Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Chalice of the Gods
Rick Riordan
To Walker, Aryan, and Leah
Here’s to new beginnings!
Look, I didn’t want to be a high school senior.
I was hoping my dad could write me a note:
Dear Whoever,
Please excuse Percy Jackson from school forever and just give him the diploma.
Thanks,
Poseidon
I figured I’d earned that much after battling gods and monsters since I was twelve years old. I’d saved the world . . . three times? Four? I’ve lost count. You don’t need the details. I’m not sure I even remember them at this point.
Maybe you’re thinking, But wow! You’re the son of a Greek god! That must be amazing!
Honest truth? Most of the time, being a demigod blows chunks. Anybody who tells you different is trying to recruit you for a quest.
So there I was, stumbling down the hallway on my first morning of classes at a new high school—again—after losing my entire junior year because of magical amnesia （don’t ask）。 My textbooks were spilling out of my arms, and I had no idea where to find my third-period English class. Math and biology had already melted my brain. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it to the end of the day.
Then a voice crackled over the loudspeaker: “Percy Jackson, please report to the counselor’s office.”
At least none of the other students knew me yet. Nobody looked at me and laughed. I just turned, all casual-like, and meandered back toward the administration wing.
Alternative High is housed in a former elementary school in Queens. That means kiddie-size desks and no lockers, so you have to carry all your stuff from class to class. Down every hall, I could find cheery reminders of the school’s former childhood—smudges of finger paint on the walls, unicorn stickers peeling off the fire extinguishers, the occasional ghostly whiff of fruit juice and graham crackers.
AHS takes anybody who needs to finish their high school career. It doesn’t matter if you are coming back from juvie, or have severe learning differences, or happen to be a demigod with really bad luck. It is also the only school in the New York area that would admit me for my senior year and help me make up all the course credit I’d lost as a junior.
On the bright side, it has a swim team and an Olympic-size pool （no idea why）， so my stepdad, Paul Blofis, thought it might be a good fit for me. I promised him I’d try.
I’d also promised my girlfriend, Annabeth. The plan was that I’d graduate on time so we could go to college together. I didn’t want to disappoint her. The idea of her going off to California without me kept me up at night. . . .
I found the counselor’s office in what must’ve once been the school infirmary. I deduced that from a painting on the wall of a sad purple frog with a thermometer in its mouth.
“Mr. Jackson! Come in!”
The guidance counselor came around her desk, ready to shake my hand. Then she realized I had six thousand pounds of textbooks in my arms.
“Oh, just put those down anywhere,” she said. “Please, have a seat!”
She gestured to a blue plastic chair about a foot too low for me. Sitting in it, I was eye level with the jar of Jolly Ranchers on her desk.
“So!” The counselor beamed at me from her comfy-looking, adult-size chair. Her bottle-thick glasses made her eyes swim. Her gray hair was curled into scalloped rows that reminded me of an oyster bed. “How are you settling in?”
“The chair’s a little short.”
“I mean at school.”
“Well, I’ve only had two classes—”
“Have you started on your college applications?”
“I just got here.”
“Exactly! We’re already behind!”
I glanced at the purple frog, who looked as miserable as I felt. “Look, Ms.—”
“Call me Eudora,” she said cheerfully. “Now, let’s see what brochures we have.”
She rummaged through her desk. “Poly Tech. BU. NYU. ASU. FU. No, no, no.”
I wanted to stop her. My temples were throbbing. My ADHD was pinging around under my skin like billiard balls. I couldn’t think about college today.
“Ma’am, I appreciate your help,” I said. “But, really, I’ve kinda already got a plan. If I can just get through this year—”
“Yes, New Rome University,” she said, still digging through her desk drawer. “But the mortal counselor doesn’t seem to have a brochure.”
My ears popped. I tasted salt water in the back of my throat. “The mortal counselor?”