THE LIGHTNING THIEF
Percy Jackson and the Olympians – Book 1
Rick Riordan
Scanned by Cluttered Mind
I ACCIDENTALLY VAPORIZE
MY PRE-ALGEBRA TEACHER
Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.
If you're reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right
now. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal
life.
Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful,
nasty ways.
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.
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 mentalcase
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.
This trip, I was determined to be good.
All the way into the city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freckly, redheaded kleptomaniac
girl, hitting my best friend Grover in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter-and-
ketchup sandwich.
Grover was an easy target. He was scrawny. He cried when he got frustrated. He must've
been held back several grades, because he was the only sixth grader with acne and the start of a
wispy beard on his chin. On top of all that, he was crippled. He had a note excusing him from PE
for the rest of his life because he had some kind of muscular disease in his legs. He walked funny,
like every step hurt him, but don't let that fool you. You should've seen him run when it was
enchilada day in the cafeteria.
Anyway, Nancy Bobofit was throwing wads of sandwich that stuck in his curly brown hair,
and she knew I couldn't do anything back to her because I was already on probation. The
headmaster had threatened me with death by in-school suspension if anything bad, embarrassing,
or even mildly entertaining happened on this trip.
"I'm going to kill her," I mumbled.
Grover tried to calm me down. "It's okay. I like peanut butter."
He dodged another piece of Nancy's lunch.
"That's it." I started to get up, but Grover pulled me back to my seat.
"You're already on probation," he reminded me. "You know who'll get blamed if anything
happens."
Looking back on it, I wish I'd decked Nancy Bobofit right then and there. In-school
suspension would've been nothing compared to the mess I was about to get myself into.
Mr. Brunner led the museum tour.
He rode up front in his wheelchair, guiding us through the big echoey galleries, past marble
statues and glass cases full of really old black-and-orange pottery.
It blew my mind that this stuff had survived for two thousand, three thousand years.
He gathered us around a thirteen-foot-tall stone column with a big sphinx on the top, and
started telling us how it was a grave marker, a stele, for a girl about our age. He told us about the
carvings on the sides. I was trying to listen to what he had to say, because it was kind of interesting,
but everybody around me was talking, and every time I told them to shut up, the other
teacher chaperone, Mrs. Dodds, would give me the evil eye.
Mrs. Dodds was this little math teacher from Georgia who always wore a black leather jacket,
even though she was fifty years old. She looked mean enough to ride a Harley right into your
locker. She had come to Yancy halfway through the year, when our last math teacher had a
nervous breakdown.
From her first day, Mrs. Dodds loved Nancy Bobofit and figured I was devil spawn. She
would point her crooked finger at me and say, "Now, honey," real sweet, and I knew I was going
to get after-school detention for a month.
One time, after she'd made me erase answers out of old math workbooks until midnight, I told
Grover I didn't think Mrs. Dodds was human. He looked at me, real serious, and said, "You're
absolutely right."
Mr. Brunner kept talking about Greek funeral art.
Finally, Nancy Bobofit snickered something about the naked guy on the stele, and I turned
around and said, "Will you shut up?"
It came out louder than I meant it to.
The whole group laughed. Mr. Brunner stopped his story.
"Mr. Jackson," he said, "did you have a comment?"
My face was totally red. I said, "No, sir."
Mr. Brunner pointed to one of the pictures on the stele. "Perhaps you'll tell us what this
picture represents?"
I looked at the carving, and felt a flush of relief, because I actually recognized it. "That's
Kronos eating his kids, right?"
"Yes," Mr. Brunner said, obviously not satisfied. "And he did this because ..."
"Well..." I racked my brain to remember. "Kronos was the king god, and—"
"God?" Mr. Brunner asked.
"Titan," I corrected myself. "And ... he didn't trust his kids, who were the gods. So, um,
Kronos ate them, right? But his wife hid baby Zeus, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. And
later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his dad, Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters—"
"Eeew!" said one of the girls behind me.
