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

“What happened on Olympus?” Annabeth asked me. “I didn’t get to hear about it.”

I hesitated. I was still processing what I’d seen at the brunch—and not just the horror of Zeus’s pedicured toenails. “It wasn’t too bad,” I said. “I got Ganymede the chalice just in time. He gave me my letter.”

Annabeth waited for more. I gave her a look.Later, okay?

“So...” Paul broke the silence. “What does a godly recommendation letter look like?”

“I’ll show you after dinner,” I promised. “Probably best if we don’t get spaghetti sauce on it.”

Once we’d cleaned up the dishes, I brought out the letter and set it on the living room table. Everybody leaned in like they were looking at a board game.

“It’s blank,” my mom noted.

“Lovely paper, though,” Paul said.

“If you got an essay on this paper,” I said, “would you just give it an A-plus without reading it?”

Paul grinned. “I would probably write ‘Nice try with the lovely paper, but you still need to provide examples that prove your thesis.’ ”

“Well, there goes that idea,” I grumbled.

My mom picked up the letter and looked at both sides. “Is it written in some sort of invisible ink?”

“I have to do it myself.” I explained what Ganymede had told me—that I could say whatever I wanted, within reason, and once I had done a good job, his signature would appear at the bottom.

Paul frowned. “That seems a bit...”

“Too trusting?” Annabeth guessed.

“I was going to say lazy on Ganymede’s part.” Paul glanced at the ceiling. “Though I hope that doesn’t get me zapped with a lightning bolt.”

“Nah,” I said. “The gods would take that as a compliment. They raise lazy to an art form.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” Paul said.

I knew he was being facetious, but the comment made me wince. I’d been offered that work, and I’d turned it down. But the more I thought about Ganymede, the happier I was with my choice. His job was anything but nice.

My mom set the paper back on the table. “How does it know when to start writing?”

“Dunno,” I admitted. “Maybe I just say ‘Dear Admissions Office.’ ”

I should have known better. Fancy calligraphy blazed to life across the top of the paper, each letter forming in fiery bronze ink with a sound like a burning fuse:Dear Admissions Office.

“Well, crap,” I said.

Well, crap, wrote the fancy calligraphy.

“No! Delete!” I said.

Thankfully, the writing erased itself.

I looked at Annabeth, who was trying hard not to laugh.

“This isn’t funny,” I said, “Delete, delete. I didn’t know it would start. Delete, delete.”

My mom stared at the letters writing and erasing themselves. “That is amazing paper. What’s it made out of?”