The Lightning Thief

couldn’t they call once in a while, or thunder, or something? Dionysus could make Diet Coke appear out of thin air. Why couldn’t my dad, whoever he was, make a phone appear?
    Thursday afternoon, three days after I’d arrived at Camp Half-Blood, I had my first sword-fighting lesson. Everybody from cabin eleven gathered in the big circular arena, where Luke would be our instructor.
    We started with basic stabbing and slashing, using some straw-stuffed dummies in Greek armor. I guess I did okay. At least, I understood what I was supposed to do and my reflexes were good.
    The problem was, I couldn’t find a blade that felt right in my hands. Either they were too heavy, or too light, or too long. Luke tried his best to fix me up, but he agreed that none of the practice blades seemed to work for me.
    We moved on to dueling in pairs. Luke announced he would be my partner, since this was my first time.
    “Good luck,” one of the campers told me. “Luke’s the best swordsman in the last three hundred years.”
    “Maybe he’ll go easy on me,” I said.
    The camper snorted.
    Luke showed me thrusts and parries and shield blocks the hard way. With every swipe, I got a little more battered and bruised. “Keep your guard up, Percy,” he’d say, then whap me in the ribs with the flat of his blade. “No, not that far up!” Whap! “Lunge!” Whap! “Now, back!” Whap!
    By the time he called a break, I was soaked in sweat. Everybody swarmed the drinks cooler. Luke poured ice water on his head, which looked like such a good idea, I did the same.
    Instantly, I felt better. Strength surged back into my arms. The sword didn’t feel so awkward.
    “Okay, everybody circle up!” Luke ordered. “If Percy doesn’t mind, I want to give you a little demo.”
    Great, I thought. Let’s all watch Percy get pounded.
    The Hermes guys gathered around. They were suppressing smiles. I figured they’d been in my shoes before and couldn’t wait to see how Luke used me for a punching bag. He told everybody he was going to demonstrate a disarming technique: how to twist the enemy’s blade with the flat of your own sword so that he had no choice but to drop his weapon.
    “This is difficult,” he stressed. “I’ve had it used against me. No laughing at Percy, now. Most swordsmen have to work years to master this technique.”
    He demonstrated the move on me in slow motion. Sure enough, the sword clattered out of my hand.
    “Now in real time,” he said, after I’d retrieved my weapon. “We keep sparring until one of us pulls it off. Ready, Percy?”
    I nodded, and Luke came after me. Somehow, I kept him from getting a shot at the hilt of my sword. My senses opened up. I saw his attacks coming. I countered. I stepped forward and tried a thrust of my own. Luke deflected it easily, but I saw a change in his face. His eyes narrowed, and he started to press me with more force.
    The sword grew heavy in my hand. The balance wasn’t right. I knew it was only a matter of seconds before Luke took me down, so I figured, What the heck?
    I tried the disarming maneuver.
    My blade hit the base of Luke’s and I twisted, putting my whole weight into a downward thrust.
    Clang.
    Luke’s sword rattled against the stones. The tip of my blade was an inch from his undefended chest.
    The other campers were silent.
    I lowered my sword. “Um, sorry.”
    For a moment, Luke was too stunned to speak.
    “Sorry?” His scarred face broke into a grin. “By the gods, Percy, why are you sorry? Show me that again!”
    I didn’t want to. The short burst of manic energy had completely abandoned me. But Luke insisted.
    This time, there was no contest. The moment our swords connected, Luke hit my hilt and sent my weapon skidding across the floor.
    After a long pause, somebody in the audience said, “Beginner’s luck?”
    Luke wiped the sweat off his brow. He appraised at me with an entirely new interest. “Maybe,” he said. “But I wonder what Percy could do with a balanced sword. . . .”
    Friday afternoon, I was sitting with Grover at the lake, resting from a near-death experience on the climbing wall. Grover had scampered to the top like a mountain goat, but the lava had almost gotten me. My shirt had smoking holes in it. The hairs had been singed off my forearms.
    We sat on the pier, watching the naiads do underwater basket-weaving, until I got up the nerve to ask Grover how his conversation had gone with Mr. D.
    His face turned a sickly shade of