Dreamology (18 page)

I am thinking
it's a huge mistake that the Public Garden doesn't offer more swan boat rides at night, because that's where I am now, cruising along the pond under the stars. The Boston skyline looks down at me like a family over a newborn baby, and it's pretty spectacular. Everywhere my gaze shifts, all around the edges of the pond, are cherry trees. Their blossoms are such a bright shade of pink they might as well be electric. That's when I realize they are electric. The trees themselves aren't growing petals at all, but hot-pink Christmas lights, casting us all in a rosy glow.

I turn to point this out to Oliver, but Oliver isn't there. Max is.

“Hi,” is all he says, and he reaches out to take my hand. My whole body melts as I prepare for him to pull me to his chest, letting one hand rest at the base of my neck, tangled in my hair.

I want to wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head just under his chin. I've missed him so much.

But just before Max's hand touches mine, he pulls back.

“What?” I ask.

“Did you feel that?” he asks, staring at his hand like it doesn't belong to him.

“No?” I say, confused, and reach out to touch him. But this time I do feel it. It's like our bodies are two magnets that are repelling the other. I can't get close enough.

We let our hands drop to our sides and stare at each other, confused.

For the first time, I look ahead, and I see that this swan boat isn't like the one Oliver and I took the other day. It's being pedaled by an actual swan, a giant one with soft, luxurious feathers. I reach out and stroke its neck as if it were a pony.

At this, the swan turns around.

“Thank you,” it says. “That feels nice.”

“You're welcome,” I say back. “You're a very polite swan.”

“And you are a very skilled back scratcher,” it says.

“Should we go and find her?” the swan asks.

“Find who?” I say.

“Margaret Yang, of course!” the swan explains, pausing for a moment to prune itself. “It's the only way to fix everything.”

I look to Max, sitting way too far away, and he just nods. “Let's go and fix it,” he says. His expression is dead serious.

“Tomorrow?” I ask.

“First thing,” he replies. “Alice?”

“Yeah Max?”

Once again he tries to reach out and touch me, and once again his hand can't break through. “I don't like this,” he says.

“Me neither,” I say.

“Tomorrow,” he repeats. “I'll see you soon.”

“I'll see you soon,” I say.

“WHAT ARE YOU
doing?” my father asks, showing, uncharacteristically, that he is actually paying attention.

“Nothing,” I say, looking at him blankly over the top of my coffee mug.

“Your knee is jiggling, and it's moving the entire table. I'm trying to do the crossword. What's wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” I say. “I just have a few things on my mind.”
Like will Max show up today? Did the plan we made in the swan dream hold true?
I think about texting him and just asking, but decide against it. I haven't heard from him in reality since our conversation in the library. Yes, there was something coming between us in the dream last night, too.

But what?
I think as I stare off into space.

“You're doing it again,” my dad says. “The leg thing. Why don't you take Jerry for a walk? He has an uncanny ability to fall asleep on my foot, and he really needs the exercise.”

I do my best to steer Jerry away from the Public Garden, because it feels kind of funny going there right after I dreamed about it, but Jerry will have it no other way, pulling me through the gates like a furry Zamboni.

He immediately waddles straight for the pond and begins sniffing methodically around the exterior, as though he is tracking something. That duck, probably.

That's when I see it. A small swan, floating alone in the water about twenty feet away. And it's staring right into my eyes.

I stare back curiously. What it's actually probably doing is eyeing Jerry, the furry hunting beast by my side, having witnessed the duck fiasco in the very same pond a week ago.

But that's when the swan winks.

There is no mistaking it.

And I know it's a sign. I have to go to Maine to find Margaret Yang. With or without Max.

But Max's Volvo is double-parked in front of my house when Jerry and I return, and Max is waiting on the stoop, holding four coffees.

“I didn't know what kind you liked.” He shrugs as we walk up. “So I just got like . . . all of them.”

Despite myself, I can't help but smile from ear to ear.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I shake my head. He did mean it. Agreeing to come. Which means he also meant it in the dream when he said he hated not being able to touch me. “How are we supposed to drink all those?”

“Well, we're apparently going to have help,” he says.

“Hiiiiiiiiiii,” Sophie squeals as she runs out of the house like a flying squirrel, nearly tackling me to the ground. Then she pulls away from me and looks at my surprised face.

“Oh my God, I knew it. I was just saying so to your dad. I was like, she completely forgot I was even coming this weekend. You did forget, didn't you?”

