The Sea of Monsters

the other kids banged on it desperately but it wouldn’t budge.
    “Let them go!” I yelled at the giants.
    The one called Joe Bob growled at me. He had a tattoo on his biceps that said: JB luvs Babycakes . “And lose our tasty morsels? No, Son of the Sea God. We Laistrygonians aren’t just playing for your death. We want lunch!”
    He waved his hand and a new batch of dodgeballs appeared on the center line—but these balls weren’t made of red rubber. They were bronze, the size of cannon balls, perforated like wiffle balls with fire bubbling out the holes. They must’ve been searing hot, but the giants picked them up with their bare hands.
    “Coach!” I yelled.
    Nunley looked up sleepily, but if he saw anything abnormal about the dodgeball game, he didn’t let on. That’s the problem with mortals. A magical force called the Mist obscures the true appearance of monsters and gods from their vision, so mortals tend to see only what they can understand. Maybe the coach saw a few eighth graders pounding the younger kids like usual. Maybe the other kids saw Matt Sloan’s thugs getting ready to toss Molotov cocktails around. (It wouldn’t have been the first time.) At any rate, I was pretty sure nobody else realized we were dealing with genuine man-eating bloodthirsty monsters.
    “Yeah. Mm-hmm,” Coach muttered. “Play nice.”
    And he went back to his magazine.
    The giant named Skull Eater threw his ball. I dove aside as the fiery bronze comet sailed past my shoulder.
    “Corey!” I screamed.
    Tyson pulled him out from behind the exercise mat just as the ball exploded against it, blasting the mat to smoking shreds.
    “Run!” I told my teammates. “The other exit!”
    They ran for the locker room, but with another wave of Joe Bob’s hand, that door also slammed shut.
    “No one leaves unless you’re out!” Joe Bob roared. “And you’re not out until we eat you!”
    He launched his own fireball. My teammates scattered as it blasted a crater in the gym floor.
    I reached for Riptide, which I always kept in my pocket, but then I realized I was wearing gym shorts. I had no pockets. Riptide was tucked in my jeans inside my gym locker. And the locker room door was sealed. I was completely defenseless.
    Another fireball came streaking toward me. Tyson pushed me out of the way, but the explosion still blew me head over heels. I found myself sprawled on the gym floor, dazed from smoke, my tie-dyed T-shirt peppered with sizzling holes. Just across the center line, two hungry giants were glaring down at me.
    “Flesh!” they bellowed. “Hero flesh for lunch!” They both took aim.
    “Percy needs help!” Tyson yelled, and he jumped in front of me just as they threw their balls.
    “Tyson!” I screamed, but it was too late.
    Both balls slammed into him . . . but no . . . he’d caught them. Somehow Tyson, who was so clumsy he knocked over lab equipment and broke playground structures on a regular basis, had caught two fiery metal balls speeding toward him at a zillion miles an hour. He sent them hurtling back toward their surprised owners, who screamed, “BAAAAAD!” as the bronze spheres exploded against their chests.
    The giants disintegrated in twin columns of flame—a sure sign they were monsters, all right. Monsters don’t die. They just dissipate into smoke and dust, which saves heroes a lot of trouble cleaning up after a fight.
    “My brothers!” Joe Bob the Cannibal wailed. He flexed his muscles and his Babycakes tattoo rippled. “You will pay for their destruction!”
    “Tyson!” I said. “Look out!”
    Another comet hurtled toward us. Tyson just had time to swat it aside. It flew straight over Coach Nunley’s head and landed in the bleachers with a huge KA-BOOM!
    Kids were running around screaming, trying to avoid the sizzling craters in the floor. Others were banging on the door, calling for help. Sloan himself stood petrified in the middle of the court, watching in disbelief as balls of death flew around him.
    Coach Nunley still wasn’t seeing anything. He tapped his hearing aid like the explosions were giving him interference, but he kept his eyes on his magazine.
    Surely the whole school could hear the noise. The headmaster, the police, somebody would come help us.
    “Victory will be ours!” roared Joe Bob the Cannibal. “We will feast on your bones!”
    I wanted to tell him he was taking the dodgeball game way too seriously, but before I could, he hefted another ball. The other