Of Poseidon

time from you running into stuff. Am I right?”
    Yeah? And? I’m about to set her straight on a few things—like how wearing a skirt and sitting Indian-style ruins the effect of pretty toes anyway—when Galen’s mom puts a gentle hand on my arm and clears her throat. “Emma, I’m so glad you’re feeling better,” she says. “I bet dinner would just about complete your recovery, don’t you?”
    I nod.
    “Well, you’re in luck, hon, because dinner is ready. Galen, can I get you to pull that pan out of the oven? And Rayna, you only set the table for four! Toraf, grab another place setting, will you? No, other cabinet. Thanks.” While issuing orders, she walks me to the table and pulls out a chair. After she rams it into the back of my legs until I fall on it, she scampers in her heels back to the stove.
    Toraf sets the dish in front of me so fast it warbles like a spun penny. “Oops, sorry,” he says. I smile up at him. He slaps his hand on it to make it stop, then tosses a fork and knife on top. As he’s lowering my drinking glass, Galen catches his forearm and snatches it from him.
    “This is glass, idiot. Possibly you’ve heard of it?” Galen says. He sets it down as if it’s a cracked egg, then winks at me. I’m glad he’s taken the contacts out—his are the prettiest of all the violet eyes here. “Sorry, Emma. He’s not used to company.”
    “Very true,” Toraf says, sitting beside Rayna.
    When everyone is seated, Galen uses a pot holder to remove the lid from the huge speckled pan in the center of the table. And I almost upchuck. Fish. Crabs. And … is that squid hair? Before I can think of a polite version of the truth—I’d rather eat my own pinky finger than seafood—Galen plops the biggest piece of fish on my plate, then scoops a mixture of crabmeat and scallops on top of it. As the steam wafts its way to my nose, my chances of staying polite dwindle. The only thing I can think of is to make it look like I’m hiccupping instead of gagging. What did I smell earlier that almost had me salivating? It couldn’t have been this.
    I fork the fillet and twist, but it feels like twisting my own gut. Mush it, dice it, mix it all up. No matter what I do, how it looks, I can’t bring it near my mouth. A promise is a promise, dream or no dream. Even if real fish didn’t save me in Granny’s pond, the fake ones my imagination conjured up sure comforted me until help arrived. And now I’m expected to eat their cousins? No can do.
    I set the fork down and sip some water. I sense Galen is watching. Out of my peripheral, I see the others shoveling the chum into their faces. But not Galen. He sits still, head tilted, waiting for me to take a bite first.
    Of all the times to be a gentleman! What happened to the guy who sprawled me over his lap like a three-year-old just a few minutes ago? Still, I can’t do it. And they don’t even have a dog for me to feed under the table, which used to be my go-to plan at Chloe’s grandmother’s house. One time Chloe even started a food fight to get me out of it. I glance around the table, but Rayna’s the only person I’d aim this slop at. Plus, I’d risk getting the stuff on me, which is almost as bad as in me.
    Galen nudges me with his elbow. “Aren’t you hungry? You’re not feeling bad again, are you?”
    This gets the others’ attention. The commotion of eating stops. Everyone stares. Rayna, irritated that her gluttony has been interrupted. Toraf smirking like I’ve done something funny. Galen’s mom wearing the same concerned look he is. Can I lie? Should I lie? What if I’m invited over again, and they fix seafood because I lied about it just this once? Telling Galen my head hurts doesn’t get me out of future seafood buffets. And telling him I’m not hungry would be pointless since my stomach keeps gurgling like an emptying drain.
    No, I can’t lie. Not if I ever want to come back here. Which I do. I sigh and set the fork down. “I hate seafood,” I tell him. Toraf’s sudden cough startles me. The sound of him choking reminds me of a cat struggling with a hair ball.
    I train my eyes on Galen, who has stiffened to a near statue. Jeez, is this all his mom knows how to make? Or have I just shunned the Forza family’s prize-winning recipe for grouper?
    “You … you mean you don’t like this kind of fish, Emma?” Galen says diplomatically.
    I desperately want to nod, to say, “Yes, that’s it, not this kind of fish”—but