"If that's all, Mr. di Angelo, I encourage you to take you seat."

Cheeks burning in humiliation, I began to trudge over to my desk at the back of the classroom. Oral reports, as I was sure everyone had figured out by now, were most definitely not my forte. Unfortunately, Mr. Saunders was not the kind of teacher who would give you a break just because you were ADHD and dyslexic. Hell, I doubted he'd give you a break if you'd been run over by a cement truck on the way to school.

Oh, I could imagine it now. "Mr. di Angelo, where exactly were you looking when the cement truck was hurtling towards you in plain sight? I somehow doubt you would miss seeing something that large. This is exactly why you must pay attention. Do I need to send a note home to you parents? I certainly hope not . . ."

My thoughts were interrupted by the filthy plastic floor, which I noticed was coming up to meet me awfully fast. I threw my hands out to catch myself, landing with an awkward "Umph!" that seemed to resonate throughout the room.

Ignoring the snickers and whispered taunts of "nerd" and "loser", I picked myself up off of the ground and walked, head down, back to my seat. Looking back, I saw that Dylan Thomas had been the cause of my fall. Or, to be more specific, his foot. He shifted in his chair to glower at me, green eyes glittering with hostility. He hissed the word "freak," then turned his attention back to the front of the room.

I gritted my teeth and contemplated chucking my pencil as hard as I could at the back of his head. But no, that would probably be a bad idea, considering that my teacher and a classroom full of Dylan's allies were sitting right there. A shame, too, because I had all but perfected my aim over the school year.

I sighed. Ah, the school year. So far, seven of the worst months of my life.

You deserve it, said a nagging voice in the back of my head. If you had gotten your job done already, you would have been out of here a long time ago.

'My job', as Chiron had put it, was to enroll at J. R. Carter High School in Birchville, Rhode Island. Well, to pretend to enroll. Technically, I had no file or anything, but Chiron and his Mist were able to take care of that. As for the purpose of my enrollment, well—that was kind of the one issue I had failed to address since I was shipped here.

See, the Council of Cloven Elders had sensed a strong aura at the school, one that could only belong to a demigod. This was understandably confusing, seeing as how the gods had promised to claim all of their children and such. That being said, wild accusations were thrown around, disagreements started, fights were caused, and all of that good stuff. The gods argued that it was nothing, that they had claimed all of their children and were continuing to do so. The Council countered that the aura was too strong to be that of a mortal, ergo it must belong to a demigod.

In the end, it was decided that a scout would be sent to check things out, see if they could find the source of power, and report any and all unusual activity to Chiron.

Enter me, Nico di Angelo, sixteen year old son of Hades and social outcast.

Two months were left in the school year, two months before my time was up and I'd return home a failure. And there I was, sitting in class, thinking about throwing sharp projectiles at obnoxious blonde tyrants.

I gripped my pencil so tightly my knuckles began to turn white. My gaze swept around the room, observing each and every face. One of them could be the person I was looking for. Ond of them could be the cause of my mission. So you'd think they would be relatively easy to spot.

Time and confidence were running out, and they were running out fast. I would have to look extra hard, be twice as observant, five times as alert. But I would find them.

I just had to.

Lunch at J. R. Carter High was, like everything else in the damn place, boring and mediocre beyond belief. I grimaced as I slid my tray along the line, the sticky shapeless foods matching the gloomy gray interior and sullen overweight cafeteria ladies in hair nets. Looking up at the giant whiteboard plastered oh-so-delicately to the opposite wall, it took me a few seconds to decipher today's lunch special; beef stroganoff.

Deciding to play it safe, (because gods only know what goes into the cafeteria meat) I grabbed a bruised apple and a questionable looking slice of pizza, then veered off to the left in search of an empty seat. This alone was a challenge, because there was a ninety percent greater chance of being tripped while weaving through the maze of tables in the cafeteria than the desks in the classroom. Finally, I spotted an empty one in the far corner, away from all the others and closest to the bathrooms—at the fringe table.

Sliding into the seat on the end, I nodded a greeting to the occupants who had arrived before me. Of the six of them, two were drama majors, three were computer nerds, and one was a short guy with a serious acne problem. Not the most ideal company, but better than eating in the bathroom any day. None of them looked up from their conversations, but Acne Boy gave me a small smile before turning his attention back to his lunch.

I was about to do the same, but something a few tables away caught my attention.

There were two very pretty girls, one small with caramel colored skin and flowing dark hair, the other a goth with a pale complexion and a brooding posture. They seemed to be having an argument with Dylan and two of his football player friends. I strained my ears to listen.

" . . . already said no," the first girl was saying, her tone indicating that she was extremely upset. "Three times, actually!"

"People can change," Dylan said, his goons nodding in agreement. "Like, at the beginning of the year, I didn't realize how beautiful you were. Now I do."

The girl shook her head. "N-no. I won't go out with you, Dylan."

