete, delete. I didn’t know it would start. Delete, delete.”

My mom stared at the letters writing and erasing themselves. “That is amazing paper. What’s it made out of?”

I wasn’t about to tell her Arachnean silk, because Annabeth had a major spider phobia. I didn’t want to have to peel her off the chandelier.

“Maybe we should help Percy get it written now,” Paul said, “so he doesn’t have to worry about it.”

“Spoken like a true English teacher,” Annabeth said. “It can’t be that hard, right? How about, ‘I highly recommend Percy Jackson for New Rome University. He is adorable and has nice eyes.’ ”

“I am not saying that. Delete, delete,” I complained, though I did keep the first sentence. That one sounded okay.

“ ‘And his mother is very proud of him,’ ” my mom chipped in, “ ‘though college would be a wonderful experience, as it might teach him to do his own laundry.’ ”

“You’re all terrible people,” I said. “Delete, delete.”

Paul cleared his throat, like he was getting ready to launch into a lecture on similes. “ ‘I, Ganymede, cupbearer to the gods, have found Percy Jackson to be an excellent hero—brave, kind, and fantastic at chopping vegetables.’ ”

My mom and Annabeth were both giggling.

I wanted to say Just kill me now,but with my luck, those words would stick on the letter and the admissions office at New Rome would make me fall on my sword the moment I arrived.

I dictated Paul’s sentence, minus the vegetables. For the next half an hour, Paul, Annabeth, and my mom offered all sorts of unhelpful suggestions for Ganymede’s letter, while I picked out the least embarrassing lines and read them onto the paper. I even managed to get a line in there about how helpful my counselor, Eudora, had been.

By the end, Annabeth was on the floor crying from laughing so hard. Paul looked like he was starting to feel bad for me. My mom came over and kissed me on the head.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “But we do love all those things about you. Let’s see how the letter came out.”

She read it aloud, and I had to admit, it wasn’t bad.

“How do you get his signature to appear, though?” Annabeth wondered.

Before she could suggest something like Hugs and kisses,I said, “ ‘Thank you for your time. Yours sincerely, Ganymede.’ ”

The words burned themselves onto the paper, with Ganymede’s signature appearing in red.

“You think it’s done?” I asked. Then I realized my question was not transcribing itself.

“Thank gods.”

“You have to get two more recommendation letters?” my mom asked. “Sounds like fun!”

“Yeah, and if those are do-it-yourself letters, too,” I said, “I think I’ll do them by myself.”

“But you’re never alone, Seaweed Brain.” Annabeth squeezed my ankle. “We’ll always be here to help you.”