Grover Gets Heavily Caffeinated
“Fun fact,” said Grover. “Obscure knowledge is called trivia because of Hecate’s Roman name, Trivia! Three roads! ”
“That may be a fact,” I said. “But it’s not fun.”
“Aw, c’mon! You got a quest. This is great news!”
Grover danced and skipped along the sidewalk in front of me. The cooler October weather always made him perky. As soon as I’d mentioned my encounter with Hecate, he’d gotten even more excited.
Today, his shaggy hindquarters were stuffed into cargo pants. His goat
hooves were sort-of-not-really concealed in a modified pair of orange Crocs (because inconspicuous?). His horns peeked through his shaggy hair. His
blue hoodie was emblazoned with the word HUMAN.
I’d never understood satyr rules for blending into the mortal world.
Usually, they tried to disguise themselves as people to some extent. Mostly they seemed to rely on the Mist, the veil that confused human vision, to do the job for them. But when Grover opted for Crocs and a HUMAN hoodie, I had to wonder why he bothered at all. Maybe he was trying to explode mortal brains.
“You’re just excited about the pets,” I guessed.
Grover grinned from ear to ear, which made him look like he had extra AI- generated teeth. “If Hecate’s hellhound is anything like Mrs. O’Leary, I’ll love her!”
“I wouldn’t bet on that.”
“And polecats …” Grover paused. “Actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever met a polecat. But I’m willing to make friends. Come on!”
He trotted down Lexington Avenue.
We’d met at the 103rd Street subway station—our usual after-school
rendezvous point. Now we were going to visit my mom at her favorite café, where she was trying to finish writing her new book. Normally I wouldn’t have interrupted her while she was working, but I figured I’d better tell her about Hecate’s quest as soon as possible, since we were supposed to start
the pet-sitting gig that night. Also, Grover liked seeing my mom. Also, he liked the café’s pastries. It was a win-win.
New York is weird in the best kinds of ways. You can be strolling down the avenue, past banks and pharmacies and cell phone stores, feeling like
you’re in the middle of cookie-cutter Anywhere Land. Then you turn left,
and suddenly you’re on a side street where the old brownstone mansions have been converted into bohemian apartments, the trees are aglow with string lights year-round, and the storefronts are a mixture of holistic laundromats, tarot card salons, cryo-shock spas, and cafés.
The best café of all? The Cracked Teapot.
No hate to the folks who hang out at Starbucks writing their screenplays or whatever. But if you really want inspiration, find a local, one-of-a-kind
place like the Cracked Teapot.
All the string lights on the street seemed to emanate from the café’s front porch, like the center of a festive electric web that nobody had bothered to clear away and now covered the whole neighborhood.
We walked down the steps to the garden level, through a bead-curtained doorway, and into a cozy maze of nooks and parlors. Soft, otherworldly
music was playing—Celtic harp, maybe? Fairy-godmother dolls hung from the ceiling. On every available sunny windowsill, cats were napping, which may or may not have been against city health codes, but I wasn’t going to tell. All through the café, shelves were filled with—you guessed it—
cracked teapots. Some were gold and porcelain, some copper, some rainbow ceramic. Stuffed animals popped out of many of them.
Behind the counter, a large bearded dude in a pink tutu was making coffee. The display case overflowed with muffins, cookies, cakes, and scones.
Could I have 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 name CHARLES 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 fine and Be careful are not statements that go together well, especially when it’s your mom talking. Also, she said Gramercy Park the way I said
Tartarus. 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 on try.” 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.
“You want me to wait around at the apartment until you get home?” I asked her. I was thinking I could have dinner with her and Paul, give her another chance to tell me why Gramercy Park bothered her so much.
“No, no, that’s all right.” She managed to reconstruct her careful smile. “This should be a memorable Halloween experience for you, at any rate. Hecate is the goddess of ghosts, isn’t she?”
“And magic!” Grover volunteered. “And nighttime! And manipulating the Mist!”
I frowned. Hecate had run through her entire résumé while she was terrifying me with flames and animal heads, but she’d left out the part about
manipulating the Mist. I wondered why. Now that I thought about it, my friend Hazel had said something along those lines … how the goddess had encouraged her to learn that skill.
My mom reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “I should probably try to get some more writing done. Keep me posted if you can.
And remember to pack your toothbrush, okay?”
We were going to spend Halloween week in a creepy goddess’s house, and all my mom was worried about was my dental hygiene. I guess she had to focus on the things she could help with.
“I will,” I said. “Uh … good luck with the writing.”
I realized I’d barely tasted my blueberry smoothie. I carried it out while Grover bounced along at my side, rambling about his strategies for making friends with godly house pets.
I glanced back at my mom one last time. She was frowning intently at her computer screen, but I doubted she would be doing any more writing this afternoon. Instead, she’d be googling Hecate. I wondered what about Gramercy Park had made her so unsettled. I had a feeling I’d soon find out
….