“Um,” I start to say.

“Even if you did, just lie,” she suggests.

“I did not forget?” I try.

Sophie lets out another squeal and hugs me again, jumping up and down and pausing to straighten her glasses when they nearly fall off her nose. She is all rosy cheeks and shiny straight brown hair. I forgot how much light she emits without even trying. “I met this one, by the way,” she says, nodding to Max. Then she leans in and whispers, far too loudly, “Even hotter than you said.”

I just hang my head in shame, and Max pretends not to hear and takes a sip of coffee to hide his smile.

“Oh, hello, Gerald,” Sophie says then, glancing down at Jerry and looking away disdainfully.

“You know that's not his name,” I chide her.

“Maybe I don't care,” Sophie huffs.

I roll my eyes and turn to Max. “Sophie hates Jerry because he ate her favorite Barbie doll when we were little,” I say. “And she's never forgiven him.”

“Why would I forgive a slobbery beast with no self-control or sense of decency?” Sophie puts a hand on her hip. “One minute Barbie had a head and face; the next we were monitoring his bowel movements for signs of blond hair to make sure it had
passed
.” She shudders.

“Watch what you say about Jer-Bear,” I hear someone say, and I turned to find Oliver on the sidewalk, astride his Segway like a modern knight.

“And what is going on here exactly?” Sophie asks. “Seventeen going on seventy? My nana has one of those. Hers is hot pink. You guys could take them on your dates together.”

“Don't knock it till you've tried it,” Oliver says. “Which you will never get to do, because with that attitude you're never going to ride it.”

Sophie gasps as though she has just been slapped with a glove, and I take the opportunity to interrupt.

“Okay, guys, Max and I actually had a plan today.” I turn to him, suddenly nervous. “Just to confirm, that is why you're here, isn't it?” I ask. “The road trip?”

Max gets up and walks over to me, looking confused. “Of course that's why I'm here. I told you I would be, didn't I?”

I can't help but relax, breathing a sigh of relief, and Max squeezes my shoulder, which makes me the opposite of relaxed all over again.

“Road trip!” Oliver exclaims, rubbing his hands together. “Where are we going?”

“
We
,” Max says, pointing from himself to Sophie to me, “are going to Maine. I have no idea where you are going.”

I expect Oliver to reply with something witty, something to save face. But instead he does something I've never seen him do before. He lets his guard down, and he actually looks hurt as he turns back to remount his Segway. “Oh,” he says. “Okay.”

“You know what?” I announce. “I think we have room for one more.”

“We do?” Max asks, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“We do,”
I say, turning to give him a look.

“Whatever,” Max mutters. “As long as I'm driving.”

It turns out Max Wolfe is a big fan of Motown, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't take me by surprise. But as we cruise up I-95 toward Maine, I realize it makes a bit of sense. Like Max, Motown is classic. It's a little bit reserved, but it still knows how to have a good time.

“I didn't know you liked this kind of stuff,” I say.

“It's fun to drive to,” Max explains. He seems really relaxed today. We're about forty minutes outside the city, and the leaves are positively on fire. Lemon yellow, fire-engine red,
and a color of orange reserved for only the cheapest orange soda you can find.

“I wish they stayed this way all year long,” I say wistfully.

“Me too,” Max agrees. “But then we wouldn't have snow . . . or summer.”

“You're right,” I say, and let my head fall back against the seat as I listen to Sophie and Oliver bickering behind us.

“I'm just saying, no offense, but I think I have a solid chance of replacing you as best friend by the end of the school year,” Oliver says. “I mean, how long have you known Alice anyway?”

“Oh, only like, my entire
life
,” Sophie replies. “But what's that compared to knowing her for not even two months?”

“I'm sensing quite a bit of hostility from you right now, Sophie, and I gotta tell you I'm sort of into it,” Oliver says. “But I'm still going to need more evidence of friendship.”

“Alice and I have an old inside joke where we pretend we have clones of each other that we hang out with when the other isn't around, because that's how much we miss each other when we aren't together. Can you beat that?” Sophie asks.

“Do you know that a woman in England just cloned her dachshund? It's true. I read about it,” I call back to them.

“You would read something like that,” Max pipes in. He was so intent on the road, I hadn't even realized he was listening.

“I'd like to clone
both
you ladies,” Oliver calls out.

“In your
dreams
,” Sophie shoots back. Then she pauses for a second, thinking. “I guess that phrase holds a little more meaning in this crowd.”