"—and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans," I continued, "and the
gods won."
Some snickers from the group.
Behind me, Nancy Bobofit mumbled to a friend, "Like we're going to use this in real life.
Like it's going to say on our job applications, 'Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.'"
"And why, Mr. Jackson," Brunner said, "to paraphrase Miss Bobofit's excellent question,
does this matter in real life?"
"Busted," Grover muttered.
"Shut up," Nancy hissed, her face even brighter red than her hair.
At least Nancy got packed, too. Mr. Brunner was the only one who ever caught her saying
anything wrong. He had radar ears.
I thought about his question, and shrugged. "I don't know, sir."
"I see." Mr. Brunner looked disappointed. "Well, half credit, Mr. Jackson. Zeus did indeed
feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children,
who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in
the Titan's stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and
scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld. On that happy note, it's time
for lunch. Mrs. Dodds, would you lead us back outside?"
The class drifted off, the girls holding their stomachs, the guys pushing each other around and
acting like doofuses.
Grover and I were about to follow when Mr. Brunner said, "Mr. Jackson."
I knew that was coming.
I told Grover to keep going. Then I turned toward Mr. Brunner. "Sir?"
Mr. Brunner had this look that wouldn't let you go— intense brown eyes that could've been a
thousand years old and had seen everything.
"You must learn the answer to my question," Mr. Brunner told me.
"About the Titans?"
"About real life. And how your studies apply to it."
"Oh."
"What you learn from me," he said, "is vitally important. I expect you to treat it as such. I will
accept only the best from you, Percy Jackson."
I wanted to get angry, this guy pushed me so hard.
I mean, sure, it was kind of cool on tournament days, when he dressed up in a suit of Roman
armor and shouted: "What ho!'" and challenged us, sword-point against chalk, to run to the board
and name every Greek and Roman person who had ever lived, and their mother, and what god
they worshipped. But Mr. Brunner expected me to be as good as everybody else, despite the fact
that I have dyslexia and attention deficit disorder and I had never made above a C— in my life.
No—he didn't expect me to be as good; he expected me to be better. And I just couldn't learn all
those names and facts, much less spell them correctly.
I mumbled something about trying harder, while Mr. Brunner took one long sad look at the
stele, like he'd been at this girl's funeral.
He told me to go outside and eat my lunch.
The class gathered on the front steps of the museum, where we could watch the foot traffic along
Fifth Avenue.
Overhead, a huge storm was brewing, with clouds blacker than I'd ever seen over the city. I
figured maybe it was global warming or something, because the weather all across New York
state had been weird since Christmas. We'd had massive snow storms, flooding, wildfires from
lightning strikes. I wouldn't have been surprised if this was a hurricane blowing in.
Nobody else seemed to notice. Some of the guys were pelting pigeons with Lunchables
crackers. Nancy Bobofit was trying to pickpocket something from a lady's purse, and, of course,
Mrs. Dodds wasn't seeing a thing.
Grover and I sat on the edge of the fountain, away from the others. We thought that maybe if
we did that, everybody wouldn't know we were from that school—the school for loser freaks who
couldn't make it elsewhere.
"Detention?" Grover asked.
"Nah," I said. "Not from Brunner. I just wish he'd lay off me sometimes. I mean—I'm not a
genius."
Grover didn't say anything for a while. Then, when I thought he was going to give me some
deep philosophical comment to make me feel better, he said, "Can I have your apple?"
I didn't have much of an appetite, so I let him take it.
I watched the stream of cabs going down Fifth Avenue, and thought about my mom's
apartment, only a little ways uptown from where we sat. I hadn't seen her since Christmas. I
wanted so bad to jump in a taxi and head home. She'd hug me and be glad to see me, but she'd be
disappointed, too. She'd send me right back to Yancy, remind me that I had to try harder, even if
this was my sixth school in six years and I was probably going to be kicked out again. I wouldn't
be able to stand that sad look she'd give me.
