So, I wasn't planning on starting a new project, but I did. Partially it's because I'm hitting a block with my other two stories, and I wanted to beat the writer's block before it really had a chance to settle in. Also, I've been a PJO fan for a million years, so this was long overdue.
Enjoy.

Chapter 1

It was the most horrible day of my entire life.

I didn't even die or anything. But one day I fell asleep in my fluffy, soft mattress with my cat sitting on my head, a few months after my sixteenth birthday, and when I woke up, things were… different.

Let's get something straight: I am not a morning person. Not even close. My mind isn't even halfway to functional until I have at least two cups of highly caffeinated coffee, and even then I tend to fall asleep in the middle of first period. So when I woke up, I didn't really notice anything odd at first. The air in my room was weird, like I'd forgotten to open my window and let in fresh air the night before, but I figured it was probably owing to sinusy crap or something. Y'know, that junk that makes everything taste weird. I'd even been woken up in the same way as usual, the way I liked: no sound. Not a knock at my door, not a word. Instead, the light in my room had been turned on. It burned my eyes when I first opened them, but to me, all voices before 11:30 AM sounded like nails on a chalkboard. The longer I could postpone it, the better.

I rolled over a few times before sitting up, my astigmatism totally ruining whatever images were before me. I blinked, smacked my lips, and then swung my legs over the side of my bed. Then I waited a few more minutes before actually rising, which was a good thing, because my feet were like five feet off the ground.

What the heck? My ceiling is barely more than five feet off the ground.

I leapt off, landing easily on my feet. Luckily, my balance had always been good. Still, I was more than a little put off. Had I had a sleepover with a friend, and I was just too groggy to remember it? Like I said, I wasn't a morning person. Still, that didn't seem like me. Something was wrong - way wrong. I rose off of the ground slowly and looked around, quickly picking out a table with a pair of plain brown-framed glasses on it. Mine. I picked them up and put them on, and the image instantly clarified. Far to my left was a door, to the right of which were the light switches. To the right of the switches were four different dressers. Each had a picture frame above them, but instead of a picture, they were filled with printer paper, with colorfully inked names in the ugliest fonts I'd ever seen: Nancy, Sarah-Grace, Phoebe, and Amara,

Amara. That's me, but I've never been here before. And who are Nancy, Sarah-Grace, and Pheobe? I turned around. Directly across from the dressers were two sets of bunk beds. Probably the same girls who used those dressers slept in the beds here.

I blinked a few more times. Damn, was I tired. As weird as this was, it was probably me forgetting something. I needed to get my priorities in order, and the first thing on my list at 7:18:56, 57, 58, and counting, according to the analog clock on the wall, was coffee. Coffee, and then I'd figure all of this out.

I hurried towards the door and opened it, my palm covered with the fabric of my t-shirt, but closed it quickly when this little girl ran past wearing a loose grey sweater and a khaki skirt. I was still wearing pajamas, which also meant that I was not wearing a bra. In fact, it was possible that I was wearing nothing but panties.

Luckily, I seemed to be wearing an overlarge t-shirt and a pair of fluffy black pants with snowflakes on them, which were, I remembered, exactly the same things I'd been wearing the night before. Mornings, I thought, wandering over to the dresser marked as mine and standing in front of it. I used my hand to grab a fistful of my shirt, covering my palm, and then pulled open the top drawer. It was full of grey-blue sweaters, neatly folded, with collared shirts sewn into them. I pulled one out and tossed it haphazardly onto one of the beds behind me, then opened the middle drawer. There were two piles: one with khaki pants and belts, and the other a pile of khaki skirts. I pulled out a pair of the pants and frowned. Since when did I ever own any skirts? Like, ever? Even if somebody had kidnapped me, they should have at least had the decency to research my style.

The last drawer revealed nude-colored bras and socks (I grabbed some of those without hesitation) and panties. Had I changed my panties the night before? I paused in thought and grabbed a pair anyways. I was better off safe than sorry.

Since the room was empty, and everyone who apparently lived in this room was a girl, based on their names, I decided to just go ahead and change. I turned to the bed with all of the clothing on it (clothing that looked a lot like school uniforms I'd seen in the past) and frowned. It looked weird somehow. Not the style; I didn't mind that. It was neat, and I was the kind of person who either dressed neatly, like in a button-down and pants, or with a simple tee and jeans with the occasional flannel or plaid shirt overtop of it. I didn't dress the 'trendy' way. I didn't care, it didn't matter, and it was expensive. No, the problem here was the size. All of the clothes looked way too small. "Morning," I muttered, shaking my head and discarding the overlarge Pirates of the Caribbean t-shirt and grabbing the bra. I looked down and had to hold back a scream.

