Overdrive by Dawn Ius Page B

isn’t fazed. “It’s a delicacy, Emma. Some people say it tastes just like chicken.”
    Sure, if chicken’s made of rubber.
    She leans forward and sniffs. “It smells funny.”
    Which is part of the reason I won’t touch it. Fish, the odd shrimp—only if I’m desperate. I draw the line at tentacles. My taste buds are so far from adventurous, they’re basically prudes.
    Across from me, Chelsea dips a piece of octopus in a cream-colored sauce and stuffs it into her mouth. My breath tastes like bile. She chews-chews-chews for an eternity, swallows, and then opens wide to reveal a black beaded tongue piercing.
    Emma is mesmerized.
    Yeah, I get it, Chelsea is way cooler than me.
    It bugs me, even though Emma’s impression of her new foster sister should be the least of my concerns right now. We’ve got twenty-four hours to consider Roger’s proposal and, after spending the day weighing the pros and cons, I’m no closer to a decision.
    Roger tsks at Chelsea, then points his fork at my sister. “There is nothing wrong with widening your palette, young lady.”
    Ems and I gave up widening our palettes long before we hit the foster system. Even when Mom gave a shit, she was hardly a gourmet. Back then I was ballerina-waiflike thin. Agile and liftable, but pretty much a preteen walking dead. Guess it’s not so hard to see how I transformed from ballerina into Ghost, though, since I was basically a skeleton.
    Roger stops eating, sets his knife and fork on either side of his plate, and stares at Ems. Waiting. Her eyes flit nervously toward me, then back to the rubbery blob on her plate. Small hives dot behind her ear. “Do I have to?”
    â€œYes,” Roger says. The softness of his tone masks expectation and underlying annoyance. “It is considered rude not to at least try what our chef has prepared.”
    Screw it.
    I’d rather suffer Roger’s wrath than watch my sister go into a full-on anxiety attack.
    â€œEms, you do not have to eat that,” I say firmly.
    â€œCourse she doesn’t,” Mat says.
    He shoves a piece of octopus in his mouth and my stomach lurches. His cheeks puff out and his eyes grow wide and bulgy with an exaggerated expression of mock disgust that sends Ems into a fit of giggles. By the time he swallows—his Adam’s apple sliding up and down his throat—there’s a piece of the shit on the end of Emma’s fork, hovering in front of her lips.
    â€œYou can do it, homegirl,” he says, encouraging.
    Emma glows under the attention. She pinches the bridge of her nose, opens her mouth, and sinks her teeth into a speck of meat about the size of an ant. Even still, my stomach roils.
    Emma swallows fast and shudders, her entire body vibrating with disgust. “It does not taste like chicken.” She sticks out her tongue and waves her hand back and forth with exaggeration. Her theatrics are met with a muted chorus of chuckles.
    I hand her a glass of water. “Dramatic much?”
    Truth is, it’s nice to see her be a little kid again. I know it’s partly my fault she’s had to grow up so quickly.
    â€œDrama must run in the family,” Nick says.
    I whip my head around to glare at him. I thought we’d made headway last night at the Trophy Case, but clearly Nick’s reverted back to being an asshole. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
    â€œWe do not swear at the table,” Roger says.
    My face explodes with heat. The air is thick, claustrophobic. I’m a volcano set to erupt, but I can’t decide which way to shoot the lava—at Roger for pretending he’s suddenly Dad of the Year, or Nick for rocketing straight back to the top of the dick-o-meter.
    I toss my napkin onto the table and shove my chair back. My stomach rumbles like a turbocharged Mustang, but I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.
    Nick raises one eyebrow. They’re too bushy