Taking closely after your many times great grandfather Achilles may not always be advantageous.
Disclaimer: 'Class of the Titans' and all related characters are property of Studio B Productions, Nelvana, and Teletoon. This story is property of its author. It is also a work of fanfiction, and therefore, no profit is generated from it.
He never had the best memory for knowledge.
It was Jay who was exposition and backstory made flesh, blood, and purple-collared polo shirts, full of purpose and dry as leaves cracking in the mid-day sun. His mother bled the culture and history of the Argives into his skin, and it stained his thoughts and speech. Archie's own Thessalian background through the son of Peleus was watered to a drop at most, but he'd read all the old classical works: The Muse sang to him of the rage of Achilles in sixteen thousand lines of dactylic hexameter when he read Homer instead of calculating the trajectory of a projectile for Physics. He'd read Aeschylus and Sophocles and each of the others too, untouched library books with sun-yellowed edges piled high and soon toppled just as quickly by his elbow at their base.
The poems and plays made him wonder about what stories would be told about him and the six others if their exploits were chronicled by modern-day poets in volumes of literature drowned in footnotes and waded through by future classical studies majors. Probably the sort of angst-soaked poetry his classmates in English wrote in those stupid diaries, but what if an aspiring Aristophanes chose to write a comedy about them instead? Atlanta and the others already poked fun at him for his fear of water -- they'd even had Herry hang him upside-down by the ankles over the harbour in April -- and they weren't even aware of the irony that his mother was as at home in the sea during the summer holidays as any sea nymph.
Still worst was how he was most certainly not interested in knowing what anyone would think if they ever saw those childhood photographs of him in that sundress, pink cotton reeking of soap and giggles, and red hair reigned back with a sturdy bow. That was his mother's crazy idea, he'd prepared himself to say if they ever chanced to escape from the cold cellophane prison of the family photo album. She'd never liked him playing with those hulking neighbourhood boys, with their rough-and-tumbling and coppered knees smeared with oxidation green.
When he was reading alone in the school library, he sometimes wondered whether he would want to know about the contents of the lost poems and plays about Achilles that he will never be able to read. The gods, wise as they were, were well-aware that some things were better left unknown.
That, and the fact that the rumour of Achilles winning and marrying Medea in the Underworld at the end of all things probably wasn't going to impress Atlanta after that field hockey incident.
Additional Author's Notes: Before anyone jumps on me about Archie's hair colour, I do not think the purple is natural. I went for red based on Homer's description of Achilles in the 'Iliad' (if I remember correctly) and the fact that Achilles' name while disguised as a girl was Phyrrus ('red-haired').