The Last Olympian

gazed at the white Colonial house. “What now?”
    “We ring the doorbell,” Nico said.
    If I were Luke’s mom, I would not have opened my door at night for two strange kids. But I wasn’t anything like Luke’s mom.
    I knew that even before we reached the front door. The sidewalk was lined with those little stuffed beanbag animals you see in gift shops. There were miniature lions, pigs, dragons, hydras, even a teeny Minotaur in a little Minotaur diaper. Judging from their sad shape, the beanbag creatures had been sitting out here a long time—since the snow melted last spring at least. One of the hydras had a tree sapling sprouting between its necks.
    The front porch was infested with wind chimes. Shiny bits of glass and metal clinked in the breeze. Brass ribbons tinkled like water and made me realize I needed to use the bathroom. I didn’t know how Ms. Castellan could stand all the noise.
    The front door was painted turquoise. The name CASTELLAN was written in English, and below in Greek:

    Nico looked at me. “Ready?”
    He’d barely tapped the door when it swung open.
    “Luke!” the old lady cried happily.
    She looked like someone who enjoyed sticking her fingers in electrical sockets. Her white hair stuck out in tufts all over her head. Her pink housedress was covered in scorch marks and smears of ash. When she smiled, her face looked unnaturally stretched, and the high-voltage light in her eyes made me wonder if she was blind.
    “Oh, my dear boy!” She hugged Nico. I was trying to figure out why she thought Nico was Luke (they looked absolutely nothing alike), when she smiled at me and said, “Luke!”
    She forgot all about Nico and gave me a hug. She smelled like burned cookies. She was as thin as a scarecrow, but that didn’t stop her from almost crushing me.
    “Come in!” she insisted. “I have your lunch ready!”
    She ushered us inside. The living room was even weirder than the front lawn. Mirrors and candles filled every available space. I couldn’t look anywhere without seeing my own reflection. Above the mantel, a little bronze Hermes flew around the second hand of a ticking clock. I tried to imagine the god of messengers ever falling in love with this old woman, but the idea was too bizarre.
    Then I noticed the framed picture on the mantel, and I froze. It was exactly like Rachel’s sketch—Luke around nine years old, with blond hair and a big smile and two missing teeth. The lack of a scar on his face made him look like a different person—carefree and happy. How could Rachel have known about that picture?
    “This way, my dear!” Ms. Castellan steered me toward the back of the house. “Oh, I told them you would come back. I knew it!”
    She sat us down at the kitchen table. Stacked on the counter were hundreds—I mean hundreds—of Tupperware boxes with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches inside. The ones on the bottom were green and fuzzy, like they’d been there for a long time. The smell reminded me of my sixth grade locker—and that’s not a good thing.
    On top of the oven was a stack of cookie sheets. Each one had a dozen burned cookies on it. In the sink was a mountain of empty plastic Kool-Aid pitchers. A beanbag Medusa sat by the faucet like she was guarding the mess.
    Ms. Castellan started humming as she got out peanut butter and jelly and started making a new sandwich. Something was burning in the oven. I got the feeling more cookies were on the way.
    Above the sink, taped all around the window, were dozens of little pictures cut from magazines and newspaper ads—pictures of Hermes from the FTD Flowers logo and Quickie Cleaners, pictures of the caduceus from medical ads.
    My heart sank. I wanted to get out of that room, but Ms. Castellan kept smiling at me as she made the sandwich, like she was making sure I didn’t bolt.
    Nico coughed. “Um, Ms. Castellan?”
    “Mm?”
    “We need to ask you about your son.”
    “Oh, yes! They told me he would never come back. But I knew better.” She patted my cheek affectionately, giving me peanut butter racing stripes.
    “When did you last see him?” Nico asked.
    Her eyes lost focus.
    “He was so young when he left,” she said wistfully. “Third grade. That’s too young to run away! He said he’d be back for lunch. And I waited. He likes peanut butter sandwiches and cookies and Kool-Aid. He’ll be back for lunch very soon. . . .” Then she looked at me and smiled. “Why, Luke, there you are! You look so