#used motor graders

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[generaltips2312]

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[markalison231]

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[kavindd]

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[hstephensblog]

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[scoopeblog]

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[al-bahar-sem]

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[noroi1000]

❝𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮-𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐢❞ Chapter 17

Satoru-Sensei | ←Previous chapter • Next Chapter→

Summary:  When they put their feet in the sand on a line invisible to them, they knew they had to turn around. So maybe Fushiguro made a mistake? They came here... But this... Maybe it wasn't Gojo-sensei. It wasn't Gojo-sensei... Not Gojo-sensei, who taught them two years ago... It was...

A/N: The updates are so delayed that I think I'm really the worst. Something wild starts to happen in this chapter...

"This way." Fushiguro pointed to the sand of the beach they entered. 

"Fushiguro.... But if we go this way, we will enter the water." Itadori said it with a strange face.

He didn't know what his dark-haired friend was planning. He didn't understand it at all. 

The evening time helped, so there weren't many people around. So that helped not to make a lot of noise. 

"We need to get to the island that's in that direction. So go ahead. Take the boat." he said. 

His shoes were half-dipped into the sand as he walked forward and checked his watch again. 

Time played a very big role at this point. The sooner they get there, the better.

But boating is also not as fast as you would like. 

The use of a boat with a motor is inappropriate at this time. Someone might hear.

So the best way will be...

"Nue." The dark haired man's hands were brought together in the shape of a bird, allowing the brown feathers to appear from the shadows. 

Once the Shikigami came to rest on the sand, the dark-haired young adult jumped onto the bird's back, sitting down carefully to allow the bird to fly comfortably and freely. 

"You're going to fly, and you're telling us to go by boat?!" the girl shouted, pointing at Itadori, who was pushing the boat on the sand to push it into the water. 

"Is there a problem?" he growled calmly, looking at his classmate.

"Pfft! He rows!" 

The boy with the small scars looked at the girl with a frozen expression. But before he could argue, she got into the boat and sat calmly on the small wooden bench, making it clear that she had no intention of doing anything except sitting there while they swam. 

With a sigh, the pink-haired one got into the boat and started moving the oars fast enough to keep up with the bird flying above them. 

It wouldn't be safe to separate now.

What is happening now is such a real mission, they vs. special grade. 

They may be first grade. First graders can face special grade curses. 

However, first grade sorcerers are to face a special grade sorcerer? 

If there was any grade above special, Gojo would be there. How could anyone think they could defeat Gojo Satoru? No sorcerer or curse user has so much arrogance. 

There is a great power imbalance. If you put all the Jujutsu High students against Gojo, they still lose. 

If you put all the sorcerers against Gojo, they would still lose.

How are they supposed to beat someone they can't even touch?

This is the great inequality of power that was between them... 

That's why they have to finish all this before Gojo returns. So very, very quickly. 

It might not even be a minute, and Gojo will be there.

So this creates double danger.

Maybe they were not prepared to fight such an opponent.

However, they were prepared to escape. 

Because if this is all true and Gojo is crazy to keep you here... They won't have more than thirty seconds to escape from being beaten or even killed. 

As they got closer to the island, they felt a strong aura. However, it was power pressure. But they didn't know if it was a curse or a sorcerer. The power they felt was of no kind. 

This power was simply palpable. 

Smoothly stroking the feathers of the bird Fushiguro was riding on, he prepared it to meet the sudden pressure in the air. 

The best way was to calm Nue so that it wouldn't fall from the shock it might feel. 

Because when a sorcerer or curse, or even a familiar, feels the pressure of a fight, the opponent's power is overwhelming. 

When the power around an opponent also touches someone else, they feel a pressure that makes their body run away. The pressure that puts the body on alert. 

Run or fight.

Fight or die. 

The pressure that began to prevail around them when they entered the circle caused their heart rate to accelerate as well as their breathing. 

Nothing could be an easy task. It's as much about swimming here and getting onto the sand as it is about getting out of here. 

The two who didn't believe what Fushiguro said at the beginning started to believe him as soon as they felt the cold on their skin. 

And when they put their feet on the sand, they knew they had to turn around.

What was a danger to them now was not now. 

So maybe Fushiguro made a mistake?

