Percy Jackson and the Olympians: the lightning thief by Rick Riordan Page B

yelling, "Oh, a royal marriage. Trick! Trick!" He cackled as he tallied up his points.
    "Mr. D," Grover asked timidly, "if you're not going to eat it, could I have your Diet Coke can?"
    "Eh? Oh, all right."
    Grover bit a huge shard out of the empty aluminum can and chewed it mournfully.
    "Wait," I told Chiron. "You're telling me there's such a thing as God."
    "Well, now," Chiron said. "God—capital G , God. That's a different matter altogether. We shan't deal with the metaphysical."
    "Metaphysical? But you were just talking about—"
    "Ah, gods, plural, as in, great beings that control the forces of nature and human endeavors: the immortal gods of Olympus. That's a smaller matter."
    "Smaller?"
    "Yes, quite. The gods we discussed in Latin class."
    "Zeus," I said. "Hera. Apollo. You mean them."
    And there it was again—distant thunder on a cloudless day.
    "Young man," said Mr. D, "I would really be less casual about throwing those names around, if I were you."
    "But they're stories," I said. "They're—myths, to explain lightning and the seasons and stuff. They're what people believed before there was science."
    "Science!" Mr. D scoffed. "And tell me, Perseus Jackson"—I flinched when he said my real name, which I never told anybody—"what will people think of your 'science' two thousand years from now?" Mr. D continued. "Hmm? They will call it primitive mumbo jumbo. That's what. Oh, I love mortals—they have absolutely no sense of perspective. They think they've come so-o-o far. And have they, Chiron? Look at this boy and tell me."
    I wasn't liking Mr. D much, but there was something about the way he called me mortal, as if... he wasn't. It was enough to put a lump in my throat, to suggest why Grover was dutifully minding his cards, chewing his soda can, and keeping his mouth shut.
    "Percy," Chiron said, "you may choose to believe or not, but the fact is that immortal means immortal. Can you imagine that for a moment, never dying? Never fading? Existing, just as you are, for all time?"
    I was about to answer, off the top of my head, that it sounded like a pretty good deal, but the tone of Chiron's voice made me hesitate.
    "You mean, whether people believed in you or not," I said.
    "Exactly," Chiron agreed. "If you were a god, how would you like being called a myth, an old story to explain lightning? What if I told you, Perseus Jackson, that someday people would call you a myth, just created to explain how little boys can get over losing their mothers?" My heart pounded. He was trying to make me angry for some reason, but I wasn't going to let him. I said, "I wouldn't like it. But I don't believe in gods."
    "Oh, you'd better," Mr. D murmured. "Before one of them incinerates you." Grover said, "P-please, sir. He's just lost his mother. He's in shock."
    "A lucky thing, too," Mr. D grumbled, playing a card. "Bad enough I'm confined to this miserable job, working with boys who don't even believe.'"
    He waved his hand and a goblet appeared on the table, as if the sunlight had bent, momentarily, and woven the air into glass. The goblet filled itself with red wine. My jaw dropped, but Chiron hardly looked up.
    "Mr. D," he warned, "your restrictions."
    Mr. D looked at the wine and feigned surprise.
    "Dear me." He looked at the sky and yelled, "Old habits! Sorry!" More thunder.
    Mr. D waved his hand again, and the wineglass changed into a fresh can of Diet Coke. He sighed unhappily, popped the top of the soda, and went back to his card game. Chiron winked at me. "Mr. D offended his father a while back, took a fancy to a wood nymph who had been declared off-limits."
    "A wood nymph," I repeated, still staring at the Diet Coke can like it was from outer space.
    "Yes," Mr. D confessed. "Father loves to punish me. The first time, Prohibition. Ghastly!
    Absolutely horrid ten years! The second time—well, she really was pretty, and I couldn't stay away—the second time, he sent me here. Half-Blood Hill. Summer camp for brats like you.