other Latin teacher to . . . ah, take a leave of absence.”
I tried to remember the beginning of the school year. It seemed like so long ago, but I did have a fuzzy memory of there being another Latin teacher my first week at Yancy. Then, without explanation, he had disappeared and Mr. Brunner had taken the class.
“You came to Yancy just to teach me?” I asked.
Chiron nodded. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure about you at first. We contacted your mother, let her know we were keeping an eye on you in case you were ready for Camp Half-Blood. But you still had so much to learn. Nevertheless, you made it here alive, and that’s always the first test.”
“Grover,” Mr. D said impatiently, “are you playing or not?”
“Yes, sir!” Grover trembled as he took the fourth chair, though I didn’t know why he should be so afraid of a pudgy little man in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt.
“You do know how to play pinochle?” Mr. D eyed me suspiciously.
“I’m afraid not,” I said.
“I’m afraid not, sir ,” he said.
“Sir,” I repeated. I was liking the camp director less and less.
“Well,” he told me, “it is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men to know the rules.”
“I’m sure the boy can learn,” Chiron said.
“Please,” I said, “what is this place? What am I doing here? Mr. Brun—Chiron—why would you go to Yancy Academy just to teach me?”
Mr. D snorted. “I asked the same question.”
The camp director dealt the cards. Grover flinched every time one landed in his pile.
Chiron smiled at me sympathetically, the way he used to in Latin class, as if to let me know that no matter what my average was, I was his star student. He expected me to have the right answer.
“Percy,” he said. “Did your mother tell you nothing?”
“She said . . .” I remembered her sad eyes, looking out over the sea. “She told me she was afraid to send me here, even though my father had wanted her to. She said that once I was here, I probably couldn’t leave. She wanted to keep me close to her.”
“Typical,” Mr. D said. “That’s how they usually get killed. Young man, are you bidding or not?”
“What?” I asked.
He explained, impatiently, how you bid in pinochle, and so I did.
“I’m afraid there’s too much to tell,” Chiron said. “I’m afraid our usual orientation film won’t be sufficient.”
“Orientation film?” I asked.
“No,” Chiron decided. “Well, Percy. You know your friend Grover is a satyr. You know”—he pointed to the horn in the shoe box—“that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either, lad. What you may not know is that great powers are at work in your life. Gods—the forces you call the Greek gods—are very much alive.”
I stared at the others around the table.
I waited for somebody to yell, Not! But all I got was Mr. D 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
I tried to remember the beginning of the school year. It seemed like so long ago, but I did have a fuzzy memory of there being another Latin teacher my first week at Yancy. Then, without explanation, he had disappeared and Mr. Brunner had taken the class.
“You came to Yancy just to teach me?” I asked.
Chiron nodded. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure about you at first. We contacted your mother, let her know we were keeping an eye on you in case you were ready for Camp Half-Blood. But you still had so much to learn. Nevertheless, you made it here alive, and that’s always the first test.”
“Grover,” Mr. D said impatiently, “are you playing or not?”
“Yes, sir!” Grover trembled as he took the fourth chair, though I didn’t know why he should be so afraid of a pudgy little man in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt.
“You do know how to play pinochle?” Mr. D eyed me suspiciously.
“I’m afraid not,” I said.
“I’m afraid not, sir ,” he said.
“Sir,” I repeated. I was liking the camp director less and less.
“Well,” he told me, “it is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men to know the rules.”
“I’m sure the boy can learn,” Chiron said.
“Please,” I said, “what is this place? What am I doing here? Mr. Brun—Chiron—why would you go to Yancy Academy just to teach me?”
Mr. D snorted. “I asked the same question.”
The camp director dealt the cards. Grover flinched every time one landed in his pile.
Chiron smiled at me sympathetically, the way he used to in Latin class, as if to let me know that no matter what my average was, I was his star student. He expected me to have the right answer.
“Percy,” he said. “Did your mother tell you nothing?”
“She said . . .” I remembered her sad eyes, looking out over the sea. “She told me she was afraid to send me here, even though my father had wanted her to. She said that once I was here, I probably couldn’t leave. She wanted to keep me close to her.”
“Typical,” Mr. D said. “That’s how they usually get killed. Young man, are you bidding or not?”
“What?” I asked.
He explained, impatiently, how you bid in pinochle, and so I did.
“I’m afraid there’s too much to tell,” Chiron said. “I’m afraid our usual orientation film won’t be sufficient.”
“Orientation film?” I asked.
“No,” Chiron decided. “Well, Percy. You know your friend Grover is a satyr. You know”—he pointed to the horn in the shoe box—“that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either, lad. What you may not know is that great powers are at work in your life. Gods—the forces you call the Greek gods—are very much alive.”
I stared at the others around the table.
I waited for somebody to yell, Not! But all I got was Mr. D 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
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