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CouldIhave written a novel there? No way. Aside from the fact that I could never write a novel anywhere, this place was way too distracting. I guess that’s proof that I got my ADHD from my dad’s side. My mom loved working there. It was only a few blocks from our apartment, and with the baby coming, she felt the deadline for her second manuscript pressing down on her. It was a race between the baby and the book, and the baby was winning.

Grover and I ordered drinks and snacks from the ballet dancer. Then we found my mom at her usual table in the back, where sunlight slanted through a transom window, warming a big black cat on the sill and refracting though dozens of crystal pendants that reminded me a little too much of the goddess Iris.

My mom’s hair was pulled back in a bun to keep it from falling in her face while she typed. She leaned forward, her face glowing in the light of the laptop screen like she wanted to dive into the world she was creating. She wore a stretchy dark skirt to accomodate her baby bump and one of my stepdad’s T-shirts—a black one with a picture of a dude playing a stand-up bass under the nameCHARLES MINGUS.

Next to her was a steaming pot of tea, probably lemon balm herbal, which she’d started drinking instead of coffee since she got pregnant. She rarely ate here—she made her own baked goods, so I guess she didn’t see the point—but the café staff loved her regardless. They never complained if she took up a table for the whole afternoon.

I was worried she might frown when she saw us walking up, since we were technically interrupting her workday, but she smiled with relief.

“Boys!” she said.

“Sorry to barge in,” Grover said.

“Not at all!” She patted the chair next to her. “Save me from this dialogue, please. I think it’s trying to kill me.”

Grover slid in next to her. I sat across the table. I’m always careful not to look at my mom’s screen while she’s writing, because a) I know it makes her nervous, b) the floating words make me queasy, and c) I can’t help wondering if she’s writing a character based on me. Maybe that sounds self-centered, but the idea of anybody writing a book about me makes me super paranoid.

“So, what’s going on?” she asked me. “New quest?”

“It’s like you know me.”

She laughed. “Tell me all.”

She must have been worried. Over the last seventeen years, I’d put her through a chariot-load of stress, but she’d gotten good at keeping her tone light and supportive. Honestly, I’m not sure how she did it. The only job harder than being a demigod is being a demigod’s mom.

I told her about my visit to the goddess/principal’s office. I left out a few need-to-know details like Hecate’s three-headed horror show and my subsequent change of underwear. I’d just finished bringing her up to speed when Mr. Ballerina brought us our order: a blueberry smoothie for me, a double-shot latte and a strawberry muffin for Grover.

I gave Grover the side-eye. There are two things that will send him into a hyperactive meltdown. One is coffee. The other is strawberry-flavored anything.

“It’ll be fine,” he promised when he saw me judging. “I’m going to jog to the park after this, pick up some supplies for tonight. I’ll burn off all the extra energy!”

I wondered what kind of supplies he could pick up in Central Park. I imagined him showing up at Hecate’s house with a basketful of squirrels.

“And this place, the ‘manse,’” my mom said, “where is it?”

I took out the blood-inscribed business card and handed it to her.

She read the address, and her smile crumbled. “Oh.”

“Oh?”I asked.

She gazed at the cat sleeping in the window as if it might have advice for her. “Nothing. I haven’t been to Gramercy Park in a very long time. Did I ever tell you…?” She hesitated, thinking better of whatever she was about to say. “No. It’s fine. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

It’s fineandBe carefulare not statements that go together well, especially when it’s your mom talking. Also, she saidGramercy Parkthe way I saidTartarus. I wasn’t sure if she was holding something back because it was a bad memory, or because Grover was with me, or both.

She shouldn’t have worried about Grover. He was obsessed with his muffin and coffee. Once he went into snacking mode, the only danger was that he might devour everything else on the table, including my smoothie, the teapot, and my mom’s laptop.

“I always try to be careful,” I promised. “Emphasis ontry.”

I waited to see if she would say anything else.

When she didn’t, I made a mental note to follow up with her later. One thing about me and my mom: she never pushes me to talk about something if I’m not ready. I try to give her the same courtesy.

Meanwhile, Grover was dabbing up the last of his muffin crumbs. I could practically feel him starting to vibrate.

“We should get going!” he said. “Lots to do! I’ve got to run around the park, and you have to pack for tonight! Meet up at sunset, right?”

I nodded, still focused on my mom.