"Who says we have to go out?" He leaned in towards her. "We can keep it on the down-low. Real quiet. And private."

And then he smirked, that damn smirk that seemed to magnetically attract my fist to his face. And while it did seem to piss the goth one off more, it had a dangerously different effect on the first girl. In fact, she looked like she might be on the brink of tears. I saw her open her mouth to answer, but no sound came out.

"Come on," Dylan prodded. "I'll make it worth your while. I promise. All I'm asking for is one night."

She shook her head violently. "C-c-can't. I can't, D-Dylan."

"Look here, Jolie," he growled, grabbing her arm tightly and kneeling to look her in the eye, "If you'd just—"

And suddenly, he was pinned up against the wall, the goth girl holding him there with a stength I didn't think someone like her could possess. She was literally shaking with rage, and looking like she was having a hard time not strangling him. At this point, the whole student body had turned to see what the commotion was, and were staring wide-eyed at the two as the girl began to speak.

"Listen up, asshole," she hissed, her voice dangerously low, "You don't touch my friend. You don't come near her, or look at her, or even think about her. So you and your mouth-breathing Neanderthal friends get the hell away from her. Are we clear?"

At first he didn't say anything. Then his gaze traveled south of her face, all the way down her trembling body and back up in an extremely obvious fashion. When his eyes landed on hers again, he was grinning.

"Oh, I know what this is," he gloated, "You're jealous! No problem, you're pretty hot. I'm sure we can we can work something ou—"

"Are we clear?" she snarled again, pushing him—if physically possible—even harder against the wall. He flinched, letting out a long string of profanities. For once, his eyes shone with real fear.

"Fine," he muttered, "We're clear, we're clear."

She released him and gave him a small push towards the exit. He stumbled, muttered something to his friends about "that crazy . . . " er, something I'd rather not say, and loped out of the cafeteria with his dignity in the recycling bin. The goth girl closed her eyes, like she was concentrating hard, and soon her tremors ceased.

Everyone was still staring, whether frozen in shock, fear, or awe, I didn't know. The shorter girl, Jolie, looked like she wanted to die. The goth looked like she wanted to kill.

"Miss Mercer!"

We all turned. The Principal, Mr. Cohan, was storming across the caf towards where the angry girl still stood. His face was a revolting mixture of red and purple, the kind of color that one can only achieve if they're about to give out a year's worth of detentions. A vein stood out in his forehead, pulsing wildly. The gross icing on the bald-headed cake of hideous.

"Lavinia!" he shouted, "In my office! Right now!"

"It's Nia . . . sir." She tacked the last part on to the end of her sentence before she could dig herself any deeper. Which would be kind of hard to do, because she had pretty muched reached dinosaur fossils at this point. I half expected steam to come out of Cohan's ears.

Instead, he just stood there, posture rigid and eyes dancing with a wild, middle-aged fire that only a principal can summon. "Lavinia Mercer," he seethed, ignoring her request, "You accompany me to my office right now or you are on suspended for a month!"

If I were her, I would have been nervous as hell. I mean, suspension? What would my family think? I'd never really had to worry about that, because I didn't really have a family that would care. But this girl—Nia, Lavinia, whatever—she just blinked, then calmly followed Cohan, carrying herself with a quiet dignity that none would ever maintain after being yelled at in front of their whole school.

I didn't know what she would say. I didn't know what the principal would think. I didn't know what her punishment would be. But I didn't really care either, because what I did know was that I was onto something. Something big. Something important.

Something godly.

I'm not going to lie.

I decided to stalk her.

But, regardless of the fact that it's illegal, I was completely justified and had every right to do it. I mean, think about it; the world may potentially be ending (metaphorically speaking), and you can either risk getting sent to jail to prevent it all, or you can just let it happen. Which would you choose? Well, if you're not a complete jackass, you would choose the former. In which case, you would understand the kind of pressure I was under and why it was completely necessary.

And, also, I really had nothing better to do with my time.

So it was that after she left with Mr. Cohan, I quietly slipped through the doors and trailed behind. Easier said than done, because then I had to deal with the minor issue of being, you know, visible. Fortunately, being vastly unpopular and extremely average-looking has its benefits, so I was able to blend in with the rest of the student body fairly well. And, thankfully, Cohan's office wasn't very far from the caf, so I was much less likely to be noticed.

But not-so-thankfully, it was behind the front office, which—for those of you who don't know this—makes it a whole lot riskier for one to eavesdrop.

Yet eavesdrop I did.

I waited until I heard the principal's door slam shut before ducking through the doorway of the front office. The secretary, Ms. Pfeffer, was out on lunch break. I sent a silent prayer of thanks to Limus (god of hunger) and knelt down behind her desk, edging as close to Mr. Cohan's office as I dared. I strained my ears to listen. He was rumbling on about something in his monotonous voice, and I could only catch little snippets of what he was saying.

" . . . what you have done . . . cannot believe . . . zero-tolerance policy . . . unacceptable . . ."

