Who the hell thought making me a Half-blood was a good idea? {ON HOLD}

Act Two- I kill my demon pre-algebra teacher

Disclaimer: The world of Percy Jackson, its characters and settings are the copyrighted works of Rick Riordan and his publishing companies and affiliates. No profit was made from the writing of this story nor was any malice intended in any way, shape or form to the author or the actors/actresses who so brilliantly have brought them to life.This author is not responsible for underage readers. Please observe the ratings, warnings, and age of legal consent for your country.

This is my second time saying this, but let me remind you; I didn't want to be a half-blood.Life as Canon Jackson? Non-existent. Butterflies of doom? Most definitely. My life as Ophelia Jackson? Eh, could be worse.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still a troubled kid, but I'm also an adult in the body of a child. I skipped most grades in Elementary school and only spent two years total with a bunch of sticky-fingered kids in Elementary. After that, they stopped letting me skip grades because Mãe was worried over my socialisation with other kids my age. I still got kicked out from my two previous schools because I got 'excessively bullied,' or so the principal of one school's excuse was, even though I never complained and because I 'accidentally' fell into a shark tank during a visit to the aquarium. He and I were both fully aware that it wasn't an accident, but I didn't like that he called me out on it.

I mean, rude. I just wanted to get gossip. A bit of blackmail too, no need let loose the dogs of war over it!

I got a small bit of silver-lining regarding my innate ADHD. Everything had been diagnosed and filed by age six. On top of that on my list of 'shit I wish I didn't have to deal with,' was autism and mild dyslexia. Considering that I only got formally acknowledged with autism when I was seventeen in my past life (after the worst of my struggles were over), I'll take what I can get.

Right now, I'm sitting on a tacky yellow school bus heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with a bunch of Yancy Academy kids. Grover sat next to me as we dealt with the ridiculous amount of noise inside the bus.

'The volume inside this bus is ASTRONOMICAL,' I thought, almost snorting aloud at the reference of the future meme.

Grover Underwood and I were the only 'advanced' kids on the bus. A 12-year-old and a '14-year-old' on a bus full of seventeen to eighteen-year-old seniors. For mortals, it must've made a weirder sight than your friendly neighbourhood cyclopes.

Yeah, I'm milking my future knowledge for all its worth. Tell me you wouldn't be bored to hell and back if you were in my shoes. I dare you.

Looking around the bus, bits of nostalgia welled up inside. For me at their age, it was a widely different time. They were all millennials and I was a Gen Z, but I don't really have a leg to stand on considering I'm currently twelve in 2005. For all my horror, there were similarities everywhere. Teens feeling invincible and filled with rage? Check. I mean, at least I was. Silver lining? There wasn't any dabbing because it hasn't been invented yet. Oh gods, the dabbing.

Thwack!

Glaring down at the offending handball, I scanned the bus to see who threw it. Michael Delling, seventeen years old, high on popularity and a dickball of epic proportions; Called me a ret*rd once because I couldn't understand his sarcasm. He was making this 'throw it at me!' motion that completely failed to hide his smug face. I'm petty as fuck, so I looked him right in the eye, threw it to the other end of the bus and flipped him the bird. The bus driver grunted, but I was already turning back to my book which had been forgotten on my lap.

Ophelia Jackson; 19. Dickballs; -1.

Apparently, the book was just going to have to remain forgotten since Grover started talking. "What cool things do you think we'll see?"