Hey readers! It's MEH again, Eagle! I'm back with another fic, and this one is a OC placed 1 year (more or less) after the events of TLO. So, read on and enjoy! Please comment, it would MAKE my day!

Disclaimer: The Hollywood Architecture Museum is NOT real. I made it up. Ryan, Mona, Michelle, Dad and all others not in the books are my own characters, all others belong to Rick Riordan. I am not him, so quit asking for my autograph. (lol)

Chapter 1: I actually listen to my step-mom

I spun my chair to the big Mac hooked up to my music software. It was set to let me pick a mood and it would give me a song. It was programmed to over a 100 different moods. (Did you know it registers "High" and "Mash Potatoes" as a mood? Don't ask.) I though for a while. How do you put a "…whatever" mood into words?

"Uh, 'Random'." I told it. (Voice commands are totally in, by the way.) Something Beatles came on. I squinted at the screen. "Octopus Garden". When I say random, I mean a random song from the library, not a literally "Random" song. I paused the music.

"Note to self: fix that." I told the room at large.

"This note recorded at 10:50 am, July 14th." Said the computerized voice coming from my note-taking program. I had just turned on the Internet when someone barged in. "Note to self: Fix locks." I muttered under my breath.

"Good morning, Ryan!" she said with a cheeriness that made me want to gag. She ruffled my hair. I sighed and flattened it again.

"Now where am I supposed put this? You ought to clear out all these computers and disks!" she said loudly, clutching a tray full with eggs, hash browns, OJ and pancakes. "I had Mona make this for you, but I though I'd bring it up myself." she grinned when she saw me looking at it. Then she put it on my bed. I noticed her pink tank top and black yoga pants.

"Well. I'm off to the gym, okay?" Yes. I was well aware of her abs and tanned arms. "You should get outside, Ry! We live in the Golden state, and you spend all your time indoors on the computer!" she grinned a very white grin again and left the room. Go outside? Are you kidding? It's the Dog Days! In California. In JULY. I flipped the screen to the security cameras I had hooked up, looking at the one pointed at the marble foyer. I saw her cheery blonde head grab her yoga mat and come out the door.

Then I slid over to the intercom in my room, and pressed the button.

"Don't let her do that again." I said flatly into it.

"Well, so-ree, Ryan!" said Mona, our wickedly good Spanish cook. "What was I supposed to do? Say no?" she paused. "Okay, I don't like her either, but we should try to deal with her, si? Be nice."

"Okay." I said, sighing and turning it off. I picked at my breakfast, and ended up just nibbling some toast and eating a hard-boiled egg.

Why did Dad even remarry anyway? I asked myself as I shuffled to the bathroom, still in my pajamas. This question was asked every day, anyway. So I took a shower.

When I came out, I toweled off and moved over to the big mirror in my even huger bathroom. My reflection was not really too promising. My body was skinny and very pale, even at 16, from not playing any sports. I hate sports. I don't even like spending time outside too much.

There were slight dark spots under my gray eyes from staying up too late. My teeth were, mercifully, straight from braces at 13. My black hair stuck up in weird little spikes from drying it, and there was a bristle or two on my chin. I do look pretty corpse like, I thought. Maybe Michelle is right in telling me to go get a tan. If she's ever right.

I went back to my room to change, thinking about it. The time before she came into our life. My Dad, his mom was an immigrant from China. He's this huge special effects guy in Hollywood. Before her, we ate cereal for dinner and he walked around with his shirt untucked in pajamas when he got home from work. We played video games, and were big on techno-pimping our whole house. All the computers, they're gifts from him. I have 4 in my room.

Then came Michelle. She's a perky blonde woman, Beverly Hills born and raised, and works for some entertainment TV as a correspondent. She's interview all these celebrities. It might be cool, if, you know, I was a 14-year-old girl. But I'm not. I'm just a 16-year-old computer nerd. Minus the glasses. (Laser eye surgery)

Now my Dad makes us eat dinner in the dining room as a "family" and wears actual work clothes. No more video games and cereal for him.

She's not even, well, never mind. I'm not the perfect prep jock kid she was probably hoping for. I pulled out cargo shorts, sneakers and a dark blue tee shirt from my closet. My usual clothing. I buy the same thing every season, even in winter. I may be a nerd, but I don't wear checkered shirts and mom jeans. My clothes aren't from Target either. We're not poor. I have to admit, we're rich. I mean, I go to private school and we have a huge house in Beverly Hills. I don't think I appreciate it enough, though. I mean, take away the huge room and pool and yard and expensive clothes and I would still function like a regular unpopular teenager. Where I live, good stuff doesn't make you popular. Because everyone else has the same stuff.

I though about what I should do today. I sat down at my computer, thinking maybe I'd visit the city. The computer compiled a list of visatable places. I scrolled through the results. Hollywood Architecture Museum. In biking distance. I decided on it and printed the address, sticking it in my back pocket.

"Mona!" I said, ducking into the kitchen. "I'm going into the city, okay?" I said. She came out of the pantry and gave me a surprised look. I know, I know, it had been a long time since I went out anywhere.

"You'll take a taxi?" she asked.

"No, I think I'll bike." I replied. So much for having a license.

"Bike. Oh, ok." Her eyebrows went up a little for a second. "Don't forget your cellphone!" she said as I left.

"Yeah yeah yeah." I said to myself, remembering not to do that. Weird things happen when I use my phone. Like this one time I was walking around the beach, and called my dad. Then this huge, I'm talking head as big as mine, snake, jumped at me. So I ran. Fast. I never told anyone about it. I don't need anyone thinking I'm geeky, weird and crazy.

So I rolled my blue bike out of the garage, hoping I hadn't forgotten how to ride it. But turns out it's true, I guess, that you never forget how to ride a bike. The heat was blistering, but I still managed to get a good time in.

I passed palm trees and limousines, mansions and perfectly manicured lawns. I rode faster, willing to get out of the dreary suburbanity of it all. Finally I made it to the city.

Beverly Hills is a glamorous city, famous for it's shopping, nice weather and celebrities. So riding a bike stuck out like a sore thumb. Everyone stared. Any kid my age worth his parents cash around here would be either driving an expensive car, or have their own driver. I have neither, and I was beginning to remember why I didn't go into the city too often.

Finally I made it there. The museum was a plain old columned façade. I locked my bike; even at the chance of anyone here stealing it was about nil. Then I proceeded inside.

The air conditioning was nice on my sweaty, erg, everything. There were a lot of people milling around inside. I walked into the first exhibit to my left, which turned out to be about green building in the area.

I was just finished reading about green roofs when I turned around and saw them.