“Well, I've known Alice longer than either of you, so beat that,” Max says. And the car falls awkwardly silent.

“Yeah, but only in a weird parallel dream universe, so I'm not sure that counts,” Sophie says.

“Speaking of parallel universe, did you just see that sign?” Max says quietly to me. “Rio de Janeiro, twenty-two miles.”

“That's not possible,” I say. “There's no Rio in Maine.”

“I know,” Max says, looking at me pointedly. “That's the point. We're probably going to get totally lost because our minds are dreaming up alternate road signs.”

But I'm thinking about something else. “So that time in the cafeteria, when I asked you about the Amazon . . . you remembered that, right?”

“Of course I did,” Max says. “You were so sad that week. You missed your dad like crazy. I was trying everything I could to make you happy. The fried plantains were the first thing that worked.”

“I knew it,” I say, a little drowsy.

“You're falling asleep, aren't you?” Max asks.

“Plains, trains, and automobiles,” I manage to mumble. And just as my eyes are about to close, I see the weirdest thing I've seen so far, since my reality and dreams started bleeding. A
motorcycle has sped up next to the car, and Jerry is at the wheel, with a smaller bulldog riding shotgun. They're wearing tiny helmets and goggles. Jerry's black, and the smaller dog's hot pink. They turn and stare at me for a second before riding off again.

THE FIRST THING
I do when I wake up in the passenger seat of Max's station wagon, besides notice how beautiful my surroundings are, all green farmland and stone walls and quaint shingled houses, is wonder why there is a camel wearing a fur hat staring at me through the window. The second thing I do is notice that I am totally alone.

“Alpacas have got to be one of the most ridiculous-looking animals on earth,” I hear Sophie say as I step out of the car and join the rest of the group where they are leaning against a large wooden fence, peering into a field. “He needed a break,” she adds, and points to Max, who is stretching.

Directly facing them and looking about half as curious is a small pack of alpacas, noiselessly chewing on grass. They do
look a lot like llamas, except their fur is shorn so they appear to be wearing wide, fuzzy bellbottoms, and the tops of their heads carry chic bouffants of frizzy hair.

“They sort of look like eighties pop stars,” Oliver observes.

“I don't think they like us,” I say.

“That's probably because Sophie insulted them.” Max smirks.

“Did Max Wolfe just make a joke?” Oliver waves his hands in front of Max's face and then says loudly, “
Max, are you in there? Can you hear us?
Or is this the beginning of some
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
–type horror flick?”

“Shut up,” Max says playfully. Then in a deep scary voice that surprises all of us, he says.
“Or you'll be the first to die!”

“Another joke!” Oliver cries. “Now this is just getting freaky.” Oliver is still laughing when he falls flat on his face, and then Max is the one who is laughing.

“Dude, did you just trip me?” Oliver says from the ground, and he does not sound pleased.

“Relax,” Max says. “I was just kidding around. I'll help you up.” He reaches out a hand to Oliver, who moves to take it but instead pulls Max down onto the grass with him.

“What the hell?” Max yells.

And suddenly they are wrestling.

“Real mature, Healy!” I hear Max grunt.

“You're one to talk, Wolfe!” Oliver sneers back. “What, are you showing off?”

“Are they okay?” Sophie asks, walking up beside me.

“I think so?” I say. “I think they're just idiots. They have a history.”

Then we hear a voice from behind us that makes even Oliver and Max lift their hands off the ground. “You boys better get your act together. You're scaring the kids,” it says. We turn to find an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, a navy wool sweater, and high rubber boots strolling toward us. He's pointing toward the field, and that's when I realize
kids
refers to alpacas.

“Sorry, sir.” Max and Oliver stand up immediately, wiping off their knees, like foot soldiers at the attention of their general, which is amusing since this man comes up no higher than their chins. But there's something about him, an undeniable presence. It makes you listen closely.

The only person who does not seem to be intimidated, of course, is Sophie. “Are you Alfred?” she asks, glancing at the sign that says
ALFRED'S ALPACA FARM
.

“I am,” Alfred says.

“I like your alpacas.” She smiles, as though complimenting his boots.

“Thank you, young lady.” Alfred smiles back. “Would you be interested in a tour?”

Even though we were on a mission, not one of us says no.

