Here’s a challenge: try to do a full day of school (actually, that could be the whole challenge by itself), and then, afterward, go on a quest to find a goddess, knowing that when you get home, if you get home, you’ll still have a couple of hours of math and science homework to do.
I was feeling pretty salty as we headed downtown, and it had nothing to do with my Salty Sailor.
Grover brought us straight to Times Square—the noisiest, most crowded, most tourist-infested part of Manhattan. I tried to avoid Times Square as much as possible, which naturally meant I just kept getting sucked into it, usually to battle a monster, talk to a god, or hang from a billboard in my boxer shorts. (Long story.)
Grover stopped at a storefront I would have passed right by. For half a block, all the windows were covered in foil. Usually, that means the place is either out of business or super shady. Then I looked up at the enormous electronic sign above the entrance. I might have walked by it a dozen times before, but I’d never paid it any attention. In Times Square, all the flashy jumbo screens kind of blend together.
“No way,” I said.
Annabeth shook her head. “She really named her place Hebe Jeebies?” “Afraid so,” Grover sighed.
“And how did you know about this place?” I asked.
His cheeks flushed. “They have great licorice ropes. You can’t pass by without smelling them!”
I couldn’t see anything through the windows. I definitely didn’t smell anything. Then again, I don’t have a satyr’s nose for licorice. It’s kind of like
catnip for goat guys.
“It’s a candy store, then?” Annabeth asked.
“No, more like . . .” Grover tilted his head. “Actually, it’s easier to show you.”
I wasn’t sure traipsing into a goddess’s lair was the best idea, but Grover pushed through the doors and we followed. Because licorice, I guess.
Inside . . . well, imagine all the cheesiest entertainment centers from the 1990s got together and had a food baby. That was Hebe Jeebies.
Rows of Skee-Ball machines stood ready for action. A dozen Dance Dance Revolution platforms blinked and flashed, inviting us to boogie. Aisles with every arcade game I’d ever heard of, and dozens that I hadn’t, lined the vast, dimly lit warehouse, making the whole place a glowing labyrinth. (And labyrinth is a word I never use lightly.)
In the distance, I spotted a candy station with fill-your-own-bag dispensers and huge bins of colorful sweet stuff. On the other side of the warehouse were a cafeteria with picnic tables and a stage where robotic iguanas played musical instruments.
There was a ball pit the size of a house, a climbing structure that looked like a giant hamster habitat, a bumper-car course, and a ticket-exchange station with oversize stuffed animals for prizes.
The whole place smelled of pizza, pretzels, and industrial cleaner. And it was packed with families.
“I get it now,” said Annabeth, shivering. “This place does give me the heebie-jeebies.”
“I’ve been here a few times.” Grover’s expression was a combination of anxiety and hunger . . . which, come to think of it, was his usual expression. “I’ve never found the other end of the place.”
I looked at the happy kids running around obliviously and the parents who seemed just as thrilled to play games they probably remembered from their own childhoods.
“Okay,” I said, inching back toward the front door. “I’m getting strong Lotus Casino vibes in here . . . like low-rent Lotus Casino, but still . . .”
I didn’t have to explain what I meant. Years ago, we’d gotten stuck in a Vegas casino that offered a thousand reasons to never leave. We’d just barely escaped.
“It’s not a trap,” Grover said. “At least, I’ve never had any trouble leaving. These families . . . they come and go. They don’t seem to be stuck
in time.”
He had a point. I didn’t spot anybody with bell-bottoms or 1950s haircuts, which was a good sign. A family walked by, their arms full of stuffed-animal prizes, and left the building with no problem.
“Then . . . what’s the catch?” Annabeth asked. “There’s always a catch.” I nodded in agreement. I’d never walked into any establishment run by a
Greek god, monster, or other immortal being that didn’t have a nasty downside. The more interesting the place looked, the more dangerous it was. “I don’t know,” Grover admitted. “I usually just get licorice and leave. I
keep a low profile.”
He frowned at me, as if worried I might do something high-profile like burn the place down. Honestly, that hurt. Just because I’ve been known to burn places down, blow things up, and unleash apocalyptic disasters wherever I go . . . that doesn’t mean I’m totally irresponsible.
“And you’re sure Hebe is here?” I asked.
“No, but . . .” Grover wriggled his shoulders. “You know that feeling you get when there’s a god around and you can’t see them, but you kind of feel like there’s a swarm of dung beetles on the back of your neck?”
“Not exactly . . .” I said.
“Also,” said Annabeth, “dung beetles is oddly specific.”
Grover brushed the metaphorical poop bugs off his neck. “Anyway, I’ve got that feeling now. We could ask the staff if Hebe’s around. If we can find someone.”
We moved into the arcade. I kept my hand at my side, ready to draw out Riptide, my pen-sword, though there didn’t seem to be much to fight except grade-school kids and video game bosses. I half expected the robot iguana band to charge us with banjo bayonets, but they just kept playing their programmed songs.
“Oh, my gods,” Annabeth said. “Stackers. I haven’t played that since . . .”
Her thoughts seemed to drift away. She’d been at Camp Half-Blood since she was seven years old, so she must have been reliving a really early memory. It made sense to me that she would like a game where you had to place one block on top of another. She was all about building and architecture.
As we approached the candy station, I felt a pang in my abdomen. Not because I was hungry, but because the smell reminded me so much of my
mom’s old workplace, Sweet on America. I used to love going there during the summer and watching her help people pick out candy. I guess it was a pretty hard job, and it didn’t pay much, but my mom never failed to make people smile. They always left happy, with just the right mix of treats, which made my mom seem like a superhero to me.