Mr. Brunner parked his wheelchair at the base of the handicapped ramp. He ate celery while
he read a paperback novel. A red umbrella stuck up from the back of his chair, making it look like
a motorized cafe table.
I was about to unwrap my sandwich when Nancy Bobofit appeared in front of me with her
ugly friends—I guess she'd gotten tired of stealing from the tourists—and dumped her half-eaten
lunch in Grover's lap.
"Oops." She grinned at me with her crooked teeth. Her freckles were orange, as if somebody
had spray-painted her face with liquid Cheetos.
I tried to stay cool. The school counselor had told me a million times, "Count to ten, get
control of your temper." But I was so mad my mind went blank. A wave roared in my ears.
I don't remember touching her, but the next thing I knew, Nancy was sitting on her butt in the
fountain, screaming, "Percy pushed me!"
Mrs. Dodds materialized next to us.
Some of the kids were whispering: "Did you see—"
"—the water—"
"—like it grabbed her—"
I didn't know what they were talking about. All I knew was that I was in trouble again.
As soon as Mrs. Dodds was sure poor little Nancy was okay, promising to get her a new shirt
at the museum gift shop, etc., etc., Mrs. Dodds turned on me. There was a triumphant fire in her
eyes, as if I'd done something she'd been waiting for all semester. "Now, honey—"
"I know," I grumbled. "A month erasing workbooks."
That wasn't the right thing to say.
"Come with me," Mrs. Dodds said.
"Wait!" Grover yelped. "It was me. I pushed her."
I stared at him, stunned. I couldn't believe he was trying to cover for me. Mrs. Dodds scared
Grover to death.
She glared at him so hard his whiskery chin trembled.
"I don't think so, Mr. Underwood," she said.
"But—"
"You—will—stay—here."
Grover looked at me desperately.
"It's okay, man," I told him. "Thanks for trying."
"Honey," Mrs. Dodds barked at me. "Now."
Nancy Bobofit smirked.
I gave her my deluxe I'll-kill-you-later stare. Then I turned to face Mrs. Dodds, but she wasn't
there. She was standing at the museum entrance, way at the top of the steps, gesturing impatiently
at me to come on.
How'd she get there so fast?
I have moments like that a lot, when my brain falls asleep or something, and the next thing I
know I've missed something, as if a puzzle piece fell out of the universe and left me staring at the
blank place behind it. The school counselor told me this was part of the ADHD, my brain
misinterpreting things.
I wasn't so sure.
I went after Mrs. Dodds.
Halfway up the steps, I glanced back at Grover. He was looking pale, cutting his eyes
between me and Mr. Brunner, like he wanted Mr. Brunner to notice what was going on, but Mr.
Brunner was absorbed in his novel.
I looked back up. Mrs. Dodds had disappeared again. She was now inside the building, at the
end of the entrance hall.
Okay, I thought. She's going to make me buy a new shirt for Nancy at the gift shop.
But apparently that wasn't the plan.
I followed her deeper into the museum. When I finally caught up to her, we were back in the
Greek and Roman section.
Except for us, the gallery was empty.
Mrs. Dodds stood with her arms crossed in front of a big marble frieze of the Greek gods. She
was making this weird noise in her throat, like growling.
Even without the noise, I would've been nervous. It's weird being alone with a teacher,
especially Mrs. Dodds. Something about the way she looked at the frieze, as if she wanted to
pulverize it...
"You've been giving us problems, honey," she said.
I did the safe thing. I said, "Yes, ma'am."
She tugged on the cuffs of her leather jacket. "Did you really think you would get away with
it?"
The look in her eyes was beyond mad. It was evil.
She's a teacher, I thought nervously. It's not like she's going to hurt me.
I said, "I'll—I'll try harder, ma'am."
Thunder shook the building.
"We are not fools, Percy Jackson," Mrs. Dodds said. "It was only a matter of time before we
found you out. Confess, and you will suffer less pain."
I didn't know what she was talking about.