Maybe it wasn't Gojo-sensei. 

It wasn't Gojo-sensei... Not Gojo-sensei, who taught them two years ago...

It was...

... end.

"Go to sleep."

"But, Satoru... I thought we would cook dinner together and then go to sleep together..." a sweet voice spread in his head. 

"I will be back soon."

"But it's only afternoon. Satoru, I won't be able to sleep just like that!"

"Aww, honey, come on. You'll need a lot of strength for the night." His hand stroked your cheek very smoothly. 

As you realized what his words meant, you blushed, and your mind turned into a mess as memories of the past nights surfaced there, leaving you unable to think of anything other than this.

"I'll be back before you miss me." 

He kissed your forehead and led you to the bed, laying you there comfortably. He didn't leave your side until you fell asleep, cuddling against his side. 

He unhooked your hands from his body gently and wrapped the blanket around you.

His pleasant smile changed a little. 

The loving expression disappeared, and a new, different smile appeared.

Something of a combination of dissatisfaction and sadness. Something with rage. But also with a little craziness. 

If he hadn't heard what they were saying, he certainly wouldn't have thought that he would see them on your island today. In your home. 

Sitting lazily on a chair, he watched time pass by.

He knew exactly that they were already standing there and looking around. 

His protective seals told him so.

You have intruders. 

Well, his exorcism barrier only works on curses. A barrier that makes the opponent feel like he's trapped also doesn't work that well. Because, as young sorcerers, they knew this feeling. 

The only people who didn't feel this pressure were you and him. 

Him, because it is his energy. You, because you don't use your cursed energy at all. And this causes your body to wean itself from being a sorcerer. Even your energy began to circulate differently. More like a human.  Because it was all true. Your body was not completely adapted to your technique. And it wasn't completely tamed with the cursed energy either. 

Your Jujutsu technique was not naturally instilled in your body.

Therefore, without your training and using it, it was just like in the beginning. 

You weren't the sorcerer you used to be. You were a strong person. Or a weak sorcerer. 

But you needed protection in this world.

His white shirt contrasted with the black glasses on his nose.  Looking at the clock in the classroom, he watched as the small hand followed the large one. But the third is chasing them.

Like you and him.

You follow Gojo slowly.

Other students are running behind you, wanting to know the truth. 

But he was only waiting for one step. 

And when the line he had drawn was crossed by one of his disciples, he joined hands, thinking about where he wanted him to be.                                                

      When they put their feet in the sand on a line invisible to them, they knew they had to turn around. 

What was a danger to them now was not now. 

So maybe Fushiguro made a mistake?

Maybe it wasn't Gojo-sensei. 

It wasn't Gojo-sensei... Not Gojo-sensei, who taught them two years ago...

It was...

... end.

The end of a normal evening. 

Because what stood on the bridge was too white to be a villain.

It wasn't Gojo-sensei.

It was just Gojo Satoru. And his dark side. The dark side is thinking about not losing something at all costs.

His hands were loose on either side of his body. 

"Is it polite to break into someone's house? Megumi?" He hummed in a sing-song voice. "Nope... After all, I'm the villain here, right? Am I the villain for you?"

"You–!"

"It's me! Hello everyone! First-year teacher at Jujutsu High School, Gojo Satoru!" He bowed theatrically. "So, shall we start?"

 A/N"He bowed theatrically" I really wanted to write it in a book someday. But there was no time like this to do it. Now I've used it in the story I'm probably most proud of at the moment.

Taglist: @mc-reborn ; @yihona-san06 ; @yerinsshi ; @erisfayred ; @tohsri

[osrphotography]

The A. & G. Price Ltd Foundry in Thames. January, 2021. This is gonna be a long one, so consider yourself warned.

Directly behind the image is where the East Coast Main Trunk Line (ECMT) connected to the Foundry and allowed for A. & G. Price built locomotives to be attached to the end of an outgoing NZR train.

Many non-Price Locomotives have graced the (long removed) timetable, including the 'Taupō Mallet' (ALCo 53970/1912).

But who were A. & G. Price? Originally founded in Onehunga, Auckland, as a marine firm by Alfred and George Price, the brothers would take advantage of the Coromandel gold rush and begin selling industrial pumps to mining companies in the 1870s.

