Everyone knew Perseus Jackson.

Fastest mile runner on the cross country team for four running years, sea-green bedroom eyes, side-swept messily effortless inky black hair, an easy, boyish smile, his gentle yet firm demeanor. He didn't have any trouble finding girls to swoon over him, they fall at his feet left and right. He didn't know how, but he slowly started hanging out with the jocks. First, it was just a few other guys playing video games after practice, but before he realized it, he was apart of the clique of jocks, throwing footballs around in the courtyards, wearing jerseys to school, skipping class, making stupid jokes, and going to loud and rowdy parties. Surprisingly, Percy didn't hate it. Everyone worshipped him, even the teachers, and he easily got a girlfriend, a pretty brunette named Presley.

Percy slung his backpack over his shoulder and looked at his friend's texts, telling him to meet them in the coach's office to go over game tactics. Percy looked down the hallway, his eyebrows furrowed. Where was the coach's office again? He traveled down the halls, flinging open doors. He reached one, yanking it open and popping his head inside. Percy was about to close the door when he spotted a person inside the room. He walked further inside the room, overserving that it was the art room. Percy had never been in the art room before. The walls and ceilings were decorated with different projects, bright and vibrant.

In one of the corners, a girl sat on a stool, her hair tied back with a bandana, her sleeves rolled up to her forearms, a paintbrush perched in one hand and a palette with carefully mixed colors in the other. Percy almost gasped. He'd never seen her before, but she had to be the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. She was naturally beautiful, her face free of the cakey stuff Presley wore, her eyebrows crinkled in concentration, so much so that she didn't even hear Percy.

Until he tripped over a stool on the ground, like an idiot.