All I could think of was that the teachers must've found the illegal stash of candy I'd been
selling out of my dorm room. Or maybe they'd realized I got my essay on Tom Sawyer from the
Internet without ever reading the book and now they were going to take away my grade. Or
worse, they were going to make me read the book.
"Well?" she demanded.
"Ma'am, I don't..."
"Your time is up," she hissed.
Then the weirdest thing happened. Her eyes began to glow like barbecue coals. Her fingers
stretched, turning into talons. Her jacket melted into large, leathery wings. She wasn't human. She
was a shriveled hag with bat wings and claws and a mouth full of yellow fangs, and she was
about to slice me to ribbons.
Then things got even stranger.
Mr. Brunner, who'd been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheeled his chair into
the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand.
"What ho, Percy!" he shouted, and tossed the pen through the air.
Mrs. Dodds lunged at me.
With a yelp, I dodged and felt talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatched the ballpoint pen
out of the air, but when it hit my hand, it wasn't a pen anymore. It was a sword—Mr. Brunner's
bronze sword, which he always used on tournament day.
Mrs. Dodds spun toward me with a murderous look in her eyes.
My knees were jelly. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the sword.
She snarled, "Die, honey!"
And she flew straight at me.
Absolute terror ran through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally: I swung the
sword.
The metal blade hit her shoulder and passed clean through her body as if she were made of
water. Hisss!
Mrs. Dodds was a sand castle in a power fan. She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on
the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air,
as if those two glowing red eyes were still watching me.
I was alone.
There was a ballpoint pen in my hand.
Mr. Brunner wasn't there. Nobody was there but me.
My hands were still trembling. My lunch must've been contaminated with magic mushrooms
or something.
Had I imagined the whole thing?
I went back outside.
It had started to rain.
Grover was sitting by the fountain, a museum map tented over his head. Nancy Bobofit was
still standing there, soaked from her swim in the fountain, grumbling to her ugly friends. When
she saw me, she said, "I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your butt."
I said, "Who?"
"Our teacher. Duh!"
I blinked. We had no teacher named Mrs. Kerr. I asked Nancy what she was talking about.
She just rolled her eyes and turned away.
I asked Grover where Mrs. Dodds was.
He said, "Who?"
But he paused first, and he wouldn't look at me, so I thought he was messing with me.
"Not funny, man," I told him. "This is serious."
Thunder boomed overhead.
I saw Mr. Brunner sitting under his red umbrella, reading his book, as if he'd never moved.
I went over to him.
He looked up, a little distracted. "Ah, that would be my pen. Please bring your own writing
utensil in the future, Mr. Jackson."
I handed Mr. Brunner his pen. I hadn't even realized I was still holding it.
"Sir," I said, "where's Mrs. Dodds?"
He stared at me blankly. "Who?"
"The other chaperone. Mrs. Dodds. The pre-algebra teacher."
He frowned and sat forward, looking mildly concerned. "Percy, there is no Mrs. Dodds on
this trip. As far as I know, there has never been a Mrs. Dodds at Yancy Academy. Are you feeling
all right?"
THREE OLD LADIES KNIT
THE SOCKS OF DEATH
I was used to the occasional weird experience, but usually they were over quickly. This twenty-
four/seven hallucination was more than I could handle. For the rest of the school year, the entire
campus seemed to be playing some kind of trick on me. The students acted as if they were
completely and totally convinced that Mrs. Kerr—a perky blond woman whom I'd never seen in
my life until she got on our bus at the end of the field trip—had been our pre-algebra teacher
since Christmas.
Every so often I would spring a Mrs. Dodds reference on somebody, just to see if I could trip
them up, but they would stare at me like I was psycho.
It got so I almost believed them—Mrs. Dodds had never existed.
Almost.
But Grover couldn't fool me. When I mentioned the name Dodds to him, he would hesitate,
then claim she didn't exist. But I knew he was lying.
Something was going on. Something had happened at the museum.
