I shuffled down the hallway towards the bathroom, ignoring the sting of curious gazes. The whispers followed – “What’s wrong with her?” “Look at that girl…” – but I braced myself, focusing on the chipped paint of the stall door as I reached it. I locked myself in and lowered myself onto the toilet lid, face buried in my hands.
The voices persisted, a low murmur of judgment. I tuned them out, forcing my attention inward. My hands trembled as I reached into my backpack and pulled out Daedalus’s laptop. Its sleek silver casing felt cool against my skin. Inside, blueprints for the reconstruction of Olympus filled the screen, designs I’d poured over for months. Being entrusted with Olympus’s redesign had been a balm for my grief after the war. It was a place for hope and dreams.
The laptop clicked open, and the familiar glow of the designs washed over me. It was a temporary escape, a shield against the rising panic. I slipped on my headphones, shutting out the world. I scrolled through digital photo albums, images of Percy and Grover at Camp Half-Blood, snapshots from quests we'd survived together. A sob caught in my throat. I gripped the laptop tighter, reminding myself: *No, Annabeth. No breakdowns this year.* I had to be stronger than this.
I closed the laptop, switching to my phone. It usually felt like a beacon for monsters, a flashing invitation for danger. But this felt like an emergency. I didn’t understand the rising tide of anxiety. Maybe I was simply overreacting. The second period bell buzzed, but I ignored it.
I punched in Percy’s number on the slider phone and pressed it to my ear. *This is a stupid idea,* I thought, *but what are the chances he’ll even…*
“Hello, Annabeth?” His voice, warm and familiar, came through the line.
I fought back the urge to dissolve into tears. I needed to speak before the emotions overwhelmed me.
“Percy? This is all wrong.” The words tumbled out, raw and desperate.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was instantly concerned.
I spilled everything – the whispers, the stares, the suffocating weight of grief, the fear that something was fundamentally broken. I spoke until my voice was hoarse, my eyes burning with unshed tears. A long silence followed.
“That really sucks,” he said finally.
“Yeah,” I managed, the word catching in my throat. “It does.”
“How were you even able to answer me on this call?” I asked.
“I was skipping class,” he admitted, a smirk evident even through the phone.
“Well, thanks,” I said, a small smile touching my lips. “Talking to you really helped.”
“I’m here for you, Wise Girl, anytime. Hey, and remember if you thought it out you can go to school with me next year!”
I hung up, a wave of warmth washing over me. He was right. I knew he was. But something was shifting within me, a current of emotion stronger than anything I’d felt before. School had always been intolerable, but I’d always managed to endure. Why was this year different? Why was I so raw, so vulnerable? I realized, with a sharp pang, that it wasn’t just grief or fear. It was because I finally had someone who cared, and I wanted him—wanted *him* more than ever.
What was happening to me?