“It’s earlier than early—”
“I know,” she said. “But thirty minutes for you to get ready, because you’re slow.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Forty-five minutes to make it to Washington Square Park. Then to do our job and get you back in time for school—”
“Ugh with the math.”
Annabeth has this magic power where she can look into the future and figure out how long it will take to do certain things. She calls her power “scheduling,” which directly overrules my magic power of procrastination.
I went to the bathroom to get ready. Thirty minutes, right. Sure. Quick shower. Grab my clothes. Brush my teeth. Put on my shoes.
It took me thirty-one minutes.
Stupid magical scheduling power.
At five fifteen, we slipped out of the apartment and headed to the train, toward what might be my last chance to find Ganymede’s chalice . . . or maybe we wouldn’t find Gary, and it would turn out to be just another Monday at school. I honestly wasn’t sure which scared me more.
Grover brought mochi donuts.
Bonus points for the G-man.
The three of us stood under the big white archway at Washington Square Park while we munched our sugary breakfast and scanned our surroundings.
I’d never been to the park so early. The sun was just coming up, pouring rosy light through the streets and washing the brick facades of the buildings around the square. In front of us stretched the main plaza—a giant circle of gray stonework radiating from the central fountain. Annabeth said the design reminded her of a sundial or a wheel. To me, being born a New Yorker, it looked like a massive manhole cover.
The fountain itself wasn’t running. In the summertime, it made a great wading pool for kids, but now the basin was dry. I imagined it watching me, thinking, Oh, great. Here’s Percy. Now I’ll have to explode or drown a monster or something. As I may have mentioned, water fixtures don’t tend to like me much.
As far as people were concerned, there weren’t many around. A lady was walking her dog down one of the paths. A few commuters hustled across the plaza. A couple of old guys were playing a chess game at one of the tables under the elm trees. The place was about as empty as anywhere in Manhattan ever gets.
“Ready?” Grover asked. He was trying to look brave and determined, but the image was undercut a little by the green sprinkles of matcha in his goatee.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
I’d eaten the last Cookie Monster donut—obviously the best flavor, being fluorescent blue—so now there was nothing left to do but find Gary.
Annabeth wrapped up the rest of her purple ube mochi, stuck it in her backpack, then passed around the tissues and menthol rub.
“Isn’t this what cops do before they examine dead bodies?” Grover asked, plugging up his nostrils.
“Let’s not make that comparison,” Annabeth suggested. “No dead bodies today, okay?”
“Oh-tay,” I said, which was all I could manage with wads of Kleenex up my nose. My eyes watered from the menthol. My throat stung like I was being given mouth-to-mouth resuscitation by a koala, but I supposed it was better than going into a nectar coma.
“Here we go.” Annabeth took out her glowing vial and twisted off the cap.
She tipped the vial ever so slightly, and three golden droplets trickled out. Instead of falling, they caught the breeze and floated through the air like soap bubbles. Each one drifted in a different direction.
“That’s not helpful,” Annabeth observed. “Should we split up?”
“Always a derrible idea,” I said.
So that’s what we did.
I wasn’t too worried about losing Annabeth and Grover, since they could go halfway across the park and still be in my line of sight. Annabeth followed her nectar drop down the main concourse toward the chess tables. Grover’s bubble led him cross-country through the trees. Mine wobbled toward the children’s play area. I passed a pedestrian hustling along with coffee in her hand, but she gave me a wide berth, as you do when you see a strange kid with tissues hanging out of his nostrils. She didn’t seem to notice the glowing nectar. Fortunately, she didn’t fall into a coma, either. Maybe the scent didn’t work on regular mortals.
As I followed the bouncing ball, I remembered what Grover had said about nature spirits fleeing the park. The place did feel abandoned. No squirrels. No rats. Not even pigeons. Even the trees seemed too quiet, which isn’t something you’d notice unless you’d spent time hanging out with dryads. You get used to their comforting presence, like someone humming a lullaby in your ear. When they’re gone, you miss them.