Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

Stella laughs at me and pops one in her mouth.
“Yia Yia Minta makes these,” I say, poking at one with my fork.
“They’re just not usually so . . . wet looking.”
“Ah,” Damian says, smiling at the old servant woman. “That
is part of Hesper’s secret recipe. She drizzles them with olive oil
before serving.”
“Shhh.” The old woman, Hesper, bats at him. “You talk too
much.”
“But, Hesper,” he replies, “they are family now.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. At first I think it’s
because of Damian’s mushy comment—I don’t think one little City
Hall marriage ceremony makes a whole new family—but then I
catch Stella’s eye and she’s staring at my plate and looking, well,
constipated.
Light from somewhere reflects off my plate, shining up at me.
I look down and—
“Aaaack!”
Jumping up, I knock over my chair, trip when my laces get caught
on one of the legs, and wind up face-first on the floor.
“Phoebe,” Mom cries. “What’s wrong?”
She rushes to my side, but by then I’ve twisted around and leaped
to my feet. I point at my plate—now looking like a completely normal
dinner salad—and scream, “M-m-my food!” I glare at Stella, who
is looking way too proud of herself. “It was alive!”
Those green sea slug dolmades had come to life and were wriggling
around in my salad with the olives and stinky goat cheese.
Any other day in the history of my life I would have checked
myself into the nuthouse for seeing things, but after seeing Stella
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