Judging from the clucking sounds outside, the hens welcomed the chick as a conquering hero. Then their cackling got fainter as they retreated to their pen. I suppose Li’l Killer had spread the word that we’d agreed upon a cease-fire.
Immediately, Hebe began to grow. Annabeth quickly set her down. We watched as the baby fast-forwarded into a kindergartner, then a fifth grader, and finally stood before us as the angriest-looking high schooler I’d ever seen.
“You three . . .” she growled.
“We apologize, Great Hebe,” Annabeth said. “And ask for sanctuary.”
“And information,” I added.
Annabeth elbowed me.
“Please,” I added.
The goddess fumed. She snapped her fingers, and suddenly we were our normal ages again.
“You’re lucky I like John Lennon,” the goddess muttered. “Sit, and I will tell you what I know. But you aren’t going to like it.”
“You must go to the farmers’ market,” Hebe said, as if she were sending us off for a particularly heinous round of standardized testing.
We were sitting around the booth again, enjoying a second serving of pizza. I was actually eating it this time, because I was once again a teenager. Also, there were no boomers singing protest songs, which helped my digestion.
Grover swallowed a mouthful of greasy paper plate. “What’s so bad about a farmers’ market?”
The goddess wrinkled her nose. “Iris got it into her head that her organic store in California wasn’t sufficient. Now she has to share her wares with the whole world! You’ll find her hawking crystals and incense and Zeus knows what else this Saturday in front of Lincoln Center.”
I was relieved. Another local quest? And on a Saturday? That meant I might be able to spend the rest of the week dealing with school—which wasn’t fun, but at least it was better than schlepping across the country to some Farmers’ Market of the Damned in Idaho.
But Annabeth narrowed her eyes. She studied Hebe as if the goddess might attack us with glitter again. “You think Iris took the chalice, then?”
Hebe shrugged. “That’s for you to determine. All I can tell you is that it wasn’t me, and Iris is the only other person who has ever served as divine cupbearer. Perhaps, behind that rainbow peace-and-love facade, she hates Ganymede more than she lets on.”
“I’ve met Iris,” I said. “She didn’t seem spiteful.”
“And I do?” Hebe asked.
I kept my mouth shut. Sometimes, I can learn.
“Thank you for your guidance, Great Hebe,” Annabeth said. “We ask your permission to leave here in peace.”
“Hmph.” The goddess crossed her arms. “Very well. But no prize tickets for you.”
Grover cleared his throat, as you do when you’ve been eating greasy paper plates. “And, um . . . you won’t tell anyone about the chalice situation?”
Hebe scoffed. “Of course not. I can’t wait to see Ganymede fall on his face at the next feast and get blasted to ashes by Zeus. But mark my words: if you offend Iris the way you offended me, you will not escape so easily. You’re going to wish you stayed small children.”
The last we saw Hebe, she was welcoming a group of millennials who wanted to relive the nineties through the magic of Spice Girls karaoke. I hoped they’d make it out alive.
All the way through the arcade, I felt the eyes of the staff, the customers, and the chickens following us. I feared I’d be turned into a toddler any second.
Somehow, we made it back to Times Square. I’d never been so happy to see the familiar crowds of tourists—now at eye level rather than butt level.
At the subway station, Annabeth, Grover, and I went our separate ways. None of us said much. We were all pretty shaken by our afternoon of youth, chickens, and terror. I wasn’t too worried, though. We’d been through post-adventure shell shock together lots of times, and I knew we’d bounce back. Annabeth headed downtown to SODNYC. Grover headed toward the LIRR to Camp Half-Blood. Me, I hiked all the way to the Upper East Side because I needed some air. Every so often, I’d look at my hands, remembering how small they’d been, and how helpless I’d felt not being able to use my own sword. Inside, I still felt eight years old and ready to cry.
That night, I procrastinated on my homework. Huge surprise, I know.
I sat on the fire escape, dangling my legs above the alley. Anxiety hummed through my veins. I’d always had a baseline jumpiness, but this was worse.
I’d been on so many quests where the stakes were higher—where if I failed, cities would burn, the world would explode, bell-bottoms would make a comeback. This was just retrieving some god’s cup. Still, it felt as risky as anything I’d ever done.