Gods and Demigods react to the lightning thief

Reading the first chapter

Everyone has introduced them selves right about now. Artemis asked "Who would like to read first???"    "I will." Annabeth said excitedly

     Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief 

"Why the Hades is this about me!!!!" Percy Yelled at the fates.

                           I accidentally vaporize my pre-algebra teacher

"How do u accidentally vaporize someone??" asked Leo.

"I don't know" Percy said. 

Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.

"I don't think anyone does" says Annabeth.

If you're reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is:

"RUN AND TAKE COVER PERCY GIVES HORRIBLE ADVICE" yells Leo.

 close this book right now. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life.

"I dont get how we can lead normal lives" says Nico. Apollo jumps and yelps. 

"When did you get here." asks Apollo.

"Ive been here" said Nico.

Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.

"Yeah it does", agreed Travis "I've had friends get killed cause they were like us or just hanging around us."

If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened.

"We all envy normal people," said Percy "Also why is this in my point of veiw?"

But if you recognize yourself in these pages—if you feel something stirring inside—stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they'll come for you.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

My name is Percy Jackson.

I'm twelve years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York.

Am I a troubled kid?

Yeah. You could say that.

I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan— twenty-eight mental case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.

I know—it sounds like torture. Most Yancy field trips were.

But Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes. Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee. You wouldn't think he'd be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn't put me to sleep.

I hoped the trip would be okay. At least, I hoped that for once I wouldn't get in trouble. Boy, was I wrong.

See, bad things happen to me on field trips. Like at my fifth-grade school, when we went to the Saratoga battlefield, I had this accident with a Revolutionary War cannon. I wasn't aiming for the school bus, but of course I got expelled anyway. And before that, at my fourth-grade school, when we took a behind-the-scenes tour of the Marine World shark pool, I sort of hit the wrong lever on the catwalk and our class took an unplanned swim. And the time before that... Well, you get the idea.