"Happy birthday dear Treeevor…Happy Birthday to yooou."

Most kids my age, I guess, would be pleased to hear the last chords of this infamous song ringing out throughout their kitchen/dining room. Most kids would excitedly await the end, when everyone would clap, and the time would come for those seventeen precious flames to go out. With a whoosh of air, the candles would flicker out, and cheers would ring out throughout the room, followed by. 'what you wish for?!'

I'm sure it's more fun when you have friends and family surrounding you. People who want to be with you on your special day, smile and wish you a good year. Congratulate you on achieving such a wicked awesome year, and splurge on cake and presents until you throw up. But I don't get that. Friendships for me are scarce. Family members would rather come to my funeral than a birthday. At least then it would be a happy day. A day of celebration.

My family is of the rich and spoiled variety. I'd thought I'd clear that up before I continued. I have a huge house, with an insane number of bedrooms, a large pool, enough cars in the garage to give me something different to drive every day for a two weeks, and tons of money beyond anybodies wildest dreams.

But it's not always fun in paradise. Not for someone like me…anyways.

First there's the fact my parents hate me. No, I'm not being dramatic, they really do hate me. I'm not a bad kid, mind you. I don't do drugs, I don't drink, I don't steal the car (or A car, in my case) and sleep with tons and tons of girls. I hardly make a sound. Maybe that's why they don't like me, because I'm less than a little enthusiastic about attending parties, or spending time with kids my age.

I guess you wouldn't call it hatred either. It's more like…disappointment. When they look at me, my mother just looks cheerless, and my father always give me a look that reminds me of a spark plug going off behind his eyes. It's the spark of hatred that makes me wonder what the hell it is I did.

My name is Trevor Andrue Haven. I'm seventeen years old, and I live in a large home outside of Manhattan with my parents, and all of our butlers, maids, cooks, tennis instructors, piano teachers, voice coaches, horseback riding instructors…etc. etc. I've always lived in the lap of luxury, and I've always absolutely hated it.

That's another thing about me. I've never been one to complain, or be easily spoiled. Mother's tried, of course. I just don't take to being babied easily. I have a tough personality, my mother always tells me. I've had it since I was born, and ignored my mother's attempts to breast feed me. She says I was on the bottle almost as soon as I was out of the womb.

It's a strange condition, when surrounding me is all kinds of spoiled, happy-go-lucky parents and kids who just lap up the riches and take everything for granted. My father has always been induced in riches. He's never had to suffer. My mother has though, so I wonder if that's where I get the toughness. She used to live in the center of New York city. She met my father after running into him in a cab during a rainstorm. They had both flagged down the cab, and jumped in, both too stubborn and wet to want to get out and wait for another. They shared it until reaching my father's hotel, after sharing a half hour of conversation, and he invited her up to have a drink with him. A half a year later, he proposed and the two of them got married. Nine months after that, on January 23, 2006, I was born.

My mother's name is Julie Haven. My father's is Carl Haven. I get told all the time I look like my father, even though I'm sure I don't. I have thick brown hair with thin highlights of blonde, lightening it to the point it does look like my father's, who's hair is light brown. My eyes are green, flecked with brown and gold. My body type is that of an average teenage male, though I'm relatively skinny for my age. My father is thick around the waist however, and my mom hardly has any weight on her bones, so I'm kind of in between; average. Continuously and always average. That might explain why nobody likes me. Yep, expanding the hatred from my folks, to everyone.

I attend a private school known as Boucher's School for boys. A.k.a, B.S. No girl's whatsoever. Might explain why everyone there has nicknamed me the fag of the junior class. Not that I'm gay, I just seem the faggot type? I don't know. The guy's there are completely full of shit, so I don't even bother trying to make friends there. I always assume it's going to get better, and so far, throughout my seventeen years of wishing, it has yet to do so. My classmates are completely awed by the idea of becoming professional baseball/basketball/tennis/football/or even Golf players. I personally, can't stand sports. I've never been really good at them, save for running. Even then I won't join the track team, and the track coach hates me for it.

Though I enjoy running, I like reading more. Books completely fascinate me. I have a huge collection on the bookshelves in my room, and most of them, I've read over three times. I don't have a favorite genre; I just enjoy finding a thick book, and cracking open the pages, and then concentrating on nothing but the words on the page.