They would also close down the Onehunga premises and set up shop in Beach Rd, Thames. Price got their start in the railway industry with a small 0-4-0ST locomotive for Messrs. Smith of Kennedy's Bay. This loco is generally considered to be a resounding failure. The first successful locomotives would be the Ministry of Works (known colloquially as the Public Works Dept, PWD) 501-502 series. These were identical to the NZR Wf Class.

Price is well known for their Climax and Heisler clones, which employed features from both locomotives. Notable engines include the Cb Type (Cb 117 used on construction of Nihotupu Dam), V Type ('true' Heisler clone), E Type (Class B Climax clone, used Heisler style pony trucks) and the Cba (an improved Cb). They would build 16-wheeler bush lokeys*.

Price would also build dozens of locomotives for New Zealand Railways and would later begin producing diesel locomotives for bush and industrial railways. By the 1990s, Price was king! They had spent the 20th Century building locomotives and road vehicles for lucrative government contracts, and there was no end in sight. They had even regauged the Silver Star carriages to metre gauge for export to Singapore.

Except there was. By 2017, the company lost most of its work, as neither NZRC (New Zealand Railways Corporation), TranzRail, TollRail, or KiwiRail have ever gone back to Price. The company was subsequently placed into administration. The company was saved by an Auckand based businessman and was reformed as AG Price Ltd, ending the 149-year legacy of the greatest engineering firm in Aotearoa New Zealand.

Many A. & G. Price locomotives can still be found on heritage railways, and I know of one Price-CAT Inc. motor grader in a museum. The Foundry is a heritage listed building which means it can never be torn down.

[southwestglobal]

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[invincible-selfxmade-punk]

This year for the first time in 30 years, our school got all new desks for our students.

The previous desks were made out of thin metal and particle board and the particle board was falling apart

The desks were cumbersome but light. The problem was they were rickety and so small, most of the fifth graders could not even fit into them.

At the end of every year there is a large checklist we have to accomplish and part of that is stacking all of the tables one on top of the other, along with the chairs, and then moving everything from your room out into the hallway. Everything that's small must be locked in your one cabinet or put on the built-in bookshelves. Everything that can be moved from the room has to be moved out because the floor will be stripped and waxed every summer.

This part is always grueling for me because it is simply so much physically intensive work.

Last year I had some high schoolers who were the kids of a fellow teacher, come in and do this for me. This year I guess I just did not think far enough ahead.

So today was the day we had to clean out our classroom. Yesterday a few of the boys stacked maybe a fourth of the tables for me but had left the rest. So without thinking anything of it I decided I was going to start stacking them myself.

Oh my God these tables were 100 times heavier than the particle board tables. They had thick whiteboard erasable tops and heavy metal legs with wheels on them. I managed to stack two each on another table.

Before this I had spent the day cleaning and then running around the school trying to get my checklist checked off, but as usual the people whose signatures I needed were in meetings or somewhere else and unable to be found, so there was a whole lot of running all over the school without accomplishing much.

Between all of that, the normal amount of cleaning that goes into getting your classroom ready for the summer, and stacking those two desks I not only used up my spoons for the day I think I dipped into my spoons for next month.

I didn't think I was going to be able to walk out to my car. And my husband had already told me he needed beer and batteries and I knew I was going to have to go somewhere that was going to have both of those so I went ahead and headed to Walmart ( after borrowing a cart from the school because I was so weak I could not even carry my purse, a 32 oz soda I had bought this morning, and an unopened one liter soda that I had in my room vy myself.); cuz that was pretty much the only place where I was going to be able to find both items.

I was able to park right next to the corral where the carts are stored, but just walking from my car to the store with the card almost did me in.

So for the first time in my life I swallowed my pride and got into one of those little motorized shopping carts and attempted to use it.

IT WAS A HORRIFYING DISASTER.

Either it was too fast and I risk running over people or it was too slow and I would roll to stop when I meant to keep going and I could not turn it to save my life. Luckily the store was not that crowded but people would still walk right in front of me in my life would pass before my eyes because I would just know I was going to hit them and end up getting sued.