It turns out alpacas are not just fun to look at, they are quite useful. We follow Alfred up over the rolling hill of his property,
past his white-shingled farmhouse with a wide wraparound porch, and into a big red barn, while he shares with us the secrets of his trade. We learn that alpaca fiber is three times warmer than wool, and much more fine. We learn there are two types of alpacas—Suri, which come in a range of colors and have curlier locks, and Huacaya, which is the most common breed found in the United States. We all take a turn spinning fiber into yarn at the wheel.

“I made you this,” I hear Oliver tell Sophie under the heavy beams of the barn, holding out a small piece of yarn he just spun. Sophie responds by giggling and walking away, but not before taking the useless piece of yarn with her, and I can't help but raise my eyebrows at this.

The best part is that we even get to pet an alpaca or two, and I am just bidding good-bye to a sweet one named Mildred when I glance over and see Max, practically nose to nose with another, whispering sweet nothings to it. He catches me smiling and clears his throat, giving it one last swift pat atop its head before walking my way.

“What? We had a connection,” he says.

My heart can't help but swell at the sight of this Max. This is the Max I know and love. Open and relaxed and happy. I go to rest a hand on his back but pull it away almost instantly, unsure of what's okay anymore. Max gives me a look I can't decipher.

I wish things were simpler. That this was just a normal day
hanging out with friends at a normal alpaca farm. And Max was my normal boyfriend, who I didn't dream about. I wish Sophie lived here. I wish I hadn't seen my dog ride by me on a motorcycle today. I wish we weren't losing our grip on reality.

We find Alfred, Oliver, and Sophie standing on the porch. Sophie is holding a beautiful cream-colored sweater she just purchased, and Oliver is holding a box of sugar cookies shaped like alpacas.

“I'm sorry, Mildred!” Oliver cries, before biting off one of the alpaca cookie heads. “But you are delicious. What?” he asks between chews when he notices the way I'm looking at him.

“Nothing,” I say, breaking off a sugar cookie alpaca leg as we turn back toward the main road. “I'm just happy. I wish it could stay this way.”

“Why can't it?” Oliver looks genuinely confused.

“Because things are about to change,” I answer.

“Not if we don't let them.” Oliver shrugs like it's all so simple, and I wish it were.

“So, how far are we from the college?” I ask Max as we pile back into the car.

“Only about ten minutes,” he replies, looking at Google Maps on his phone. “So we should have answers in no time.” A feeling of sadness rises up in my throat. After we find Margaret, nothing is going to be the same.

But as we drive through the campus of Wells College, I start
to relax. It's strikingly beautiful, an abundance of pathways weaving around pristine brick buildings and giant leafy trees, and all of it resting atop vast, well-manicured lawns. A perfect little academic haven.

At least, at first.

“I'm afraid I can't help you with that,” Doreen McGinty says between gum snaps over the top of her desk at the faculty center. We already tried Margaret Yang's office in the biology wing, and it was locked, and now we are hoping Doreen can provide us with a home address. Doreen's hair is both very large and very permed, like it hasn't been changed since the late eighties.

“She kind of looks like an alpaca,” Max says under his breath as Doreen chews her gum, and I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle.

“No personal addresses are to be given out to students, academic policy. My sincerest apologies,” Doreen explains. But she does not sound very sincere.

“But we aren't students!” Sophie pipes up, trying to be helpful, and the rest of us groan.

“Then I definitely can't give it to you,” Doreen says.

“What about when she holds her office hours?” Max tries. “Can you tell us that?”

“That I could give to you if you
were
students, but not if you aren't,” Doreen replies.

“Doreen,” Oliver says, coming over and leaning one arm casually along the top of her desk. “Let me ask you two questions. One. Has anyone ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to a young Princess Diana? Because you do, Doreen. And two, hypothetically, if you were a few students who weren't technically enrolled at the moment . . .” He makes little quotation marks with his hands.

“So not students,” Doreen deadpans.

“Tomato-tomahto,” Oliver says. “Anyway, if so . . . how would you go about finding a professor?”

“Sure, I can help you with that,” Doreen says, shuffling in her desk for something.

“I knew you could, Doreen.” Oliver bats his eyelashes.

Doreen thwacks a thick stack of pamphlets down on top of her desk. “Applications for enrollment,” she states. “Fill these out, and I can answer your questions when you get in next year.”

Fifteen minutes later, we're sitting on a bench outside the coffee shop in the center of Wells, feeling totally hopeless.

“My charms always work on Dean Hammer's assistant,” Oliver says, stunned. “Reference an attractive public figure from the eighties or nineties, then slip in your request, boom.”

“We aren't in Kansas anymore,” I say. “We're in Maine.”