"What happened to my boobs?" I whispered hysterically once I had semi-calmed down. Where my uncomfortably large D-cups had once been were now - I glanced at the tag on the bra - the same B cups I'd had in fourth grade.

This was clearly a dream. A bizarre, terrible dream.

Me being the aspiring writer I was, I'd written 'dream scenes' before, and I'd had to research the differences between dream and reality before. So the first thing I did was to look down at my hand and really focus on it. It would have looked retarded if anybody had walked in (outrageous, actually - a half-naked me staring at my hand like I was trying to burn a couple of holes in it) but that didn't matter because it was a dream. Definitely a dream.

But when I counted my digits, there were five. Not three, not four, not six. Five. So I needed a mirror. Regardless of my partial indecency, I was pretty much willing to streak around the hallway if it meant finding a mirror, but I struck it lucky (if you could call any of this more than bad luck) and there was one on the back of my door.

This revealed any number of alarming things. The first thing I noticed was that I'd shrunk. I'd always been a little on the short side, but it wasn't bad. The mirror on the door, though, showed that I was… way short, though. Too short. Like… I appeared to be about four-foot-two.

A tear involuntarily rolled down my cheek.

Second, I noticed that I was thin. In reality - because I still wanted this to be a dream - I wasn't fat, but I was a little above average, and I'd been seriously considering a diet plan to help me get back on track. Here, I had the same healthy, thin layer of fat over muscle that I'd had when I was still enrolled in mixed martial arts. But that had been years ago. I'd quit MMA before I even hit sixth grade! Then I'd gotten addicted to chocolate ice cream and Netflix, and it was a downward spiral from there. A smaller detail that went along with that one was that my skin was pale as heck. I'd always been pale, but this looked sickly. Like I was dead or something.

I adjusted my gaze from my body to my face, when I noted some other things that bothered me. It was becoming clear to me that, in this terrible, terrible dream, I was in a much younger body than my own, but there were a few things different about this body. For instance, assuming I was about twelve or thirteen, my hair should have been long, fluffy, and mud-colored. It was long and fluffy, alright, but it was a little darker, like the deep, rich brown of a coffee bean. It made my skin look even more grossly pale, but when I looked past that, I noticed that my freckles were absent. Of course. If my slight tan was gone, then why would my freckles still be there? But my eyes were still hazel and narrow, my nose a button, and my lower lip fuller than my upper one. I still looked mostly the same. Just… younger. And in a place I didn't recognize.

And my reflection in the mirror was crystal clear, not a single blur or distortion about it.

I looked down at my body. Other than the fact that I looked just like my twelve-year-old self, everything was perfect. My limbs were in fine shape. Again, none of the signs of distortion often shown in dreams.

"One, two, three, testing," I said. "Testing." My voice sounded fine, and it was coming from my mouth.

I looked at one of the dressers and tried to move it with my mind. It didn't work. I also couldn't make things appear with my mind, or make things disappear.

I looked at the analog clock. Less than ten minutes had passed, and there were no signs - that I could think of - that suggested this was a dream. For the past few minutes I'd been perfectly calm, but now I pulled on my pirate shirt and crawled into the unfamiliar bunk bed. The mattress was thinner and less comfortable than my own, but it was also in way better shape. Even it didn't really provide comfort, so I burrowed beneath my covers and into the dark.

Ten minutes later, two teachers had to rush into the room to stop me screaming.

Ø

"Okay, honey," said the teacher who'd stayed just outside of what was apparently my dorm room after telling me to get dressed and ready to go. It had taken her and the other teacher hours to calm me down. It had taken them almost one just to get me to poke my head out of the blanket. They'd both been entirely startled when I made them show me their teacher IDs, but now I didn't even remember this teacher's name. I didn't remember the other's either, but she'd run off, anyways. I'd always been good at forgetting them. "Just sit here. The nurse is going to see you soon, okay? And then she'll drop you off by the guidance office, okay?"