I scooted just a tiny bit closer, the words becoming a bit clearer. I knew that part of me was visible from the other side of the desk, but not enough that anyone should notice. Hopefully. Now I could just barely make out the conversation.

" . . . completely inappropriate behavior," Cohan was saying. "It's stunts like this that will make others think very poorly of you."

"With all due respect, sir," Nia replied in a bored tone, "I honestly don't care what others think of me."

I could practically hear him scowl. "Miss Mercer," he chastised her, "this is hardly the time to make witty remarks. You're lucky I'm your principal. Otherwise, you'd have gotten three months' suspension for talking back!"

Lucky? Please. "Lucky" my ass. Actually, that sounds kind of weird. I take it back. I'm not going to talk to you about my ass. Maybe my jeans, or whatever, but not my ass. That's just awkward. Like this paragraph. And now we're both internally cringing and hoping it will end soon. See what I mean? This is the problem with modern slang. Man, I miss the 1930's.

Bet you forgot that I'm over seventy, didn't you? Ha.

"I wasn't talking back," Nia countered, her response laced with barely-suppressed irritation, "I was just telling the truth. Isn't that our school motto? 'Honesty is the best policy', or something?"

Ah, yes. The school motto. Otherwise known as "The Phrase That Will Get You Beaten Up if You Ever Repeat it in Any Public Location Outside of School." However, if used properly, it can be an excellent tool in getting your teacher to overlook the fact that you forget to do your history essay yet again, and make her feel touched that she has such a genuinely sincere and honest student.

Shame that I didn't use it properly.

"Of course it is. But, Miss Mercer, there is a large difference between honesty and disrespect. And right now, your manner is that of the latter."

"I'm just stating the obvious! Is that such a bad thing?"

"It is if you are disrespecting one while doing so."

"Oh, so I get in trouble for being the only student who doesn't suck up to you? Who tells the truth, instead of spewing lies and fake flattery?"

"Miss Mer—"

"You're not even going to ask me why I pushed Dylan against a wall? It doesn't occur to you that I'm not just some stupid, impulsive teenager? That maybe I had a valid reason?"

"Miss Mercer, please—"

"No!" A chair scraped across the floor. "He was harrassing my best friend! And instead of punishing him, you drag me in here for trying to help her! You teachers are so—"

"MISS MERCER!" he bellowed, voice screeching like nails on a chalkboard. No, scratch that, excessively-sharpened claws on a chalkboard. "Sit down. Now. Or I will call your parents."

That seemed to get her attention. There was a soft plunk as she fell back into the chair.

Honestly, I was stunned. I mean, I'd lost my temper with teachers before. All demigods had at some point. And, assuming that Nia was also a demigod, it was nothing new. But this? This abrupt onslaught of anger? I didn't even think Percy had ever gone that far before. And he had a really bad temper.

"And for goodness' sake," he continued, "stop shaking."

"I can't help it, sir," she said, her tone flat and emotionless, like she was reading lines she'd recited one too many times. "I'm prone to muscle spasms."

He responded with a quick, "Ah, my apologies," then talked to her about what her punishment would be. Either she could volunteer to help out in the cafeteria for a month, or have detention every single day—including weekends, when it ran from morning until noon every Saturday and Sunday. The mere thought of either one was enough to make me want to die, but Nia just seemed relieved that she wouldn't have to deal with her parents.

"Detention seems . . . reasonable," she said. I didn't even need to see her expression to know that she was lying.

"Then detention it is," Cohan replied.

Is our cafeteria really that bad? I wondered. Then I answered the question for myself. Yes, yes it is.

I peered at the clock on the adjacent wall. Five minutes until class. And then end of Ms. Pfeffer's lunch break. I'd either have to leave now, or risk getting caught in a rather awkward and somewhat sketchy position. And though neither options were particularly appealing, I must say that, in comparison to the latter, the former sounded completely amazing. So I stood up and began to walk away . . . only to run smack into the aforementioned secretary herself.

Now, when caught manuevering out from behind a desk in a very public area, there aren't that many realistic explanations you can give. In fact, there are a total of two; the truth, and, "Sorry, I just dropped my pencil." And since the truth was somewhat disturbing, I went with the second. Of course, there was the small problem that I didn't actually have a pencil, but that had seemed irrelevant at the time.

After skillfully dodging some interrogating questions and laying on the "fake flattery", as Nia had called it, I was back at my tiny locker, on my way to being late for Trigonometry. And for once, that was a good thing. Why, you might ask? It's simple; I needed to get a detention.

Now, I know you're thinking, "#$%&*!". And to be honest, I'm not so sure how to respond to that. But what I can tell you is that my reason for doing such a thing was for the sake of life as we knew it.

And my ego.

But that's hardly important.

Huge thanks to Riptide Anaklusmos, for being my wonderful beta! Hope you liked it! Please review!

Disclaimer: I do not own the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series.