Of Poseidon

dart out of our way. Larger ones ease to the side as if we’re driving a sports car on the interstate. How is Galen doing this? He’s got his arms full of me, so he’s not using them to swim. Even if he were, no one can swim this fast. I peer down to our feet—only, our feet aren’t there. Just mine. And a fin.
    “Shark!” I scream, gulping down water, hoping he understands through the garble. We stop so fast, my hair whips ahead of us.
    “What?” He tightens his grip and whirls us around in place. “I don’t see a shark, Emma. Where did you see it?”
    “Down there—wait.” I look behind us, but it’s gone. Peering around Galen to see if it swam ahead of us—though I’m pretty sure a speedboat couldn’t pass us—I begin to question the real strength of my vision down here. No shark. “I guess we scared it away—what the?… How are you doing that? How am I doing it?” This isn’t how underwater sounds. Every word we say is clear, as if I’m sitting on his lap in his living room. It’s not muffled, like when you’re soaking in the bathtub and all you can hear is your heartbeat. There is no thrumming, no pressure in my ears. Just quiet.
    “Doing what?” He faces me to him.
    “I can hear you. You can hear me. And I see you, clear as day—but it’s not day, not even on shore. What’s happening, Galen?”
    He sighs. How can he sigh? We’re underwater. “This is the secret Emma.” He nods toward our feet.
    I follow his line of vision. And gasp. And gulp. And choke. The shark is back—and it has swallowed Galen’s entire lower body, all the way to his waist! It flicks its fin, fighting to stay attached to him.
    “Not you, too!” I scream. I kick it as hard as I can with bare feet. Galen grimaces and releases me.
    “Emma, stop kicking me!” Galen says, grabbing my shoulders.
    “I’m not kicking you, I’m kicking … I’m kicking … Ohmysweetgoodness.” Galen is the shark. The shark is Galen. What I mean is, there is no shark. There’s only Galen. His upper body is still there, big arms, chiseled abs, gorgeous face. But … his legs. Are. Gone. Not bit off, not swallowed. Nope, just replaced by a long silver fin. Nofreakingway.
    I shake my head, wrench from his grasp. “Not happening. This is not happening.” I propel away from him, but he follows.
    “Emma,” he says, reaching for me. “Calm down. Come here.”
    “Nope. You’re not real. This isn’t real. I’m ready to wake up now.” I look to the surface. “I said, I’m ready to WAKE UP NOW!” I scream to myself, who must still be sleeping on Galen’s couch. But myself doesn’t wake up.
    Galen glides closer without moving his arms. “Emma, you’re awake. This is your secret. What makes your eyes that color.”
    “Stay right there.” I point at him in warning. “In case you haven’t noticed, I didn’t turn into a fish, you did. That would be your secret then, don’t you think?”
    He smirks. “We have the same secret.”
    I shake my head. Nope, nope, nope.
    He nods, thoughtful. “Well, I guess that’s it then. The beach is that way,” he says, pointing to the abyss behind me. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Emma.”
    My mouth drops open as he swims away. As his silhouette disappears from sight, I start to hyperventilate. He’s leaving. He’s leaving me. He’s leaving me in the middle of the ocean. He’s leaving me in the middle of the ocean because I’m not a fish. No, no, no, no! He can’t leave me! I whirl around and around. How can I find the beach when I can’t see the surface or the bottom? My breathing becomes more erratic—
    But … but … how can I hyperventilate underwater? For the first time since leaving shore, I become aware of my oxygen. That I should have run out of it already. But I haven’t. Not even close. During my meltdown, I just snorted air out of my nose—and not a lot of it. Like when I talked. Just enough air to make sound. Dad always said I had a good pair of lungs, but I doubt this is what he meant.
    And now I’ve attracted an audience. There is nothing hazy or dream-like about the wreath of fish that surrounds me. As schizo as it sounds, I know this is real. None of these are fish I can name—except the monster of a swordfish lingering on the outskirt of the gathering. Textbook pictures are deceiving—swordfish are much scarier in person. Still, one big fish out of the hundred-or-so small ones is pretty good odds that I won’t be eaten. They must realize