I managed to get things on my list without running over anyone, breaking anything, or crashing into any displays so I count that as a huge Victory but it is nothing I ever want to attempt again. I am currently lying here in bed nursing every kind of aching pain in the world and hoping to God I'll be ready by tomorrow because we still have to go back for a day's worth of meetings and I still have to track down all the people that need to sign my checklist!!

[tacroyy]

first week of school. also want to add that ill try to do content warnings better for these! haven’t done a good job of that at all. mentions of racial and ableist slurs, discussion of stressed kids, food insecurity, institutional neglect and harm, general discussion of trauma

ok, thursday and friday weren’t bad other than me being beyond exhausted. i truly couldn’t have functioned without my adhd meds. the seventh graders are fucking amazing and we had The Best discussion, totally out of the blue, about prejudicial language, specifically the n-word and the r-word (both are problems at our school 🙃). i basically don’t have classroom management over them rn (or at least am not bothering to Exert It) bc their other teachers are Overreacting and being Too Intense bc it’s the start of the year so since they already know me it’s all steam blowing off in my class but honestly that’s fine. they don’t have to be non-feral until next week bc i just want them to Relax right now. the sixth graders just got lockers and are Going Through It emotionally so there’s a lot of “breathe, try again” and “nobody is doing tardies right now” bc some of them literally haven’t developed their fine motor skills enough yet and our locks and lockers are, no lie!!!!!, forty years old and Cranky. so that’s a lot of unregulated stress to channel off. i think i say this twice a week but i Do Not Understand how ANYONE teaches elementary school. makes No sense to me. beginning of sixth grade is often too young for me, really; so many of them haven’t developed that, like, independent rationality yet, and it’s A Lot when there are So Many of them.

the ideal way to end this first week would have been to have like a half day for prep so we could meet w teachers, contact parents/guardians, do sped referrals, seating chart upheavals, etc. there’s a lot of “ah, okay, here’s what This batch needs” even 3 or 4 days in, and it would just be so lovely and useful and productive and overall good for everyone to have that. for example i overheard a convo that made it clear that a family hadn’t signed their kid up for free lunch this year and so the kid didn’t get lunch so i had to run around and tell the right people (teachers don’t have access to that info) and make sure they got fed and all but it took my whole prep, and im obviously delighted to do that, but then i didn’t have any prep time and did my last three classes on the fly. not that this kind of thing doesn’t happen most days. it’s just that more prep time is imo the number one thing we need as a profession. i cant begin to express how much it would help everyone.

plus there are, as always, the kids that i just want to have a four hour productive meeting about every single day, where we hash out an Actual Plan. with a social worker, a reading specialist, a developmental psychologist, a pediatrician, a therapist, a sped expert, a speech therapist, an occupational therapist, a case manager, a para AND an ea and a secretary for notes. instead it’s me and the counselor who has a 250 kid caseload for ten minutes in the hall.

ive had a dream for a while, since grad school actually, of studying the affect of referred trauma on kids’ peers and school faculty and staff, especially peers and faculty and staff who also have trauma. the amount of shit that slides off of me now because you Have to grow the most perfectly balanced shield of “i will Act on this and Not ignore it” and “i must Remain Calm” and “I’ve just heard the Worst Thing Ever and have to teach for another four hours”. what does it do to you long term? what about the ones who get inured? and the ones who don’t? how can we actually help people handle this well? i know there’s So much stuff out there about secondary/vicarious trauma, and trauma informed education, and i want to be able to know if it’s at all useful or if it’s too tainted to use, like i now expect from basically all educational academia. to be clear i have already done a lot of work in this area but not for a while, and i wanted to reframe the fundamentals.

so glad we have a three day weekend now.

[red-faced-wolf]

My dad made a push blade for his mower using a blade from a motor grader

[al-bahar-sem]

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[pjo-rewrite]

The Lightning Thief

Chapter One

I ACCIDENTALLY VAPORIZE MY PRE-ALGEBRA TEACHER

If you're reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life.

Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.

If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened.

But if you recognize yourself in these pages-if you feel something stirring inside-stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they'll come for you.

Don't say I didn't warn you. My name is Percy Jackson.

I'm twelve years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy with my sister, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York.

Are we a troubled kids? Yeah. You could say that.

I could start at any point in our short miserable lifes to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan- twenty-nine mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.

I know it sounds like torture. Most Yancy field trips were.

But Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes.

Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee. You wouldn't think he'd be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn't put me to sleep.

I hoped the trip would be okay. At least, I hoped that for once Atalanta or I wouldn't get in trouble. Boy, was I wrong.

See, bad things happen to me on field trips. Like at my fifth-grade school, when we went to the Saratoga battlefield, I had this accident with a Revolutionary War cannon. I wasn't aiming for the school bus, but of course I got expelled anyway. And before that, at my fourth-grade school, when we took a behind- the-scenes tour of the Marine World shark pool, I sort of hit the wrong lever on the catwalk and our class took an unplanned swim. And the time before that... Well, you get the idea.

This trip, I was determined to be good and keep Atalanta under check.

Atalanta Jackson, my younger sister, has horrible anger issues. Just look at her wrong, and she’ll punch you; straight up. She’s technically supposed to be in fifth grade but Yancy Academy had realised that she actually listens to me; Sometimes. Which was better than none I guess, so they put her in most of the same classes as me. She has dark brown hair that she normally had in two nicely plaited braids, murky green eyes— maybe teal-ish if you looked close enough. Anyways, I didn’t really want to be put in charge of her, which didn't help my mood.

All the way into the city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freckly, redheaded kleptomaniac girl, hitting my best friend Grover in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter-and-ketchup sandwich.

Grover was an easy target. He was scrawny. He cried when he got frustrated. He must've been held back several grades, because he was the only sixth grader with acne and the start of a wispy beard on his chin. On top of all that, he was crippled. He had a note excusing him from PE for the rest of his life because he had some kind of muscular disease in his legs. He walked funny, like every step hurt him, but don't let that fool you. You should've seen him run when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria.

Anyway, Nancy Bobofit was throwing wads of sandwich that stuck in his curly brown hair, and she knew I couldn't do anything back to her because I was already on probation. The headmaster had threatened me with death by in-school suspension if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly entertaining happened on this trip.

"I'm going to kill her," I mumbled.

Grover tried to calm me down. "It's okay. I like peanut butter."

He dodged another piece of Nancy's lunch. But it fell on my sister.

"That's it." Atalanta started to get up, but Grover pulled her back to her seat.

"You're both already on probation," he reminded us. "You know who'll get blamed if anything happens."

Looking back on it, I wish Atalanta had decked Nancy Bobofit right then and there. In-school suspension would've been nothing compared to the mess we were about to get ourselves into.

***

Mr. Brunner led the museum tour.

He rode up front in his wheelchair, guiding us through the big echoey galleries, past marble statues and glass cases full of really old black-and-orange pottery.

It blew my mind that this stuff had survived for two thousand, three thousand years.

He gathered us around a thirteen-foot-tall stone col-umn with a big sphinx on the top, and started telling us how it was a grave marker, a stele, for a girl about our age. He told us about the carvings on the sides. I was trying to listen to what he had to say, because it was kind of interesting, but everybody around me was talking, and every time I told them to shut up, the other teacher chaperone, Mrs. Dodds, would give me the evil eye.

Mrs. Dodds was this little math teacher from Georgia who always wore a black leather jacket, even though she was fifty years old. She looked mean enough to ride a Harley right into your locker. She had come to Yancy halfway through the year, when our last math teacher had a nervous breakdown.

From her first day, Mrs. Dodds loved Nancy Bobofit and figured I was devil spawn. She would point her crooked finger at me and say, "Now, honey," real sweet, and I knew I was going to get after-school detention for a month. It was a good thing Atalanta couldn't take that class.

One time, after she'd made me erase answers out of old math workbooks until midnight, I told Grover I didn't think Mrs. Dodds was human. He looked at me, real serious, and said, "You're absolutely right."

Mr. Brunner kept talking about Greek funeral art.

Finally, Nancy Bobofit snickered something about the naked guy on the stele, and I turned around and said, "Will you shut up?"

Atalanta nuged me. It had came out louder than I meant it to.

The whole group laughed. Mr. Brunner stopped his story.

"Mr. Jackson," he said, "did you have a comment?"

My face was totally red. I said, "No, sir."

Mr. Brunner pointed to one of the pictures on the stele. "Perhaps you'll tell us what this picture represents?"