I frowned, but nodded, and she left. I hadn't really wanted to be left alone in the little office, since the secretary, ever focused on her typing, didn't count as company. Still, I could hardly make myself any more vulnerable looking. It was clear enough that the teacher ladies had thought I was having some kind of a nervous breakdown. Whatever this was, I didn't want to make it worse for myself.

I'd been allowed to stare at the IDs for a long time before the second teacher snatched them away and started whining about protocol, but I had only managed to pick out the words 'academy' and 'teacher assistant' on one of their cards. It was clear enough now that I was at a boarding school, most likely one that hosted grades 6-12. Also, I had discovered that I was a sixth grader. I was still in a state of shock, but I'd recovered enough to at least hide my fear and confusion a little.

After a few short minutes of waiting, a blond, chubby woman in flowered scrubs poked her head out of a room in the corner. "Are you Amara Easterling?" she asked, smiling at me. I nodded and stood, walking her way. "Alright. Let's get you checked out, okay hon?" She let me into the nurse's office and closed the door behind me. The she sat at her desk and typed until my student profile popped up on the screen. "Okay, Amara. Tell me how you're feeling."

I didn't want to hesitate, so I gave it some thought, fast. I definitely didn't want to be in classes today. I couldn't handle it. Still, if I acted too sick, something would probably go terribly wrong. "I have a really bad headache," I answered, thinking of the weird-tasting air that morning and deciding that I'd go for a mild sinus/allergy related problem.

"Okay. Can you tell me where, specifically?" she asked, and I motioned in the general area around my eyes and nose. "Okay." She types a little more and some information showed up in pop-ups on the screen as she went. "Let's take your temperature."

I almost groaned. My body temperature was generally a degree or more below normal. It fact, if my temperature ever hit normal, it was usually an indication that I was sick. This meant that no matter how sick I was, I'd always end up going to school or whatever event my parents felt like forcing me into. The nurse grabbed a thermometer off her desk and stuck it into a box. When she withdrew it, the sensitive part was covered in plastic. My blood seemed to boil with irritation, but when she was done, the nurse was unalarmed. "No fever," she declared. Of course not. Maybe I should stick my finger down my throat. "I think the only physical health problem you're dealing with right now is a little bit of an allergy problem. It's pretty late in the spring to be dealing with that, but it's not all that uncommon. Why don't you go see Mrs. Landry and let her decide what to do with you?"

I wasn't sure, but I decided that Mrs. Landry was probably the guidance counselor. Yet another person I don't want to see. Pretend to be sane, 'Mara. Pretend to be sane.

It took me a minute to track down her office and I actually had to ask the secretary, but when I knocked she answered almost immediately. "Miss Easterling, come in! Hello, dear!" I paused. I couldn't exactly pull up my shirt in public, so I grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the secretary's desk. She raised her neatly drawn eyebrows at me, but I used it to open the door before shoving it in my pocket. The I closed it with my foot.

Mrs. Landry was an older, wrinkly lady with golden-brown graying hair and twinkly brown eyes. She gestured for me to sit in a green chair in front of her desk, and I did, folding my hands neatly in my lap. "Miss Easterling, I was told you've had quite the morning," she told me cheerfully as a starter to our conversation, and I simply stared shyly up at her. After all, while I'd never been particularly shy, I'd actively chosen not to talk to people, especially when I was younger. Hopefully this was in character.

Finally, I replied, "Yes ma'am."

"Ms. Mavis told me that you were crying out and speaking nonsensically. Is there a reason for that?" she asked kindly.

"I had a terrible headache when I woke up this morning," I blabbed, then frowned deeper. I never spoke without thinking. What was up with that?

"When she and Mrs. Anderson came into your room, you hid from them, Amara," Mrs. Landry reminded me gently.

"The light hurt," I blurted, "and I couldn't see their faces very well. I was scared." What on Earth? There goes my allergy story…

"Hm. The nurse doesn't have a history of migraines recorded for you," Mrs. Landry told me, staring at her laptop. "Do you know what a migraine is, dear?"

"No," I lied. I'd actually had my fair share of migraines before. Usually they were very short but very intense. That morning, of course, hadn't a thing to do with migraines.

"They're very intense headaches, Amara," she explained, "and a lot of times people who have migraines are very sensitive to light." Well, obviously I did know that, or I wouldn't have been spitting it out like it tasted bad. Like it was instinct. "A lot of times migraines are brought on by stress. Do you remember discussing sleep terrors with your old school counselor?"

