Working With The Thief (Percy Jackson)

Chapter One: My Mom Is The Only Valid Woman

Percy Jackson

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

Hey. My name is Percy. Jackson. Percy Jackson. I'm 12 years old, and I live with my mom, Sally Jackson (a queen amongst humans) and step-dad, Gabe Ugliano (who's last name tells you everything you need to know about him) in Manhattan on the East Side in an apartment that's barely big enough for the three of us.

During the school year, though (or at least this school year), I'm not at home. I just started at Yancy Academy for Troubled Kids.

Because after getting expelled from 5 schools in 5 years, adults consider me troubled. Which, on paper, I can understand, but they expelled me for reasons that we're totally out of my control. Or, mostly, at least.

I was determined to be good this year, though. While there was no hope for me to get good grades- it's a miracle if I ever get above a C-, I was determined to not get expelled because of some stupid accident or behavior.

Having teachers who don't understand that having ADHD and dyslexia makes school hard means that I don't always make friends with my teachers.

Or other students.

Most kids don't like me.

Which, maybe some of that is self inflicted because I befriend the kids who the popular, annoying, rich white kids pick on, but the people getting bullied are usually cool and actually have a personality.

This year's friend was my roommate, Grover Underwood. He must've hit puberty early or something because he had some sort of weird goatee and he loved enchiladas (only cheese one, though, because he's vegetarian) and he's excused from gym for the rest of his life because of some weird muscle disease he has. He walks with a limp, so watching him try to run to the cafeteria on enchilada day was always kind of funny.

He's also super nice, though, and doesn't have dyslexia so I'm doing better in English and also Latin than I usually would be. I don't know much about his family or any of his life outside of school, but maybe it's for the better.

After all, the chances that we'll hang out after I probably get expelled from here are slim to none. None of my others friends have ever talked to me after I was expelled, after all.

But only time will tell, right? I usually just try not to think about it.

Right now, my class was currently heading to the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art (or just the MET, if you're a normal person), and I was determined to not get in trouble on this field trip.

Boy, how wrong was I to hope that.

You see, this field trip was being led by my Latin teacher, Mr. Burner, who was actually cool like 75% of the time because he actually made class interesting enough to stay awake in. He'd always bring in these swords and challenge us sword to chalk point to name all of these people who's names I can't spell and can hardly pronounce- but he's not hard on spelling so that's cool. Despite being disabled, he's also a mean swordsman.

Chaperoning with him, though, was the devil herself: Mrs. Dodds. She was our long term pre-algebra sub who just kind of showed up in December and decided that she hated me and loved Nancy Bobofit, the girl who was currently chucking bits of her lunch at Grover's head from three seats back.

"I swear to God, if she throws another piece..." I warned before Grover placed a hand on my arm.

"It's alright, dude, I like peanut butter." He insisted, which wasn't the point, but I know what he meant. He took another piece of sandwich out of his hair. "And plus, if you get in trouble again, it won't be good- you're still on parole, Percy."