On Thursday, I had my first swim meet and managed to be impressive but not too impressive. I didn’t summon a tidal wave in the deep end or anything.
I almost forgot the weekend was coming up, and with it the farmers’ market, until Friday at lunchtime.
AHS is a closed campus. Everybody is supposed to eat together in the cafeteria. Sure, a lot of seniors sneak out at lunchtime, but I stayed put because I didn’t want to risk getting kicked out quite so early in the year. It’s a small school, so absentees are pretty easy to notice.
I was sitting alone, munching on a peanut butter and banana sandwich （hey, I made it myself, one of my pro recipes）， trying to read some short story about a guy who liked to open cans—no idea why. Then someone loomed over me and said, “Here’s a refill.”
Ganymede poured something from a big glass pitcher into my soda can, which had only been half-empty. He did this with total concentration and precision, not spilling a drop, though the liquid was definitely not what had already been in the can.
“Um, thanks?” I said, which wasn’t easy with my mouth full of peanut butter.
“You’re welcome.” Ganymede nodded formally, as if we’d just exchanged gifts as national ambassadors. “I want an update on your quest . . . but I’ll be right back.”
I had time to finish my sandwich while Ganymede circulated through the cafeteria, refilling the students’ drinks without asking permission. Some kids looked at him funny, but most didn’t even notice. This was weird, since Ganymede was wearing a Greek chiton and strap-up sandals and not much else. Thank the Mist for obscuring mortal minds, I guess, or maybe the students just figured he was doing a project for drama class.
He came back to my table and sat across from me. “So.”
“What are you serving?” I asked. “You’re not going to turn the whole student body immortal, are you?”
He sighed. “Of course not, Percy Jackson. I told you, it’s the chalice that has the magic.”
“That’s not nectar in your pitcher?” I asked. “Because mortals will burn up if they drink that.”
“What makes you think this is nectar?”
“Well . . . it’s blue and glowing.”
Ganymede frowned at his pitcher. “I suppose it is. No, this is simply standard Olympian beverage number five. It will refresh and revive, and taste like whatever you desire. It will not turn anyone immortal or make them spontaneously combust. Try it.”
I wondered what had happened to Olympian beverages one through four. But Ganymede was staring at me, and offending him was not going to help get me my recommendation letter. I took a drink. It tasted like regular lemon-lime soda, the same as I’d been drinking before, but zippier and crisper. Around the cafeteria, no one was burning up or glowing.
“Okay, great,” I said. “Thanks.”
Ganymede shrugged. “It’s important to stay hydrated. Now, about my chalice.”
I brought him up to speed.
When I was done, he knit his majestically sculpted eyebrows. I got the feeling he was not happy, like he might decide to check somewhat satisfied instead of extremely satisfied on my recommendation form.
“And you trust what Hebe said?” he asked.
“I never—” I stopped myself.
I’d been about to say, I never trust a god, but that wouldn’t have gone down well with a god. “I never can be one hundred percent sure, but I don’t think Hebe took your cup.”
“And if she decides to tell everyone?”
“She won’t,” I said. “At least . . . not until your next feast. She said she’d rather see you fall on your face in front of all the gods.”
I did not add and get blasted to ashes by Zeus.
Ganymede’s forehead darkened to what I imagined was the color of Olympian beverage number two. “That sounds like Hebe. And this flaming marke—”
“Farmers’ market.”
“This farmers’ market happens tomorrow.”
“Right.”
“Your plan?”
“Talk to Iris. Find your cup. Don’t get turned into rainbows.”
He nodded. “This is sensible. But if she doesn’t have the chalice . . .”
“Let’s worry about that tomorrow.”
He shifted in his seat. “Forgive me, I so rarely send demigods on quests. Is this the part where I threaten your life if you fail?”
“No,” I said. “That comes later.”
“Hmm. All right. But do not disappoint me, Percy Jackson. My reputation depends on it. And your college career!” Then he got up and wandered off in his bathrobe to pour more divine Kool-Aid.