I looked at the carving, and felt a flush of relief, because I actually recognized it. "That's Kronos eating his kids, right?"

"Yes," Mr. Brunner said, obviously not satisfied. "And he did this because ..." "Well..." I racked my brain to remember. "Kronos was the king god, and-" "God?" Mr. Brunner asked.

"Titan," Atalanta called out. "He didn't trust his kids, who were the gods. So Kronos ate them. But his wife hid baby Zeus, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. And later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his dad, Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters-"

"Eeew!" said one of the girls behind us.

"-and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans," Atalanta continued, "and the gods won."

Some snickers from the group. It would probably help you to know by now that Atalanta has a slight accent. French/New York combo accent to be more specific. So, I had to admit, she sounded funny when she talked.

Behind me, Nancy Bobofit mumbled to a friend, "Like we're going to use this in real life. Like it's going to say on our job applications, 'Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.'"

"And why, Mr. Jackson," Brunner said, "to paraphrase Miss Bobofit's excellent question, does this matter in real life?"

"Busted," Grover muttered.

"Shut up," Nancy hissed, her face even brighter red than her hair.

At least Nancy got packed, too. Mr. Brunner was the only one who ever caught her saying anything wrong. He had radar ears.

I thought about his question, looked to Atalanta for help but she was just looking at Mr. Brunner with a glare. I gave up and shrugged. "I don't know, sir."

"I see." Mr. Brunner looked disappointed. "Well, half credit, Jacksons. Zeus did indeed feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan's stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld. On that happy note, it's time for lunch. Mrs. Dodds, would you lead us back outside?"

The class drifted off, the girls holding their stomachs, the guys pushing each other around and acting like doo-fuses.

Grover and I were about to follow when Mr. Brunner said, "Mr. Jackson."

I knew that was coming.

I told Grover and Atalanta to keep going. Then I turned toward Mr. Brunner. "Sir?"

Mr. Brunner had this look that wouldn't let you go- intense brown eyes that could've been a thousand years old and had seen everything.

"You must learn the answer to my question," Mr. Brunner told me. "About the Titans?"

"About real life. And how your studies apply to it."

"Oh."

"What you learn from me," he said, "is vitally important. I expect you to treat it as such. I will accept only the best from you, Percy Jackson."

I wanted to get angry, this guy pushed me so hard.

I mean, sure, it was kind of cool on tournament days, when he dressed up in a suit of Roman armor and shouted: "What ho!'" and challenged us, sword-point against chalk, to run to the board and name every Greek and Roman person who had ever lived, and their mother, and what god they worshipped. But Mr. Brunner expected me to be as good as everybody else, despite the fact that I have dyslexia and attention deficit disorder and I had never made above a C- in my life. No-he didn't expect me to be as good; he expected me to be better. And I just couldn't learn all those names and facts, much less spell them correctly.

This was probably why Atalanta didn't like him, it was bad enough that she only started to understand how to speak English, fully, three years ago, but reading it was a whole different thing.

I mumbled something about trying harder, while Mr. Brunner took one long sad look at the stele, like he'd been at this girl's funeral.

He told me to go outside and eat my lunch.

***

The class gathered on the front steps of the museum, where we could watch the foot traffic along Fifth Avenue.

Overhead, a huge storm was brewing, with clouds blacker than I'd ever seen over the city. I figured maybe it was global warming or something, because the weather all across New York state had been weird since Christmas. We'd had massive snow storms, flooding, wildfires from lightning strikes. I wouldn't have been surprised if this was a hurricane blowing in.

Nobody else seemed to notice. Some of the guys were pelting pigeons with Lunchables crackers. Nancy Bobofit was trying to pickpocket something from a lady's purse, and, of course, Mrs. Dodds wasn't seeing a thing.

I saw Grover and Atalanta sitting on the edge of the fountain— away from the others. We thought that maybe if we did that, everybody wouldn't know we were from that school-the school for loser freaks who couldn't make it elsewhere— having a heated conversation; they never seemed to get along, well Atalanta that is. Didn't know what her problem was. I went and sat on the edge of the fountain in between them and they stopped their bickering.

"Detention?" Grover asked.

"Nah," I said. "Not from Brunner. I just wish he'd lay off me sometimes. I mean-I'm not a genius."

