The Lightning Thief

leave before you were born.”
    I tried to square that with the fact that I seemed to remember . . . something about my father. A warm glow. A smile.
    I had always assumed he knew me as a baby. My mom had never said it outright, but still, I’d felt it must be true. Now, to be told that he’d never even seen me . . .
    I felt angry at my father. Maybe it was stupid, but I resented him for going on that ocean voyage, for not having the guts to marry my mom. He’d left us, and now we were stuck with Smelly Gabe.
    “Are you going to send me away again?” I asked her. “To another boarding school?”
    She pulled a marshmallow from the fire.
    “I don’t know, honey.” Her voice was heavy. “I think . . . I think we’ll have to do something.”
    “Because you don’t want me around?” I regretted the words as soon as they were out.
    My mom’s eyes welled with tears. She took my hand, squeezed it tight. “Oh, Percy, no. I—I have to, honey. For your own good. I have to send you away.”
    Her words reminded me of what Mr. Brunner had said—that it was best for me to leave Yancy.
    “Because I’m not normal,” I said.
    “You say that as if it’s a bad thing, Percy. But you don’t realize how important you are. I thought Yancy Academy would be far enough away. I thought you’d finally be safe.”
    “Safe from what?”
    She met my eyes, and a flood of memories came back to me—all the weird, scary things that had ever happened to me, some of which I’d tried to forget.
    During third grade, a man in a black trench coat had stalked me on the playground. When the teachers threatened to call the police, he went away growling, but no one believed me when I told them that under his broad-brimmed hat, the man only had one eye, right in the middle of his head.
    Before that—a really early memory. I was in preschool, and a teacher accidentally put me down for a nap in a cot that a snake had slithered into. My mom screamed when she came to pick me up and found me playing with a limp, scaly rope I’d somehow managed to strangle to death with my meaty toddler hands.
    In every single school, something creepy had happened, something unsafe, and I was forced to move.
    I knew I should tell my mom about the old ladies at the fruit stand, and Mrs. Dodds at the art museum, about my weird hallucination that I had sliced my math teacher into dust with a sword. But I couldn’t make myself tell her. I had a strange feeling the news would end our trip to Montauk, and I didn’t want that.
    “I’ve tried to keep you as close to me as I could,” my mom said. “They told me that was a mistake. But there’s only one other option, Percy—the place your father wanted to send you. And I just . . . I just can’t stand to do it.”
    “My father wanted me to go to a special school?”
    “Not a school,” she said softly. “A summer camp.”
    My head was spinning. Why would my dad—who hadn’t even stayed around long enough to see me born— talk to my mom about a summer camp? And if it was so important, why hadn’t she ever mentioned it before?
    “I’m sorry, Percy,” she said, seeing the look in my eyes. “But I can’t talk about it. I—I couldn’t send you to that place. It might mean saying good-bye to you for good.”
    “For good? But if it’s only a summer camp . . .”
    She turned toward the fire, and I knew from her expression that if I asked her any more questions she would start to cry.
    That night I had a vivid dream.
    It was storming on the beach, and two beautiful animals, a white horse and a golden eagle, were trying to kill each other at the edge of the surf. The eagle swooped down and slashed the horse’s muzzle with its huge talons. The horse reared up and kicked at the eagle’s wings. As they fought, the ground rumbled, and a monstrous voice chuckled somewhere beneath the earth, goading the animals to fight harder.
    I ran toward them, knowing I had to stop them from killing each other, but I was running in slow motion. I knew I would be too late. I saw the eagle dive down, its beak aimed at the horse’s wide eyes, and I screamed, No!
    I woke with a start.
    Outside, it really was storming, the kind of storm that cracks trees and blows down houses. There was no horse or eagle on the beach, just lightning making false daylight, and twenty-foot waves pounding the dunes like artillery.
    With the next thunderclap, my mom woke. She sat up, eyes wide, and said, “Hurricane.”
    I knew that was