The Chalice of the Gods (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, #6)

by Rick Riordan

Look, I didn’t want to be a high school senior. I was hoping my dad could write me a note: Dear Whoever, Please excuse Percy Jackson from school forever and just give him the diploma. Thanks, Poseidon

I’d saved the world . . . three times? Four? I’ve lost count. You don’t need the details. I’m not sure I even remember them at this point.

of the time, being a demigod blows chunks. Anybody who tells you different is trying to recruit you for a quest.

Still . . . no one knew me better, or put up with me more, or held me together as much as Annabeth, and I knew she could say the same about me—because if I were slacking as a boyfriend, she would let me know real quick.

If I had to choose between being with Annabeth and . . . well, anything, that was no choice at all.

Everything tastes better when you’re eating with people you love.

My second thought was: Why do the gods keep losing their magic items? It was like a job requirement for them: 1) become a god, 2) get a cool magic thing, 3) lose it, 4) ask a demigod to find it. Maybe they just enjoyed doing it, the way cats like knocking things off tables.

I am a guy of limited talents. If I can’t kill it with water, a sword, or sarcasm, I am basically defenseless.

“And then maybe we could do something together? Binge WandaVision?”

“I have an idea,” Grover said. “It’s terrible, but it might work.” “I love it already,” I said.

Find someone who loves you the way my girlfriend pushes me off a cliff. Without hesitation. With full confidence in your abilities, with the rock-steady belief that your relationship can handle it, and with complete faith that when you come out of the water, assuming you survive, you will totally forgive them for the push. Almost certainly forgive them. Probably. Bonus points if you find someone with enough chutzpah to say Bon voyage while they do it.

Because when somebody plays “YMCA,” it is almost always a cry for help.

and I asked myself, Percy, why are you doing that? I don’t know,I answered, because I am not very helpful when I talk to myself.

She let the thought drift away into the Land of Half-Formed Thoughts About Things That Could Kill Percy Jackson. I spent a lot of my time in that land.

Then I jogged off toward the diving board. I hadn’t practiced my dive at all, but I figured I’d spent so much of my life plummeting downward, I’d be a shoo-in for first place.

Sometimes I wondered if Annabeth was open to the idea of marrying me someday only because she was excited about getting Sally Jackson-Blofis as her mother-in-law. Honestly, I couldn’t blame her.

I had no dignity left. Annabeth and I were still together. I figured that was good enough.

“Mom, I—I live in distracted. It’s my zip code. Whatever is wrong, I want to help.”

Anybody could steal your divine stuff. Only a hero could get it back for you. And by hero, I mean me, the schmuck who needed recommendation letters.

That afternoon, I did something unusual. I visited the library. Yeah, I know. I could almost hear that turntable needle scratch in your head as you tried to process that idea. If I told you I fell into Tartarus again, or got swallowed by a giant, or had to go bungee jumping in a volcano, you’d be like, Yeah, that makes sense. But Percy visiting a library? That’s way off brand.

“But soft,” I said, “what light through yonder window breaks?” She flashed me a smile. “I’m impressed you can quote Shakespeare.” “I can quote SparkNotes.”

Also, I was about to sneak into an Olympus palace uninvited, where several major gods were founding members of the We Hate Percy Jackson Club.

Zeus would probably make me the minor god of canapés. Annabeth would be so mad.

Let brunch chaos reign.

Athena: Why? Me: Quest. Sorry. Trying to hide. Athena: Under a pastry cart? That is so clichéd. Me: Yeah, I know. Athena: I can’t believe my daughter is still dating you. Me: Love is a mystery. Please don’t kill me? Athena: . . . . . . Me: . . . . . .

“Nah,” he said. “Nothing is scarier than watching your friend struggle and not being able to help.”

Today, you created a small wave, and you showed what the ocean is capable of.”

But I was pretty sure I could bluff my way through a literature conversation today. I could talk about bravery, initiative, and self-discovery. You can get a lot of mileage out of that stuff.

but pasta is like a best friend: you can’t stay mad at it forever.

I may have blushed. It’s one thing being called the son of Poseidon. Getting noticed for being anything like my mom, though . . . that’s a compliment.

“I hate to break it to you, but I think I might love you.” “Ah, crud. I was afraid of that. I love you, too.”