No one said anything for a while. Then, when I thought that Grover was going to give me some deep philosophical comment to make me feel better, he said, "Can I have your apple?"

I didn't have much of an appetite, so I let him take it.

I watched the stream of cabs going down Fifth Avenue, and thought about my mom's apartment, only a little ways uptown from where we sat. I hadn't seen her since Christmas. I wanted so bad to take Atalanta, jump in a taxi and head home. She'd hug us and be glad to see us, but she'd be disappointed, too. She'd send us right back to Yancy, remind me that we had to try harder, even if this was my sixth school in six years and I was probably going to be kicked out again. I wouldn't be able to stand that sad look she'd give me. I had to be a good example for Atalanta.

Why be a good example for Atalanta? Two reasons:

1) Atalanta had stumbled into my mom's work and brought her home with her that night. Atalanta had been six, knew no English, and dirty. Really dirty. So my mom took her in after translating French to English about how she had ran away form "A bad place." And 2) I’m her older brother.

Mr. Brunner parked his wheelchair at the base of the handicapped ramp. He ate celery while he read a paperback novel. A red umbrella stuck up from the back of his chair, making it look like a motorized cafe table.

I was about to unwrap my sandwich when Nancy Bobofit appeared in front of me with her ugly friends-I guess she'd gotten tired of stealing from the tourists-and dumped her half-eaten lunch in Grover's lap.

"Oops." She grinned at me with her crooked teeth. Her freckles were orange, as if somebody had spray- painted her face with liquid Cheetos.

I tried to stay cool. The school counselor had told me a million times, "Count to ten, get control of your temper." But I was so mad my mind went blank. A wave roared in my ears.

I don't remember touching her, but the next thing I knew, Nancy was sitting on her butt in the fountain, screaming, "Percy pushed me!" "Severes you right!" Atalanta yelled back at her.

Mrs. Dodds materialized next to us.

Some of the kids were whispering: "Did you see-" "-the water-" "-like it grabbed her-"

I didn't know what they were talking about. All I knew was that I was in trouble again.

As soon as Mrs. Dodds was sure poor little Nancy was okay, promising to get her a new shirt at the museum gift shop, etc., etc., Mrs. Dodds turned on me. There was a tri-umphant fire in her eyes, as if I'd done something she'd been waiting for all semester. "Now, honey-"

"I know," I grumbled. "A month erasing workbooks." That wasn't the right thing to say.

"Come with me," Mrs. Dodds said.

"Wait!" Atalanta and Grover yelled at the same time. "It was me. I pushed her." Atalanta finished.

I stared at her, stunned. I couldn't believe she was trying to cover for me. She almost never covered for me.

She glared at her so hard she trembled. "Fine, come along Jacksons." Ms. Dodds said.

"Wait-" Grover called out.

"It's okay, man," I told him.

"Honey," Mrs. Dodds barked at us. "Now."

Nancy Bobofit smirked.

Atalanta gave Nancy her deluxe 'I'll-kill-you-later' stare. Then we turned to face Mrs. Dodds, but she wasn't there. She was standing at the museum entrance, way at the top of the steps, gesturing impatiently at me to come on.

How'd she get there so fast?

I have moments like that a lot, when my brain falls asleep or something, and the next thing I know I've missed something, as if a puzzle piece fell out of the universe and left me staring at the blank place behind it. The school counselor told me this was part of the ADHD, my brain misinterpreting things. Atalanta had it too; supposedly.

I wasn't so sure.

We went after Mrs. Dodds.

Halfway up the steps, I glanced back at Grover. He was looking pale, cutting his eyes between us and Mr. Brunner, like he wanted Mr. Brunner to notice what was going on, but Mr. Brunner was absorbed in his novel.

I looked back up. Mrs. Dodds had disappeared again. She was now inside the building, at the end of the entrance hall.

Okay, I thought. She's going to make me buy a new shirt for Nancy at the gift shop. But apparently that wasn't the plan.

We followed her deeper into the museum. When we finally caught up to her, we were back in the Greek and Roman section.

Except for us, the gallery was empty.

Mrs. Dodds stood with her arms crossed in front of a big marble frieze of the Greek gods. She was making this weird noise in her throat, like growling.

