Percy Jackson. Book 2. The Sea of Monsters

Hermes said. “Young people don’t always do what they’re told, but if they can pull it off and do something wonderful, sometimes they escape punishment

The Colchis bulls, made by Hephaestus himself. We can’t fight them without Medea’s Sunscreen SPF 50,000. We’ll get burned to a crisp

As soon as we saw him, Tyson froze. “Pony!” he cried in total rapture.

Chiron turned, looking offended. “I beg your pardon?”

She’d e-mailed me the picture after spring break, and every once in a while I’d look at it just to remind myself she was real and Camp Half-Blood hadn’t just been my imagination.

I wished Annabeth were here.

I opened my notebook and stared at the photo inside—my friend Annabeth

“Come on, Seaweed Brain,” she said.

Oh, and speaking of your mother . . .”

He unclipped his cell phone from his quiver and handed it to me. “It’s high time you called her.”

The worst part was the beginning—the “Percy-Jacksonwhat-were-you-thinking-do-you-have-any-idea-howworried-I-was-sneaking-off-to-camp-without-permissiongoing-on-dangerous-quests-and-scaring-me-half-to-death” part.

But finally she paused to catch her breath. “Oh, I’m just glad you’re safe!”

That’s the great thing about my mom. She’s no good at staying angry. She tries, but it just isn’t in her nature.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I told her. “I won’t scare you again.”

“Don’t promise me that, Percy. You know very well it will only get worse.” She tried to sound casual about it, but I could tell she was pretty shaken up.

I wanted to say something to make her feel better, but I knew she was right. Being a half-blood, I would always be doing things that scared her. And as I got older, the dangers would just get greater.

“And, hey, um, Tyson . . .”

He looked at me.

“I wanted to say, well . . .” I tried to figure out how to apologize for getting embarrassed about him before the quest, for telling everyone he wasn’t my real brother. It wasn’t easy to find the words.

“I know what you will tell me,” Tyson said, looking ashamed. “Poseidon did care for me after all.”

“Uh, well—”

“He sent you to help me. Just what I asked for.”

I blinked. “You asked Poseidon for . . . me?”

“For a friend,” Tyson said, twisting his shirt in his hands. “Young Cyclopes grow up alone on the streets, learn to make things out of scraps. Learn to survive.”

“But that’s so cruel!”

He shook his head earnestly. “Makes us appreciate blessings, not be greedy and mean and fat like Polyphemus. But I got scared. Monsters chased me so much, clawed me sometimes—”

“The scars on your back?”

A tear welled in his eye. “Sphinx on Seventy-second Street. Big bully. I prayed to Daddy for help. Soon the people at Meriwether found me. Met you. Biggest blessing ever.

Sorry I said Poseidon was mean. He sent me a brother.”

I stared at the blue envelope in my hands. It was addressed in strong but elegant handwriting that I’d seen once before, on a package Poseidon had sent me last summer.

Percy Jackson
c/o Camp Half-Blood
Farm Road 3.141
Long Island, New York 11954

An actual letter from my father. Maybe he would tell me I’d done a good job getting the Fleece. He’d explain about Tyson, or apologize for not talking to me sooner. There were so many things that I wanted that letter to say.

I opened the envelope and unfolded the paper.

Two simple words were printed in the middle of the page:

Brace Yourself