The Lightning Thief

their whips.
    Annabeth drew her bronze knife. Grover grabbed a tin can from his snack bag and prepared to throw it.
    What I did next was so impulsive and dangerous I should’ve been named ADHD poster child of the year.
    The bus driver was distracted, trying to see what was going on in his rearview mirror.
    Still invisible, I grabbed the wheel from him and jerked it to the left. Everybody howled as they were thrown to the right, and I heard what I hoped was the sound of three Furies smashing against the windows.
    “Hey!” the driver yelled. “Hey—whoa!”
    We wrestled for the wheel. The bus slammed against the side of the tunnel, grinding metal, throwing sparks a mile behind us.
    We careened out of the Lincoln Tunnel and back into the rainstorm, people and monsters tossed around the bus, cars plowed aside like bowling pins.
    Somehow the driver found an exit. We shot off the highway, through half a dozen traffic lights, and ended up barreling down one of those New Jersey rural roads where you can’t believe there’s so much nothing right across the river from New York. There were woods to our left, the Hudson River to our right, and the driver seemed to be veering toward the river.
    Another great idea: I hit the emergency brake.
    The bus wailed, spun a full circle on the wet asphalt, and crashed into the trees. The emergency lights came on. The door flew open. The bus driver was the first one out, the passengers yelling as they stampeded after him. I stepped into the driver’s seat and let them pass.
    The Furies regained their balance. They lashed their whips at Annabeth while she waved her knife and yelled in Ancient Greek, telling them to back off. Grover threw tin cans.
    I looked at the open doorway. I was free to go, but I couldn’t leave my friends. I took off the invisible cap. “Hey!”
    The Furies turned, baring their yellow fangs at me, and the exit suddenly seemed like an excellent idea. Mrs. Dodds stalked up the aisle, just as she used to do in class, about to deliver my F– math test. Every time she flicked her whip, red flames danced along the barbed leather.
    Her two ugly sisters hopped on top of the seats on either side of her and crawled toward me like huge nasty lizards.
    “Perseus Jackson,” Mrs. Dodds said, in an accent that was definitely from somewhere farther south than Georgia. “You have offended the gods. You shall die.”
    “I liked you better as a math teacher,” I told her.
    She growled.
    Annabeth and Grover moved up behind the Furies cautiously, looking for an opening.
    I took the ballpoint pen out of my pocket and uncapped it. Riptide elongated into a shimmering double-edged sword.
    The Furies hesitated.
    Mrs. Dodds had felt Riptide’s blade before. She obviously didn’t like seeing it again.
    “Submit now,” she hissed. “And you will not suffer eternal torment.”
    “Nice try,” I told her.
    “Percy, look out!” Annabeth cried.
    Mrs. Dodds lashed her whip around my sword hand while the Furies on the either side lunged at me.
    My hand felt like it was wrapped in molten lead, but I managed not to drop Riptide. I stuck the Fury on the left with its hilt, sending her toppling backward into a seat. I turned and sliced the Fury on the right. As soon as the blade connected with her neck, she screamed and exploded into dust. Annabeth got Mrs. Dodds in a wrestler’s hold and yanked her backward while Grover ripped the whip out of her hands.
    “Ow!” he yelled. “Ow! Hot! Hot!”
    The Fury I’d hilt-slammed came at me again, talons ready, but I swung Riptide and she broke open like a piñata.
    Mrs. Dodds was trying to get Annabeth off her back. She kicked, clawed, hissed and bit, but Annabeth held on while Grover got Mrs. Dodds’s legs tied up in her own whip. Finally they both shoved her backward into the aisle. Mrs. Dodds tried to get up, but she didn’t have room to flap her bat wings, so she kept falling down.
    “Zeus will destroy you!” she promised. “Hades will have your soul!”
    “Braccas meas vescimini!” I yelled.
    I wasn’t sure where the Latin came from. I think it meant “Eat my pants!”
    Thunder shook the bus. The hair rose on the back of my neck.
    “Get out!” Annabeth yelled at me. “Now!” I didn’t need any encouragement.
    We rushed outside and found the other passengers wandering around in a daze, arguing with the driver, or running around in circles yelling, “We’re going to die!” A Hawaiian shirted tourist with a camera