Rick Riordan
The Last Olympian - 05
"This way, my dear!" Ms. Castellan steered me toward the back of the house. "Oh, I told
them you would come back. I knew it!"
She sat us down at the kitchen table. Stacked on the counter were hundreds—I mean
hundreds—of Tupperware boxes with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches inside. The ones on the
bottom were green and fuzzy, like they'd been there for a long time. The smell reminded me of my
sixth grade locker—and that's not a good thing.
On top of the oven was a stack of cookie sheets. Each one had a dozen burned cookies on
it. In the sink was a mountain of empty plastic Kool-Aid pitchers. A beanbag Medusa sat by the
faucet like she was guarding the mess.
Ms. Castellan started humming as she got out peanut butter and jelly and started making a
new sandwich. Something was burning in the oven. I got the feeling more cookies were on the way.
Above the sink, taped all around the window, were dozens of little pictures cut from
magazines and newspaper ads—pictures of Hermes from the FTD Flowers logo and Quickie
Cleaners, pictures of the caduceus from medical ads.
My heart sank. I wanted to get out of that room, but Ms. Castellan kept smiling at me as she
made the sandwich, like she was making sure I didn't bolt.
Nico coughed. "Urn, Ms. Castellan?"
"Mm?"
"We need to ask you about your son."
"Oh, yes! They told me he would never come back. But I knew better." She patted my cheek
affectionately, giving me peanut butter racing stripes.
"When did you last see him?" Nico asked.
Her eyes lost focus.
"He was so young when he left," she said wistfully. "Third grade. That's too young to run
away! He said he'd be back for lunch. And I waited. He likes peanut butter sandwiches and cookies
and Kool-Aid. He'll be back for lunch very soon. . . ." Then she looked at me and smiled. "Why,
Luke, there you are! You look so handsome. You have your father's eyes."
She turned toward the pictures of Hermes above the sink. "Now, there's a good man. Yes,
indeed. He comes to visit me, you know."
The clock kept ticking in the other room. I wiped the peanut butter off my face and looked at
Nico pleadingly, like Can we get out of here now?
"Ma'am," Nico said. "What, uh . . . what happened to your eyes?"
Her gaze seemed fractured—like she was trying to focus on him through a kaleidoscope.
"Why, Luke, you know the story. It was right before you were born, wasn't it? I'd always been
special, able to see through the . . . whatever-they-call-it."
"The Mist?" I said.
"Yes, dear." She nodded encouragingly. "And they offered me an important job. That's how
special I was!"
I glanced at Nico, but he looked as confused as I was.
"What sort of job?" I asked. "What happened?"
Ms. Castellan frowned. Her knife hovered over the sandwich bread. "Dear me, it didn't work
out, did it? Your father warned me not to try. He said it was too dangerous. But I had to. It was my
destiny! And now . . . I still can't get the images out of my head. They make everything seem so
fuzzy. Would you like some cookies?"
She pulled a tray out of the oven and dumped a dozen lumps of chocolate chip charcoal on
the table.
"Luke was so kind," Ms. Castellan murmured. "He left to protect me, you know. He said if he
went away, the monsters wouldn't threaten me. But I told him the monsters are no threat! They sit
outside on the sidewalk all day, and they never come in." She picked up the little stuffed Medusa
from the windowsill. "Do they, Mrs. Medusa? No, no threat at all." She beamed at me. "I'm so glad
you came home. I knew you weren't ashamed of me!"
I shifted in my seat. I imagined being Luke sitting at this table, eight or nine years old, and
just beginning to realize that my mother wasn't all there.
"Ms. Castellan," I said.
"Mom," she corrected.
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