Of Poseidon

though—it’s horrible to see over and over, but it doesn’t last very long, and when I wake up, I know Chloe is dead. When we take the alternate endings, I wake up thinking she’s alive. And I lose her all over again.
    But the tingles never show up in my dreams. I’d forgotten about them, in fact. So when they show up now, I blush. Deeply.
    Galen gives me a quizzical look, and for the first time since he sat down, I notice his eyes. They’re blue. Not violet like mine, as they were on the beach. Or were they? I could have sworn Chloe commented on his eyes, but my subconscious might have made that up, the same way it makes up alternate endings. One thing’s for sure: I didn’t make up Galen’s habit of staring. Or the way it makes me blush.
    I face forward in my desk, fold my hands on top of it, and train my eyes on Mr. Pinner. He says, “Well, Mr. Forza, don’t forget where you’re sitting because that’s where you’ll be until next week.” He hands Galen a rule sheet.
    “Thank you, I won’t,” Galen tells him. A few giggles sprinkle behind us. It is official. Galen has a fan club.
    As Mr. Pinner talks about … well, really I have no idea what he’s talking about. All I know is that the tingles give way to something else—fire. Like there’s a stream of molten lava flowing between my desk and Galen’s.
    “Ms. McIntosh?” Mr. Pinner says. And if I remember correctly, Ms. McIntosh is me.
    “Uh, sorry?” I say.
    “The Titanic, Ms. McIntosh,” he says, on the verge of exasperation. “Have any idea when it sank?”
    Ohmysweetgoodness, I do. I became obsessed with the Titanic for a good six months after we studied it last year. Last year, before I had a vendetta against history, the passage of time. “April fifteen, 1912.”
    Mr. Pinner is instantly pleased. His thin lips open into a smile that makes him look toothless because his gums are so big. “Ah, we have a history buff. Very nice, Ms. McIntosh.”
    The bell rings. The bell rings? We’ve spent fifty minutes in this class already?
    “Remember, people, study the rule sheet. Snuggle it at night, eat lunch with it, take it to the movies. It’s the only way you’re passing my class,” Mr. Pinner calls over the bustle of students herding out the door.
    I give Galen the opportunity to leave first. I open my binder, shuffle around some blank notebook paper, and make a show of tightening the straps of my backpack. He doesn’t move. Fine . I stand, snatch up my things, and glide past him. The lava rallies at my wrist when he grabs it, like he’s branding me with his touch.
    “Emma, wait.”
    He remembers my name. Which means he remembers that I nearly knocked myself out on his bare chest. I wish I had applied the porcelain foundation this morning—it might have covered up at least some of my blush.
    “Hi,” I say. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.” I’m aware of a few stares coming from the back of the class—some of his fans have stayed behind and are patiently waiting their turn. “Well, welcome to Middle Point. You probably have to get to class, so I’ll see you later.”
    He grips harder when I try to pull away. “Wait.”
    I glance down at his hold and he releases me. “Yes?” I say.
    He looks down at his desk, runs a hand through his black hair. I remember that Galen’s gift is not small talk. Finally, he looks up. The confidence has returned to his eyes. “Do you think you could help me find my next class?”
    “Sure, but it’s pretty simple. There are three halls here. The one hundred hall, the two hundred hall, and the three hundred hall. Let me see your schedule.” He fishes it out of his pocket and hands it to me to unwad. Smoothing it out, I say, “Your next class is in room one twenty-three. That means you’re going to the one hundred hall.”
    “But can you show me where it is?”
    I check my schedule to see where I’m going, knowing even if my next class is in the complete opposite corner of the school from his, I will take him to room 123. Lucky for me, my next class is in room 123 as well—English lit.
    “Uh, actually, we have the next class together, too,” I tell him apologetically. He follows me out the door and keeps my slowish pace as I scan over our schedules to see how many more classes he will have to endure my awkward company—and how many more classes I can expect to be blushing in. The answer is all of them. I groan. Out loud.
    “What?” he says. “Is something