Most of the time I have my nose buried in a book. And because of it, I never learned the right way to socialize properly, so I have no friends. I think I had one once, in the third grade, but he ended up pushing me over and the kicking sand in my face. Yeah. Best friend material.

Now at seventeen, I'm still basically friendless. I have perfect grades, and a lot of the teachers admire my skill in the classroom. It's just the friend thing that I lack. At the end of the year, I'm jumping past senior year and headed straight to college. Stanford University, to be precise. I want to get out of this frozen hell hole, and somewhere warm and not to mention, on the other side of the continent, which seems like a good idea.

But enough about me and my fruitful hopes and dreams, let's get back to the moment at hand; my seventeenth birthday.

I stare at my folks, who sit across from me, with their fake smiles and cheerful waves of encouragement, though the expressions behind their masks clearly read God! Won't this kid hurry up?! I got things to do! I had already opened my presents, which consisted of yet another IPOD, some CD'S of bands I didn't even ask for, a new uniform for school, some more dress shirts and slacks, several crap ties, and finally, the one thing I HAD asked for, a gift certificate to the book store. In order to please my parents, I gushed for several moments about the wondrous bounty before me, and then continued the act when the pastry chef, a thick bosomed woman by the name of Mary, brought out an enormous cake covered in flickering delicate birthday cake candles.

"Blow out your candles honey!" My mother cried, as she glanced down at her watch. I wondered for a moment what I could be holding them up on, and then I recalled the dinner party our neighbors had invited them to.

"Don't have to tell me twice." I grumble under my breath. Great, so they ditch their son's birthday for a dinner party they attend almost weekly? I sighed inwardly, and blew out the candles, watching as all but two went out. I hurriedly extinguished the other two, and then looked up at my parents as they stood.

"Are you leaving?" I query. My mother smiles almost apologetically at me as she gathers her tan coat from behind her chair, and then her purse, which she had tucked behind it. My father is putting on a coat as well, and he nods.

"We have to go out for awhile. I'm sorry." My father says, ruffling my hair as he passes. My mother touches the top of my head lightly after him, and follows.

"We'll see you in the morning honey. You need to pack for your trip, by the way!" she called as she was towed out the door. I glance at Mary as she disappears into the kitchen again, and I sigh.

I've been ditched on my birthday. I get to spend it packing for a trip I don't even want to go on. Fabulous.

--

Okay, so let's back up a little, shall we? The trip my parents are referring to is this stupid Museum hop. Yes, you heard me right. Museum HOP. Like we're rabbits.

My history class, and several other history classes, are going into New York city from Next Monday to Friday, visiting a number of Museums on each day. It's a bogus trip, and I have no desire to go. Obviously, because I'm going to be rooming alone. Most of us are rooming with either one or two other people, but nobody wants to room with the 'fag', so I'm going solo.

Whatever.

0-0-0-0

"Dionysus!" Dionysus rolled over on his sleep. His mane of black hair covered his eyes, hiding their closed lids, as he continued to snore loudly. The blankets around him were tugged down, revealing his toned chest. He rolled over onto his stomach, however, hiding his front features. The figure standing beside his bed stood with hands on hips.

"Mmm…"

"DIONYSUS!" The figure roared. Dion jolted to attention.

"WHAT?! WHAT I'M AWAKE!" He snarled. He immediately stilled when he saw who it was.

"Oh."

"Yeah, Oh. What are you doing?"

"Sitting here."

"BEFORE THAT!"

"Sleeping here."

"…you're an idiot."

"Word."

"Stop talking like that. I hate it."

"Sorry. What's up?"

"I need you to do something for me."

"…I'm not taking requests." Dion grumbled after a moment, rubbing his head.

"Too bad! This isn't a request. It's an order."

"Ugh…I hate when you do this…" Dion growled, dropping his head back onto the pillow.

"Don't care. Get your butt into gear! You leave in an hour!"

"Where am I going?" Dion asked, sitting up again, and sliding the blankets off, revealing that the Demon Dionysus, slept in the nude. His escort was hardly fazed by the sight.

"You're going upstairs."

"What? Why?"

"I need you to retrieve something for me."

"…Where am I going?" Dion asked. His companion simply smiled.

"New York city."