I didn't have much time to think about it during the days, but at night, visions of Mrs. Dodds
with talons and leathery wings would wake me up in a cold sweat.
The freak weather continued, which didn't help my mood. One night, a thunderstorm blew
out the windows in my dorm room. A few days later, the biggest tornado ever spotted in the
Hudson Valley touched down only fifty miles from Yancy Academy. One of the current events
we studied in social studies class was the unusual number of small planes that had gone down in
sudden squalls in the Atlantic that year.
I started feeling cranky and irritable most of the time. My grades slipped from Ds to Fs. I got
into more fights with Nancy Bobofit and her friends. I was sent out into the hallway in almost
every class.
Finally, when our English teacher, Mr. Nicoll, asked me for the millionth time why I was too
lazy to study for spelling tests, I snapped. I called him an old sot. I wasn't even sure what it
meant, but it sounded good.
The headmaster sent my mom a letter the following week, making it official: I would not be
invited back next year to Yancy Academy.
Fine, I told myself. Just fine.
I was homesick.
I wanted to be with my mom in our little apartment on the Upper East Side, even if I had to
go to public school and put up with my obnoxious stepfather and his stupid poker parties.
And yet... there were things I'd miss at Yancy. The view of the woods out my dorm window,
the Hudson River in the distance, the smell of pine trees. I'd miss Grover, who'd been a good
friend, even if he was a little strange. I worried how he'd survive next year without me.
I'd miss Latin class, too—Mr. Brunner's crazy tournament days and his faith that I could do
well.
As exam week got closer, Latin was the only test I studied for. I hadn't forgotten what Mr.
Brunner had told me about this subject being life-and-death for me. I wasn't sure why, but I'd
started to believe him.
The evening before my final, I got so frustrated I threw the Cambridge Guide to Greek Mythology
across my dorm room. Words had started swimming off the page, circling my head, the letters
doing one-eighties as if they were riding skateboards. There was no way I was going to remember
the difference between Chiron and Charon, or Polydictes and Polydeuces. And conjugating those
Latin verbs? Forget it.
I paced the room, feeling like ants were crawling around inside my shirt.
I remembered Mr. Brunner's serious expression, his thousand-year-old eyes. I will accept only
the best from you, Percy Jackson.
I took a deep breath. I picked up the mythology book.
I'd never asked a teacher for help before. Maybe if I talked to Mr. Brunner, he could give me
some pointers. At least I could apologize for the big fat F I was about to score on his exam. I
didn't want to leave Yancy Academy with him thinking I hadn't tried.
I walked downstairs to the faculty offices. Most of them were dark and empty, but Mr.
Brunner's door was ajar, light from his window stretching across the hallway floor.
I was three steps from the door handle when I heard voices inside the office. Mr. Brunner
asked a question. A voice that was definitely Grover's said "... worried about Percy, sir."
I froze.
I'm not usually an eavesdropper, but I dare you to try not listening if you hear your best friend
talking about you to an adult.
I inched closer.
"... alone this summer," Grover was saying. "I mean, a Kindly One in the school! Now that
we know for sure, and they know too—"
"We would only make matters worse by rushing him," Mr. Brunner said. "We need the boy
to mature more."
"But he may not have time. The summer solstice deadline— "
"Will have to be resolved without him, Grover. Let him enjoy his ignorance while he still
can."
"Sir, he saw her... ."
"His imagination," Mr. Brunner insisted. "The Mist over the students and staff will be enough
to convince him of that."
"Sir, I ... I can't fail in my duties again." Grover's voice was choked with emotion. "You
know what that would mean."
"You haven't failed, Grover," Mr. Brunner said kindly. "I should have seen her for what she
was. Now let's just worry about keeping Percy alive until next fall—"
The mythology book dropped out of my hand and hit the floor with a thud.
Mr. Brunner went silent.
My heart hammering, I picked up the book and backed down the hall.