“Maybe you should try actually working for what you want instead of playing games all the time,” Max says. I give him a
look that says,
Whoa
, and he just shrugs.

“Spare me, Wolfe,” Oliver replies. “I don't see you doing anything to fix the situation.”

“I'd love to do that, Healy, but you seem to always be getting in my way,” Max says.

“How can I possibly be getting in your way when you spend most of the time pretending I don't exist?” Oliver almost-sneers, and Max is quiet.

“I don't pretend you don't exist,” Max says finally. “We grew apart. Our lives are different than they used to be.”

“You ditched me, dude,” Oliver says. “Don't try and deny it. We wouldn't even be hanging out right now if it wasn't for Alice.” In response, Max looks pained. I can tell he knows Oliver is sort of right.

“So what are we going to do?” I ask, breaking the tension.

“We can always try her office again tomorrow.” Oliver shrugs. “Or hit up the dining hall at dinner and ask around?”

“But where will we stay tonight?” I ask.

“What about Alfred's?” Sophie says. “He has that big old house. I think it might be a bed-and-breakfast, too.”

“Really?” Oliver looks skeptical.

“In Maine, everything is a bed-and-breakfast,” Sophie says with certainty.

We pile back in the car in slightly better spirits, but find ourselves back at square one when the engine won't start.

I am about to make a suggestion about a tow truck when I
notice how rigid Max's posture has become, and I choose to remain quiet. Oliver unfortunately does not get the hint.

“That's what you get for driving this hunk of junk,” he mutters in the backseat. “This car is older than we are.”

Sophie is tapping away on her phone, and I am still watching Max, waiting for him to explode.

“It was supposed to be my sister's,” Max says through gritted teeth.

Oliver rubs his forehead for a second and exhales. “I'm sorry, Max. I didn't know.”

Max turns around in his seat. “I drive this hunk of junk because it was supposed to be Lila's. You remember my sister? She used to babysit us every day after school, until she died?”

Oliver's face doesn't flinch. He just sits there taking it. “I remember,” is all he says.

“So, I'm sorry if I ditched you,
dude
,” Max says. “But I had to move on with my life. Do something besides play video games with you all day and drop water balloons off the balcony of your bedroom. And I'm sorry you got left behind, but I'm also sorry you couldn't grow up.”

I wait for Oliver to yell back, to start something, but he doesn't. He just nods. “You're right,” he says. And then he says it again. “I'm sorry.”

Max tries the key a few more times, begging it to turn on, and when it doesn't he just leans his head against the horn, groaning along with it. Reluctantly, I put a hand on his
shoulder, and he doesn't shrug it off. He just lifts his head off the steering wheel a little, tipping it to the side so he can stare at me, his eyes pleading.

“It's okay,” I say. “Everything is going to be okay.” I've never seen him like this before.

“I just want to figure it out,” he says. “I just want everything to be right again. In life, and . . . with us.”

“I know,” I say.

“Bartholomew Burns!” Sophie cries from the backseat. And all three of us turn and stare at her.

“Say what?” Oliver asks.

“How much do you all love me?” Sophie announces, wiggling her cell phone in the air like it's a golden ticket.

“That depends,” I say. “Is Margaret Yang inside that phone?”

Sophie shakes her head. “Bartholomew Burns,” she says again.

“Bartholomew Burns, your old Latin tutor?” I ask. “The guy who wore the cross with a detachable Jesus on it?”

“It's true, he did wear a necklace with a detachable Jesus,” Sophie calmly explains. “Sometimes he liked to wear a cross with Jesus, sometimes without. But that was a phase, and anyway, he could more than stand me, if you get my drift.” She raises her eyebrows up and down.

“What does this have to do with anything?” Max asks.

Sophie rolls her eyes. “Because I posted a selfie of me and
Mildred the alpaca at Alfred's today, and Bartholomew saw it, and it turns out he goes here!” Her eyes light up, like
ta-da
. “So he messaged me, and I told him what was up . . . well, part of it . . . the not-weird parts . . . and he said we can crash with him tonight if we want, at his dorm! Like half his floor is out of town.”

The tension releases from the car like pressure evening out inside an airplane. “Nice work, Soph!” I say, giving her a high five. “That's a great idea.”

“There's just one problem.” She makes a face. “He says he's having a huge party tonight . . . he hopes we don't mind?”

At the word
party
, Oliver's eyes light up. “I suppose we could attend,” he says.