“Because . . .” I faltered. “Because you are generous and good, and also super young.”
“We are petitioners at your altar,” Annabeth said.
“Your holiest of holy karaoke stages!” Grover said. “Most sacred of disco boogie venues!”
Hebe stared at him.
“Too much?” Grover asked. “All we want is to leave here in peace, at our normal ages—so we can spread the word about the wonders and terrors of Hebe Jeebies!”
“And with a little information about the chalice of the gods, please,” I said.
Annabeth kicked me in the shin, but it was too late.
Hebe bared her teeth. “There it is again. That insolence. That slander. Perhaps I did not send you far enough back into your childhood.”
“Forgive him!” Annabeth cried. I noticed her gaze kept drifting to the corner booth where Li’l Killer was hiding. But if she was waiting for the chick to launch a sneak attack on the goddess, I didn’t like our chances.
“We would never try to run out the clock on you!” Annabeth added.
That last part was meant for me. Even at eight years old, even being not the sharpest ballpoint pen in the box, I could tell that much. Annabeth was stalling for time. But why?
“It’s true!” I said. “Clocks are bad!”
Hebe’s hairdo seemed to be curling tighter, as if forming a protective helmet against traumatic injuries like listening to us talk. Was it my imagination, or was she also getting shorter?
“You are spouting nonsense,” she said.
“Exactly,” Annabeth agreed. “He does that a lot! That’s why you must forgive him.”
“Must?”
“Should! Might. Could, if you happened to be so inclined. Please, O goddess!”
Hebe stomped her go-go boots, which now came up to her hips like waders. “You are all so—so yucky!”
She was shrinking before our eyes. Her minidress became a maxi dress, the paisley hem puddling around her ankles. Her cheeks filled out with baby fat.
“What is happening?” She shook her now-tiny fists. “I don’t like it!”
She looked younger than we were now—maybe seven years old. Her eyes kept their wrathful glare, but her voice had an I just sucked helium squeak that made it hard to take her seriously.
“Don’t look at me like that!” she cried, her lip quivering. “You’re a big dummy!”
But I couldn’t help staring. She shrank to kindergarten size, then became a toddler. Even Li’l Killer peeked out from her hiding place to watch.
Finally I understood Plan Chick.
Hebe always had to be the youngest one in the room. Her powers were reacting to the presence of the chick. As a goddess, she should have been able to stop the process, but I guess it caught her by surprise. Or maybe making herself older just went against her nature.
She fell over, unable to walk. She started to crawl toward me like she wanted to grab my ankles, but then she fell sideways, squirming, and began to bawl. The goddess of youth was now the youngest in the room: a cranky newborn with a bright red face.
“What just happened?” Grover asked.
Annabeth strolled over and picked up the baby, swaddling her in Hebe’s paisley dress. “Li’l Killer pulled juniority on Hebe.” Annabeth tickled the goddess’s chin. “But you are so adorable.”
Hebe squirmed and grunted. She tried to bite Annabeth’s finger, but she didn’t have any teeth.
“Now hold on,” Annabeth told the baby. “I know you’re fussy, but I’m sure you’re not making an age-based complaint, are you? The chickens wouldn’t like that.”
Baby Hebe became very still.
“Great,” Annabeth said. “Then here’s what I suggest. We agree that some young ages are just too young. Then we remove Li’l Killer from the room so you can age yourself back up to at least elementary school. Then you accept our apology, put us back to our normal ages, tell us whatever you know about the chalice of the gods, and we all go our separate ways. Gurgle once for yes. Poop yourself for no.”
I had never wanted to hear yes so much in my life.
Hebe gurgled. It might have been just a random gurgle, but Annabeth seemed to accept it as a promise.
“Grover,” she said, “would you ask Li’l Killer to return to her pen, please?”
Grover made a couple of bleating noises. Li’l Killer peeped at us—probably saying, Thank you for the excitement and crumbs and blood—then trotted to the doors and wriggled through one of the beak holes the hens had made.