Even without the noise, I would've been nervous. It's weird being alone with a teacher, especially Mrs. Dodds, even if Atalanta was right next to me. Something about the way she looked at the frieze, as if she wanted to pulverize it...

"You've been giving us problems, honey," she said.

I did the safe thing. I said, "Yes, ma'am."

She tugged on the cuffs of her leather jacket. "Did you really think you would get away with it?" The look in her eyes was beyond mad. It was evil.

She's a teacher, I thought nervously. It's not like she's going to hurt me.

I said, "I'll-I'll try harder, ma'am." Thunder shook the building.

"We are not fools, Percy and Atalanta, Jackson," Mrs. Dodds said. "It was only a matter of time before we found you out. Confess, and you will suffer less pain."

I didn't know what she was talking about. I looked to Atalanta. Her eyes were blown wide and she looked frozen in fear, her hand over her charm on her necklace. She seemed to be mumbling something that I couldn't understand.

All I could think of was that the teachers must've found the illegal stash of candy I'd been selling out of my dorm room. Or maybe they'd realized I got my essay on Tom Sawyer from the Internet without ever reading the book and now they were going to take away my grade. Or worse, they were going to make me read the book.

"Well?" she demanded. "Ma'am, I don't..."

"Your time is up," she hissed.

Then the weirdest thing happened. Her eyes began to glow like barbecue coals. Her fingers stretched, turning into talons. Her jacket melted into large, leathery wings. She wasn't human. She was a shriveled hag with bat wings and claws and a mouth full of yellow fangs, and she was about to slice me to ribbons.

Atalanta pulled on her necklace and then she had a sword?!

"Come on bird brain! He doesn't know about anything! Come at me!" Atalanta yelled at Ms. Dodds.

Then things got even stranger.

Mr. Brunner, who'd been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheeled his chair into the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand.

"What ho, Percy!" he shouted, and tossed the pen through the air. Mrs. Dodds lunged at me.

With a yelp, I dodged and felt talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatched the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hit my hand, it wasn't a pen anymore. It was a sword-Mr. Brunner's bronze sword, which he always used on tournament day.

Mrs. Dodds spun toward me with a murderous look in her eyes.

My knees were jelly. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the sword.

She snarled, "Die, honey!"

And she flew straight at me.

Absolute terror ran through my body and I heard a cry from where Atalanta was. I did the only thing that came naturally: I swung the sword.

The metal blade hit her shoulder and passed clean through her body as if she were made of water. Hisss!

Mrs. Dodds was a sand castle in a power fan. She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes were still watching me.

I was alone.

Atalanta was no where to be seen. There was a ballpoint pen in my hand.

Mr. Brunner wasn't there. Nobody was there but me.

My hands were still trembling. My lunch must've been contaminated with magic mushrooms or some-thing.

Had I imagined the whole thing? I went back outside.

It had started to rain.

Grover and Atalanta were sitting by the fountain, a museum map tented over their heads. Nancy Bobofit was still standing there, soaked from her swim in the fountain, grumbling to her ugly friends. When she saw me, she said, "I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your butt."

I said, "Who?"

"Our teacher. Duh!"

I blinked. We had no teacher named Mrs. Kerr. I asked Nancy what she was talking about. She just rolled her eyes and turned away.

I asked Atalanta why she’d left, and when she’d said “What are you talking about?” I instead turned to asking them where Mrs. Dodds was.

They said, "Who?"

But they paused first, and neither of them would look at me, so I thought they were messing with me.

"Not funny, guys," I told them. "This is serious."

Thunder boomed overhead.

I saw Mr. Brunner sitting under his red umbrella, reading his book, as if he'd never moved.

I went over to him.

He looked up, a little distracted. "Ah, that would be my pen. Please bring your own writing utensil in the future, Mr. Jackson."

I handed Mr. Brunner his pen. I hadn't even realized I was still holding it. "Sir," I said, "where's Mrs. Dodds?"

He stared at me blankly. "Who?"

"The other chaperone. Mrs. Dodds. The pre-algebra teacher."

He frowned and sat forward, looking mildly concerned. "Percy, there is no Mrs. Dodds on this trip. As far as I know, there has never been a Mrs. Dodds at Yancy Academy. Are you feeling all right?"

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