Dreamology (4 page)

THE THING IS,
I can't possibly be expected to go through the school year like this. Longing for a guy I feel, deep down, that I truly know, who in reality acts like I don't exist. I might as well be the main character in some stalker movie on Lifetime. I imagine the trailer in my head.
In a world where nothing makes sense, how far will she go for the boy of her dreams
—
LITERALLY?

So obviously I have to do something about it, which brings me here, to the Bennett cafeteria. Actually, Bennett doesn't have a cafeteria. It has a dining hall. Floor-to-ceiling windows, long oak tables, and massive chandeliers. There are vegetarian options, vegan options, and gluten-free options. There is a waffle maker at breakfast, a panini press at lunch, and more kinds of cereal than you'd find in a General Mills factory.
What's even more uncanny is the fact they serve
dinner
. So you can head to class and sports afterward and then grab a bite before hitting the library all night. If that's your kind of thing.
A SOUND BODY IS A SOUND MIND!
a sign above the bagel station proclaims. But right now I'm not even hungry. Right now I'm only here on business.

The phone call I received from Sophie during free period is what really set me in motion.

“I Googled him!” she proudly announced when I answered the phone.

“Who?” I asked.

“Who do you think?” she said. “Dreamboy, obviously. We couldn't do it before, because we only had spare defining characteristics: name, age, height, and . . . hot. But now we know so much more! Last name, hometown, even high school!”

“And what did you find?” I asked, my heartbeat picking up a little bit. Sophie was a total genius.

“Not much, I'm afraid,” she said, her tone going flat. “At least nothing that links him to you. He's gone to Bennett since kindergarten, he's a scholar-athlete, captain of the soccer team—a pretty big deal for a junior, by the way—and he spent the spring of his sophomore year in Costa Rica—some kind of student travel program. Impressive.”

“Glad you're so fond of him,” I muttered.

“Could you lose the attitude, please?” Sophie said. “I just went full-on Nancy Drew for your butt.”

“Sorry, Soph, you know I appreciate it. I'm just disappointed. I'm dying to figure out how I know him. Especially since despite all my best efforts, he's made it pretty clear I'm nothing more than some new girl who showed up in his psychology class.”

“You're getting closer,” Sophie said. “Don't lose hope. Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Tassioni is giving me the evil eye.”

“Where are you?” I asked, chuckling.

“As a matter of fact, I am in the first row of English class,” she said. Then in response to a voice in the background, her tone turned slightly hostile. “Okay! God! The world didn't begin and end with Jane Austen, you know.” Followed by a click. I put my phone back in my bag with a sad smile and tried to ignore the ache in the pit of my stomach. Sophie was bold and unapologetic. But she was also as loyal as they came. I missed her too much to even think about.

And as much as I appreciated her help, it had gotten me nowhere. So I've been looking for Max all day, and I've finally tracked him down at dinner. And currently Dreamboy is picking up a plate and moving toward the food line, and my mission today is to see what he eats. Because if I can figure out if he shares the same likes and dislikes as Dream Max—a hatred of cilantro, a love of hamburgers, ambivalence about sweets in general—I'll know I'm actually dreaming of a real person . . . and then maybe I can figure out
why
. Maybe I can figure out what all this has to do with this mystery place CDD and what to do about it.

“Mmmm!” I say with way too much enthusiasm, coming up next to Max in line and reading the menu. “
Brazilian
Night.” My old school had two kinds of food. Edible and inedible. This place is silly.

Max just nods as he places some steak on his plate and doesn't look up.

I tap my fingers on my tray nervously and scoot it along the line, feeling relieved when I come to the fried plantains.
Here it is. My “in.”
Once when I was little, my dad had to go away to a conference and left me in the care of a Brazilian lady who lived in the apartment downstairs. I'd felt pretty great about it at the time and planned to watch all the television my eyeballs could stand before they melted into their sockets. But Beatriz was surprisingly strict, and to make matters worse, every night she cooked plantains and spiced ground beef. I'd smile as I chewed, then spit it into my napkin and feed it to Jerry under the table when she wasn't looking.