Of course, she was still a superhero to me for a lot of reasons. But back when I was seven or eight, having a mom who was the candy lady felt like the coolest thing ever. She used to bring me free samples when she came home, and this place had all my old favorites: blueberry saltwater taffy, blue sour laces, blue . . . well, everything. It’s amazing my tongue hadn’t turned permanently violet.
Grover sniffed at the rows of licorice ropes, which came in so many colors they reminded me of Paul’s tie rack. (Paul loves wearing funky ties to school. He says it keeps his students awake.)
A group of adults walked past, giggly and teary-eyed, reminiscing about their favorite treats and games from back in the day.
“It’s a nostalgia trap,” I realized. “The place is selling people their own childhoods.”
Annabeth nodded. Her gaze drifted around the amusement center like she was scanning for threats. “That makes sense, but a lot of places sell nostalgia. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. ”
An employee walked past wearing a bright blue Hebe Jeebies polo shirt and matching shorts, fussing with a wheel of paper prize tickets.
“Excuse me, miss?” Annabeth touched her arm, and the employee jumped.
“What?” she snapped.
I realized she was just a kid. She had wiry black hair with pink barrettes, a pouty baby face, and a name tag that read SPARKY, MANAGER. She couldn’t have been more than nine years old.
“Sorry.” Sparky took a breath. “The token machine is broken again, and I gotta get these tickets to Anyway, how can I help?”
I wondered if the gods had child-labor laws for their magical businesses.
If so, the goddess of youth apparently didn’t believe in them. “We’re looking for Hebe?” I asked.
“If this is about a refund for a defective game—” “It’s not,” I said.
“Or the pizza being moldy—”
“It’s not. Also, yuck.”
“Depends on the mold,” Grover murmured.
“We just need to speak to the goddess in charge,” Annabeth said. “It’s kind of urgent.”
Sparky scowled, then relented. “Past the diving cliff; left at the henhouse.”
“Diving cliff?” I asked. “Henhouse?” asked Grover.
“She’ll be in the karaoke bar.” Sparky wrinkled her nose like this was an unpleasant fact of life. “Don’t worry. You’ll hear it.”
She hurried off with her wheel o’ prize tickets.
I looked at Annabeth and Grover. “Are we really going to search out a karaoke bar . . . like, on purpose?”
“You can duet with me on ‘Shallow,’ ” Annabeth offered. “You don’t want that,” I promised.
“Oh, I don’t know.” She pinched my arm lightly. “Might be romantic.” “I’m just going to keep walking,” said Grover.
Which was probably the wisest choice.
We found the diving cliff: a two-story wall of fake rock where you could jump off into a suspiciously murky pool of water. A couple of kids were doing it on a loop, splashing down, clambering out, and racing back up to the top, while their parents stood nearby, engrossed in a game of Space Invaders.
I am a son of Poseidon, but you couldn’t have paid me enough to jump into that pool. Any enclosed body of water where little kids have been playing? No thanks. Nevertheless, I took note of where the pool was, just in case I needed some H2O to throw around.
I am a guy of limited talents. If I can’t kill it with water, a sword, or sarcasm, I am basically defenseless. I come preloaded with sarcasm. The pen-sword is always in my pocket. Now I had access to water, so I was as prepared as I could ever be.
We passed the henhouse . . . which I’d thought might be a nickname for a private event space or something, like where you’d have hen parties. But no. It was an actual henhouse. Right in the middle of the arcade stood a red shack on stilts, surrounded by a chicken-wire fence. On the floor around it, about a dozen hens and some little yellow chicks were pecking at feed, clucking, and basically being chickens.
“Why?” I asked.
“Hebe’s sacred animal,” Annabeth said. “Maybe we should move along.” I didn’t argue. The chickens were staring at us with their beady black eyes as if thinking, Dude, if we were still dinosaurs, we would tear you
to pieces.
At last, we found the karaoke bar. It was partitioned off from the rest of the amusement center by a set of sliding mahogany doors, but that didn’t stop the music from seeping through. Inside, half a dozen tables faced a sad little stage, where a squad of old folks belted out a song that sounded vaguely Woodstock-ish. The stage lights pulsed a sickly yellow color. The sound system crackled.
That didn’t seem to bother the boomers, who threw their arms around one another and waved their canes, their bald heads gleaming as they wailed about peace and sunshine.
“Can we leave now?” Grover asked.
Annabeth pointed to a booth against the far wall. “Look over there.”
Sitting in the booth, tapping her feet to the music, was a girl about my age. At least, that’s what she appeared to be. But I could tell she was a goddess because immortals always make themselves a little too flawless when they appear in human form: perfect complexion, hair always photo-shoot ready, clothes far too crisp and colorful for mere mortals. The girl in the booth wore a pink-and-turquoise minidress with white go-go boots but somehow managed to make it look hip and not like a retro Halloween costume. Her hair was a dark beehive swirl. It occurred to me she was channeling a fashion that would remind the boomers of their own childhoods.
We approached the booth. “Lady Hebe?” I asked.
I figured that was the safest way to address her. I was guessing her last name wasn’t Jeebies.
The goddess raised a finger to silence me, her eyes still fixed on the geriatric singers. “Don’t they seem happy? So young again!”
The boomers did seem happy. I wasn’t sure about young, but maybe
young meant something different back in the day. “Um, yeah,” I said. “We were just wondering—”
“Please, sit.” The goddess waved her hand, and three chairs appeared on the outside of the booth.
Then Hebe issued one of the most terrifying threats I had ever heard from a god: “I’ll order us some pizza, and we can talk while the old folks sing protest songs.”