A shadow slid across the lighted glass of Brunner's office door, the shadow of something
much taller than my wheelchair-bound teacher, holding something that looked suspiciously like
an archer's bow.
I opened the nearest door and slipped inside.
A few seconds later I heard a slow clop-clop-clop, like muffled wood blocks, then a sound like
an animal snuffling right outside my door. A large, dark shape paused in front of the glass, then
moved on.
A bead of sweat trickled down my neck.
Somewhere in the hallway, Mr. Brunner spoke. "Nothing," he murmured. "My nerves haven't
been right since the winter solstice."
"Mine neither," Grover said. "But I could have sworn ..."
"Go back to the dorm," Mr. Brunner told him. "You've got a long day of exams tomorrow."
"Don't remind me."
The lights went out in Mr. Brunner's office.
I waited in the dark for what seemed like forever.
Finally, I slipped out into the hallway and made my way back up to the dorm.
Grover was lying on his bed, studying his Latin exam notes like he'd been there all night.
"Hey," he said, bleary-eyed. "You going to be ready for this test?"
I didn't answer.
"You look awful." He frowned. "Is everything okay?"
"Just... tired."
I turned so he couldn't read my expression, and started getting ready for bed.
I didn't understand what I'd heard downstairs. I wanted to believe I'd imagined the whole
thing.
But one thing was clear: Grover and Mr. Brunner were talking about me behind my back.
They thought I was in some kind of danger.
The next afternoon, as I was leaving the three-hour Latin exam, my eyes swimming with all the
Greek and Roman names I'd misspelled, Mr. Brunner called me back inside.
For a moment, I was worried he'd found out about my eavesdropping the night before, but
that didn't seem to be the problem.
"Percy," he said. "Don't be discouraged about leaving Yancy. It's ... it's for the best."
His tone was kind, but the words still embarrassed me. Even though he was speaking quietly,
the other kids finishing the test could hear. Nancy Bobofit smirked at me and made sarcastic little
kissing motions with her lips.
I mumbled, "Okay, sir."
"I mean ..." Mr. Brunner wheeled his chair back and forth, like he wasn't sure what to say.
"This isn't the right place for you. It was only a matter of time."
My eyes stung.
Here was my favorite teacher, in front of the class, telling me I couldn't handle it. After
saying he believed in me all year, now he was telling me I was destined to get kicked out.
"Right," I said, trembling.
"No, no," Mr. Brunner said. "Oh, confound it all. What I'm trying to say ... you're not normal,
Percy. That's nothing to be—"
"Thanks," I blurted. "Thanks a lot, sir, for reminding me.
"Percy—"
But I was already gone.
On the last day of the term, I shoved my clothes into my suitcase.
The other guys were joking around, talking about their vacation plans. One of them was
going on a hiking trip to Switzerland. Another was cruising the Caribbean for a month. They
were juvenile delinquents, like me, but they were rich juvenile delinquents. Their daddies were
executives, or ambassadors, or celebrities. I was a nobody, from a family of nobodies.
They asked me what I'd be doing this summer and I told them I was going back to the city.
What I didn't tell them was that I'd have to get a summer job walking dogs or selling
magazine subscriptions, and spend my free time worrying about where I'd go to school in the fall.
"Oh," one of the guys said. "That's cool."
They went back to their conversation as if I'd never existed.
The only person I dreaded saying good-bye to was Grover, but as it turned out, I didn't have
to. He'd booked a ticket to Manhattan on the same Greyhound as I had, so there we were, together
again, heading into the city.
During the whole bus ride, Grover kept glancing nervously down the aisle, watching the other
passengers. It occurred to me that he'd always acted nervous and fidgety when we left Yancy, as
if he expected something bad to happen. Before, I'd always assumed he was worried about getting
teased. But there was nobody to tease him on the Greyhound.
Finally I couldn't stand it anymore.
I said, "Looking for Kindly Ones?" |
發表於 2010-3-15 01:31
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發表於 2010-4-30 23:29
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