I went to sleep at night feeling an intense hunger and impossible loneliness for my dad.

But in my dreams, Max would always be there. “Fried plantains are actually really good by themselves,” he said as we sat in a tree in the Amazon rainforest, watching a lime-green sunset. “Have you ever tried them with cinnamon and brown sugar? Here.” He popped one into his mouth and passed me the brown paper bag, smiling as I gorged myself on the greasy chunks of fruit. Then we hopped down to explore and ended
up discovering a new species of fish that had fur instead of scales.

“Have you ever tried these with cinnamon and brown sugar?” I ask now, pointing at the plantains with a serving spoon and looking at Max out of the corner of my eye.
Please say yes.

“Nope,” Max says casually. “Are they good?” But he doesn't even wait for my reply and just moves to the next station.

“Yeah, they are, actually,” I say to nobody while my body deflates. “Thanks for asking.”

I follow him to the soda station, where he doesn't get soda but instead fills six small cafeteria glasses with ice water that he organizes in a neat row on his tray. I can't help but make a face. So boring. So not Max.

“What about the Amazon?” I push further. “Ever been there?” Max finally looks at me, but the expression on his face isn't exactly what I was hoping for. It's quizzical, not kind. I glance away, placing a glass under the milk spout and pulling the lever a little too roughly. Chocolate milk spurts all over my tray. I sigh. “I guess I'm about to find out how plantains and chocolate taste.” I smile feebly.

Max is still looking at me with his brows furrowed together, but this time I swear there is the slightest hint of a smile playing across his lips. Like he's biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. You ask a lot of questions,” Max says.

“The Amazon is in Brazil, and it's Brazilian Night,” I explain.

He starts picking up utensils. “Never been.”

“What about Thailand? Or Egypt?”

“Nope.” He starts to lift his tray again, nodding to a table of soccer players who are motioning him over.

I take a deep breath, giving it one last shot. “Me either,” I say. “But the Metropolitan Museum of Art has a pretty great Egyptian tomb . . . I went there once.” I swish a plantain around in chocolate milk for a second before peering back up at him. “Have you?”

Max puts his tray down a little too roughly. His silverware clangs against the plate, and now people are looking over and conversations have become hushed. I'm sure everyone wants to know why one of the most notable guys in school is looking at the random new girl like he wants to swat her with a piece of rolled-up newspaper.

“I was just . . . making conversation . . .” I mutter. “Sorry.”

Max shakes his head, inhaling deeply. “No, I'm sorry. I'm just really hungry, low blood sugar, and a rough practice today . . .” He takes the napkin on his tray and hands it to me. “You might need this. I'll see you in class.”

My face burns as I take the napkin, wiping my hand on it and then using it to dab my tray. I feel dozens of eyes slowly turn away from me, and the chatter of the dining hall resumes. What was I doing? Because all I've actually accomplished is
alienating the one person I am trying to get close to, who very clearly isn't the person I so badly want him to be. How many times did he need to brush me off before I got it in my head? Of course Max isn't the same guy I dream about. It's not possible.

“Alice Rowe?” A tired woman's voice comes over the school intercom. “Could Alice Rowe please report to the dessert section of the dining hall? I repeat, Alice Rowe to the dessert section of the dining hall. Thank you.”

Confused, I run a hand through my hair and do as instructed. Oliver is standing by the confections, arms crossed and chin resting atop a fist, studying them as though this decision will affect the rest of his life.

“Do I want a brownie or fro-yo?” he asks aloud, then turns to look at me, eyebrows raised, like it's a perfectly natural question.

“Did you just page me?” I ask. I'm still totally confused, but I'm also relieved.

“You're right, fro-yo is pretty girly,” he says.

“How did you just page me if you are standing right here?” I say.

“Fro-yo is for babes, but I feel like a man can get away with a sundae. No?”

“Oliver.”

“Pick a pastry, Alice,” he says. “Then we'll talk.”

