The Lightning Thief

got half a million phone calls today from Los Angeles . . . something about free appliances.”
    “Oh, yeah. About that . . .”
    She managed a weak smile. “Just don’t make him angrier, all right? Come on.”
    In the month I’d been gone, the apartment had turned into Gabeland. Garbage was ankle deep on the carpet. The sofa had been reupholstered in beer cans. Dirty socks and underwear hung off the lampshades.
    Gabe and three of his big goony friends were playing poker at the table.
    When Gabe saw me, his cigar dropped out of his mouth. His face got redder than lava. “You got nerve coming here, you little punk. I thought the police—”
    “He’s not a fugitive after all,” my mom interjected. “Isn’t that wonderful, Gabe?”
    Gabe looked back and forth between us. He didn’t seem to think my homecoming was so wonderful.
    “Bad enough I had to give back your life insurance money, Sally,” he growled. “Get me the phone. I’ll call the cops.”
    “Gabe, no!”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Did you just say ‘no’ ? You think I’m gonna put up with this punk again? I can still press charges against him for ruining my Camaro.”
    “But—”
    He raised his hand, and my mother flinched.
    For the first time, I realized something. Gabe had hit my mother. I didn’t know when, or how much. But I was sure he’d done it. Maybe it had been going on for years, when I wasn’t around.
    A balloon of anger started expanding in my chest. I came toward Gabe, instinctively taking my pen out of my pocket.
    He just laughed. “What, punk? You gonna write on me? You touch me, and you are going to jail forever, you understand?”
    “Hey, Gabe,” his friend Eddie interrupted. “He’s just a kid.”
    Gabe looked at him resentfully and mimicked in a falsetto voice: “Just a kid.”
    His other friends laughed like idiots.
    “I’ll be nice to you, punk.” Gabe showed me his tobacco-stained teeth. “I’ll give you five minutes to get your stuff and clear out. After that, I call the police.”
    “Gabe!” my mother pleaded.
    “He ran away,” Gabe told her. “Let him stay gone.”
    I was itching to uncap Riptide, but even if I did, the blade wouldn’t hurt humans. And Gabe, by the loosest definition, was human.
    My mother took my arm. “Please, Percy. Come on. We’ll go to your room.”
    I let her pull me away, my hands still trembling with rage.
    My room had been completely filled with Gabe’s junk. There were stacks of used car batteries, a rotting bouquet of sympathy flowers with a card from somebody who’d seen his Barbara Walters interview.
    “Gabe is just upset, honey,” my mother told me. “I’ll talk to him later. I’m sure it will work out.”
    “Mom, it’ll never work out. Not as long as Gabe’s here.”
    She wrung her hands nervously. “I can . . . I’ll take you to work with me for the rest of the summer. In the fall, maybe there’s another boarding school—”
    “Mom.”
    She lowered her eyes. “I’m trying, Percy. I just . . . I need some time.”
    A package appeared on my bed. At least, I could’ve sworn it hadn’t been there a moment before.
    It was a battered cardboard box about the right size to fit a basketball. The address on the mailing slip was in my own handwriting:
     
    The Gods
Mount Olympus
600th Floor,
Empire State Building
New York, NY
    With best wishes,
PERCY JACKSON
     
    Over the top in black marker, in a man’s clear, bold print, was the address of our apartment, and the words: RETURN TO SENDER .
    Suddenly I understood what Poseidon had told me on Olympus.
    A package. A decision.
    Whatever else you do, know that you are mine. You are a true son of the Sea God.
    I looked at my mother. “Mom, do you want Gabe gone?”
    “Percy, it isn’t that simple. I—”
    “Mom, just tell me. That jerk has been hitting you. Do you want him gone or not?”
    She hesitated, then nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yes, Percy. I do. And I’m trying to get up my courage to tell him. But you can’t do this for me. You can’t solve my problems.”
    I looked at the box.
    I could solve her problem. I wanted to slice that package open, plop it on the poker table, and take out what was inside. I could start my very own statue garden, right there in the living room.
    That’s what a Greek hero would do in the stories, I thought. That’s what Gabe deserves.
    But a hero’s story always ended in tragedy. Poseidon had told me that.
    I remembered the Underworld. I thought about