I decided that it was inappropriate to really respond to that question and looked down at my lap.

"I believe that you experienced a sleep terror, Amara. When you woke up this morning, did you feel distressed?"

I was suddenly very impressed with myself, since I could see where she was going now. I was also disappointed that this version of me was so very manipulative. "Yes, but I wanted to try really hard to get over it," I explained.

"Sleep terrors and the insomnia you've been experiencing recently cause a great deal of stress, Amara," Mrs. Landry said. She leaned forward, staring me down over her desk. "I think you had a sleep terror last night and it pushed you over the edge, causing your migraine this morning, and the sense of panic you felt."

"Okay," I said acceptingly, even though there were quite a few holes in that theory.

"Generally these aren't things to be concerned about, but yours have persisted for a very long time. You've also reached the age where you shouldn't be experiencing them for much longer. If this continues, please alert me or the nurse. It could be a more serious issue. Do you understand, Miss Easterling?"

"Yes, Mrs. Landry," I said obediently.

"Good girl." Mrs. Landry typed for a few straight seconds. "Would you like to talk to your guardians?"

"No," I lied. I did want to talk to my parents. But not now. And my parents.

"Alright. I want you to rest for today," Mrs. Landry said. "I've excused you from your classes, but you are fully expected to make up the work. And remember, if this becomes a recurring problem, let someone know."

"Yes ma'am."

"Go wait in the office for someone to escort you back to your dorm, Mrs. Easterling."

Ø

I sat quietly in my seat, staring tiredly at my math book as I waited for class to start. I had slept through an entire day. It was funny how doing something like that actually made you feel more tired in the end. Sort of like how I always seemed to become exhausted if I had to sit in a car for too long.

Even more horribly, I'd discovered that, at this school, only students above sixteen were allowed to have coffee. I'd managed to snag a cup on the student black market with a quarter out of the money I'd found in my backpack, but I didn't have enough quarters to last the rest of the school year. It was crappy coffee, too.

"Hey, Amara!" called a chubby girl with short black hair and happy green eyes. She stood by my desk and smiled down at me. She was wearing a skirt, and even though I hated generalising, I immediately marked her as very girlish - though it wasn't just down to her choice of dress. "Missing your coffee again."

"Definitely," I moaned, propping my head up in the palm of my hand. "I feel like I might pass out any minute now."

The girl chuckled at me. "Well, I hope you're feeling better. I wanted to check on you, but you were asleep when Gracie and I got to the room." Gracie? Oh. Sarah-Grace. So she's either Nancy or -

"Phoebe!" screeched a girl with brilliantly red hair and orange freckles. "Oh, it's you, Mary." I cringed. Mary? "Back from the dead, huh?" She smiled, like she was being friendly, but it was pretty obvious that she was making fun of me. I raised an eyebrow at her in response.

"My name is Amara," I told her coolly.

"And with a personality now, too! You never used to talk," she said, covering her mouth with a pale hand as she laughed at me. I guess a normal twelve-year-old would have been pissed, but I'd dealt with meaner, cleverer bullies than her before, and most of them had learned it was unwise to bother me in time.

I was less worried about the kids pinpointed any adjustments to my personality than I was with the adults. Kids couldn't make me see a shrink or put me on meds, after all. Besides, I still wasn't entirely sure that this was real. I hadn't noticed any obvious signs that it wasn't, but it seemed too strange to be realistic.

"Nancy," Phoebe said warningly, and then turned back to me. "Anyways, what are you doing out of your assigned seat? Mrs. Dodds will kill you!" I was so shell-shocked that I didn't even notice her picking up my books and plunking them into a desk a few spots away. Mrs. Dodds? Nancy the Ginger Bitch? I was hit by a total wave of familiarity, but before I had much time to ponder it, the bell rang.

"Better get to your desk, Mary!" Nancy giggle-snorted, and I jumped my desk to get to the one where Phoebe had placed my books. I slid into my seat just as the teacher came in, bringing with her the smell of spicy perfume and an uncomfortable churning of my stomach. She was ancient and wrinkly, like some hideous hag, and she was absolutely tiny. It was also evident that she was one of those awful old ladies who can't accept that their glory days are over, so they dress like teenagers to compensate for all their wrinkles. Hideous. She wore a pitch black leather jacket and had a mean look about her. I made a mental note to stay on her good side.