A few minutes later we are peering at each other over the
biggest sundae I have ever seen, piled high with everything we could get our hands on—gummy bears, sprinkles, cookie crumbles, fudge sauce, and a mother lode of whipped cream.

“Roberta,” Oliver says with his mouth full. “The dean's receptionist. She hides it well, but she loves me. I texted her and asked for the loudspeaker announcement. You looked like you needed it.”

I can't help but notice that this is the second time Oliver has saved me when I “needed it.” I really hope I won't be in a position to need rescuing again. “Why do you have Roberta's number?” I ask, taking a giant bite of mostly whipped cream.

“Why wouldn't I?” Oliver asks.

I snort. “I just can't believe you paged me to the desserts. I thought we were in an episode of
Law & Order: Special Cookie Unit
.”

Oliver smiles. “Well, until I paged you, I thought you were in an episode of
The Young and the Restless
. What's with Captain Douche?” He gives a quick nod in the direction of the doorway, where Max is putting his tray away.

I just shrug and take another bite of ice cream that takes forever to swallow. How can I tell him that I thought I knew Max from a lifetime of dreams, but I somehow managed to imagine everything? That even though I really feel like I know Max, he's not actually the Max I know. That the Max I know . . . well, that Max doesn't even exist.

“You don't wanna talk about it?” he asks.

I just shake my head.

“In that case, may I Segway you home?”

It turns out Oliver lives four blocks from Nan's house, which I know I should start calling my house. But my house is a floor-through walk-up on 119th Street, a strange hybrid of teenage lair and perpetual man cave. Not an endless maze of Oriental carpeting and paintings with heavy gold frames. My house has restaurants representing six different countries within a one-block radius. Nan's has a place called Beacon Hill Fine Linens.

“Is there anything more ridiculous than a store specializing in five-hundred-dollar sheets?” I ask Oliver when we pass it on our way home. “It makes sleep, one of our most basic needs, elitist.” I am walking Frank beside him, and he is walking his Segway, because it ran out of juice.

“You want ridiculous?” he asks. “I went to the corner store to grab some milk for my cornflakes last week, because my parents forget I need to eat sometimes, and the lady said they only carry organic sheep's milk. She told me that with a completely straight face. I just turned and walked out.”

“Your parents sound busy,” I say.

“They run their own packaging company, so they're always running off to China at the last minute. They aren't around a lot.”

“Do you get lonely?” I ask.

“Sure, but a guy finds ways to entertain himself.” He gives one of his charming Oliver smiles. “Like doing poorly in school and getting into trouble all the time.”

“I get it,” I say. “My mom took off when I was little, and my dad isn't much of a talker, so I developed a pretty active imagination.”

I expect him to feel awkward after my admission, or ask where my mom went. But instead he just says, “Like what?”

“I dunno, I was a curious kid,” I say.

“Give me an example,” he presses.

“I can't tell you!” I cry. “It's embarrassing.”

“Alice Rowe, so secretive,” Oliver teases. “You could be a Russian spy, for all I know. Have you already stolen my identity?”

“Okay fine!” I say when we stop at a crosswalk. A man walking a pair of poodles stares at Oliver's Segway. Oliver just nods hello. “For example, I used to follow our dog Jerry around like we were in one of those National Geographic documentaries, recording his every move on my dad's old tape recorder. He's a bulldog, and they aren't exactly energetic, so you can imagine how interesting it was.”

“Please tell me you still have the tapes,” Oliver says.

“If I do, you will never hear them,” I reply.

“I think I know what's bugging you,” my dad says over paella that night. He learned to make it when we were in Portugal
two summers ago for one of his conferences. Besides scrambled eggs, it is basically all he can make.

“Oh yeah?” I say absentmindedly, staring into a prawn's eyeballs. He can't just make it with the store-bought shrimp. It has to be
authentic
.

“The boy,” he says then, and I almost drop my fork. “The one from New York. Come on, you can't fool your dad.”

“You're right.” I nod, though of course he has it all wrong. Because there is no boy from New York. “It's the boy from New York.”