See, bad things happen to me on field trips.

At least, I hoped that for once I wouldn't get in trouble.

He also had this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn't put me to sleep. You wouldn't think he'd be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes. I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan- twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at YancyAcademy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they'll come for you. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened.īut if you recognize yourself in these pages-if you feel something stirring inside-stop reading immediately. If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life.īeing a half-blood is dangerous. If you're reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now. I ACCIDENTALLY VAPORIZE MY PRE-ALGEBRA TEACHER

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