She sat down in a desk in the front of the room, and that's when the dread hit me. Even if this was a dream, I was about to live through sixth grade math again. Of all the classes to retake, it had to be this one. Why did this have to happen to me? Is this because I'm in a coma and my mind wants me to wake up? Because I'm totally willing. Please, please let me wake up. This isn't even just because of the math. Please.

But I didn't wake up. Actually, things got worse. "Amara Easterling?" called Mrs. Dodds, snapping me back to the present(?). She had a Southern accent, which might have been pleasant if it wasn't eight-thirty in the morning. Plus, it just wasn't pleasant. I can't even explain it. "You're not in your assigned seat. Now, honey…" I felt my mind go haywire, again, like there was something right in front of my face that I was missing. Like there was a clear block in my mind. "... why is that?"

I heard some giggling behind me, and then Nancy whispering, "I can't believe she did it! What a ditz!" Phoebe, the girl who'd moved my stuff there in the first place, giggled in response. My cheeks reddened slightly, and I made a promise to myself to take revenge.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Dodds." I couldn't tell her I'd forgotten where my assigned seat was. She'd pass it on and the nurse or whoever was in charge of deciding whether I needed to see a doctor would decide I'd sustained some brain damage within the last couple of days. So, excuse or no excuse? I looked at her and decided that she was the no nonsense type. Go minimal. "I wasn't thinking about it." I stood up and turned around. Luckily, there was one empty spot that was pretty obviously mine, so I walked past my snickering classmates and sat down.

"We are well over three-quarters through the year, Miss Easterling," Mrs. Dodds said, her voice hushed, but somehow echoing through the room. "See me after class."

And just like that, she started talking about dividing fractions.

I wasn't sure how I was going to get revenge on Nancy and Phoebe, but since I was half-sure this was a dream, I figured I'd go all out. I had several advantages over them. The first one, I thought, was intelligence. Just to be frank, I'm an intelligent person anyways. I've always been a thinker, which was why I was so shocked by the blurting and what I thought was pretty obvious lying to teachers. I had no problem using my intelligence against Phoebe and her freckled friend, and I really didn't think it was a half-bad idea to ruin their lives (here at school, anyways). I wouldn't do anything too awful, and even if I did… well, with a temper like mine, intelligence didn't always win out, even without the new impulsiveness I was experiencing.

While Mrs. Dodds talked, I doodled absently in the margins. One of them was my baby brother, Josiah, running with his arms outstretched, but I started to fall into my mid-period slumber while I did the others. When I was awakened by the bell, I caught a glimpse of them just long enough to be disturbed before a slammed my book shut and jammed it in my bag.

"Now honey," Mrs. Dodds said in her sweet old lady Georgian accent, "are you forgetting something?" I mentally swore and took the pink slip she was holding out. It doomed me to my first ever after-school detention (yes, including my 'real' school career). The old hag grinned at me as I left, and as that nostalgic feeling hit me and turned, I remembered my sketch: a bat-winged Mrs. Dodds with a mouthful of fangs, chewing at the head of a boy I'd never seen before.

I would have to take care to erase that from the book, if I erased anything at all.

Ø

Oddly enough, it was the smallest thing that made me remember.

Here's the thing; I hadn't forgotten. I think I already knew where I was, and what was going to happen within a matter of days. But I didn't like it, and so my brain tucked it into its depths so I could be safe it my own ignorance.

It was enchilada day. Lucky for me, the cafeteria food at Yancy Academy was pretty good, or I would have starved before I even had a chance to remember. The aroma coming from the kitchens was incredible, and I was just about to run straight to it.

That's what did it.

I'd figured out Nancy Bobofit's last name, the name of the school, and I'd gone through three of Mr. Brunner's lessons, but what really brought me to attention was enchilada day. Because before I had a chance to run into the cafeteria, somebody else did: this crippled kid called Rover or something, who was scared shitless of Mrs. Dodds and sometimes hung out in Mr. Brunner's even after the bell rang.

I saw him running, and then it hit me: that's Grover Underwood.

And that guy behind him is Percy Jackson. PERCY. JACKSON.

I did detention with a Fury.

My Latin teacher is a centaur.

Mother of God. Th-the gods. Damn it - I'm going to die. Gods. Gods. This is the world of Percy Jackson.

Needless to say, I didn't have any enchiladas that day.