Dreamology (22 page)

FROM AN EMOTIONAL
standpoint, there is really never a good time to cause your imaginary dream boyfriend to break up with you. I have been well aware of this every day for the past week, since we got back from Maine. But from a practical standpoint, as I approached the new science center, balancing my succulent trays atop my bike basket, I could have really benefited from the use of my imaginary dream ex-boyfriend's station wagon.

“Alice.” Parker walks up, arms outstretched toward my succulent trays. “This is a sight to behold! You've come a long way since that first day in Terrarium Club!”

“Thanks!” I say. “I've had some time on my hands.” By that I mean the time I would have usually spent sleeping. But since
I'm too afraid to go to sleep and not dream of Max, instead I've been doing my homework and tending to my succulents. The other night my dad heard me in the yard at two a.m. and came out wielding a baseball bat.

“Well, set them down over there by Celeste, and then if you want you can help Jeremiah measure out where the installations are going to hang, that would be excellent.”

I glance over to where Jeremiah and Celeste are standing on two ladders next to each other. Jeremiah gives a small wave and brandishes some measuring tape.

“Did you ever build your vacation home for Socrates?” I ask as I extend some tape and Jeremiah makes small lines on the wall with the tip of a pencil.

He seems genuinely shocked. “I can't believe you remembered his name. He'll be so honored,” Jeremiah says.

“Well, please let him know,” I say with a smile.

“I don't have to. He heard it himself.” Jeremiah winks.

The measuring tape rolls back into its cage with a snap. “What does that mean?” I ask nervously.

Jeremiah slowly makes sure the coast is clear before unzipping the fanny pack he is wearing at his waist, and out pops the head of a small green lizard.

“Say hello, Socrates,” Jeremiah says.

Socrates just blinks, and Jeremiah looks at me expectantly.

“Oh!” I exclaim. “Hello, Socrates!” I say, a little too loudly to compensate for my insincerity.

But Jeremiah gives me a disgusted look. “Not so loud!” he hisses. “Do you want us to get suspended?”

“Sorry,” I whisper, shaking my head.

And when I do, I see Max is walking across the quad, a stack of books tucked under his arm, heading in the direction of the gym. I watch his slow gait wistfully. He always knows where he's going, what's next. I wonder if I will ever manage to get over him, or if years down the line I'll be in therapy, still talking about a guy I barely even knew when I was conscious. My swan. My African parrot. My fuzzy fish.

Just then, an email pops up on my phone. I see who it's from. My hand starts to shake a bit, and I waste no time opening it immediately.

“Actually, will you hold Socrates for a second?” Jeremiah asks. “I really have to go to the bathroom, but Socrates is afraid of the sound of the toilet flushing.”

“Sure,” I say, not paying attention, as I hold out my hand that's not clutching my phone. I feel something scaly and squirmy land in my palm as I eagerly read the message.

I stare at the last two sentences, letting the hand holding the phone drop to my side. Dreams are all we have? I frown. No,
Mom
, they are not all we have. We have so much more than that. We have friends and loved ones and real life. We have people that matter, real people, and what we do matters to them in return. They rely on us.

At least I do.

I look back up just in time to see Max entering the gym, and I swallow. I am an idiot.

“You know,” I hear a voice say, and look down to see Celeste leaning on my ladder, holding the measuring tape that just fell off one of the steps. She glances in the direction of the gym. “I've seen him sleep a few times.” She hands the tape back to me gently. “He never looked happier than when he dreamed.”

The door to the gym elevator is just about to shut behind Max when I wedge myself in it and, after the doors close and before I can psych myself out, press the Stop button.

“Alice, are you crazy?” Max says.

“Do you really need me to answer that question?” I reply.

“Do I need to remind you that you are terrified of small confined spaces?” he asks.

“Nope, no need for that,” I mutter, glancing around the tiny torture chamber. “I am well aware.”

“What are you doing with Socrates?” Max asks then, and I
look down to see the lizard dangling helplessly from my hand, no doubt certain that death is imminent.

“Does everyone in this whole school know Socrates?” I ask.

“He was our class pet in elementary school, and Jeremiah adopted him,” Max says. “So, yes.”

“Well, that explains it,” I say, holding Socrates up and looking him in the eye. He responds by blinking at me several times, and it occurs to me that when Jeremiah gets back from the bathroom, he is absolutely going to be out for my blood.

“Alice,” Max says, gently bringing me back to reality. “How about we allow the elevator to move again, before you have a breakdown?”

But I brush the idea out of my head. I have other things on my mind. “I'm sorry,” I say.

“It's okay,” Max says, not getting it. “Let's just press the button . . .”

“No,” I say, “not about that. About what I said. About how I felt. I'm sorry that I made you feel like you weren't enough, Max, because you are. I was afraid. For my whole life, the dreams were all I had. They were the only thing that made me feel less alone. And you were part of that. And you got over it, you learned how to function, but I didn't. And I didn't understand that when I lost the dreams, I wouldn't lose you, too.”

Max isn't saying anything, he's just staring at the floor, so
I keep going. “And you were right! I do need to live in reality. And I'm trying. I know I can't just escape my problems. I mean, I'm standing in an elevator! And I even talked to my dad about my mom.”

At this, Max meets my eyes with a sad smile. “That's really great, Alice,” he says. “I'm glad to hear it.”

But I keep talking. “So I'm saying, everything is fine!” I try again, because this isn't the response I wanted. “I mean, look at me! I'm literally standing here in an elevator, confronting my fears, because of you. It doesn't get any more real than this, Max. I don't need the dreams if I've got you.” The hand that's not holding Socrates is feverishly tapping rhythms against its own palm, and my body is starting to feel a little hot. Is there no air in here?

Max just keeps giving me that sad smile.

“Max?” I ask. “Say something.”

“I don't know, Alice.” He shakes his head. “Maybe we're just too different.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, the blood draining from my face as Socrates squirms between my fingers. Now it doesn't matter if I'm in an elevator or not. I could be buried six feet beneath the ground and I'm not sure I would notice.

Max keeps talking. “I've been thinking about it all, too, about what I said. The thing is, you've always lived in the dreamworld. And it's one of the most incredible things about you. I don't want to take that away from you, but it seems like
I do. Maybe we worked in the dreams, but in reality . . . maybe it's just not meant to be.”

I stand there for a moment, frozen. “But I fixed it,” I try again. “I'm in an elevator.”

“I know,” Max says. “And right now we need to get you out of one, before you lose it.”

Slowly, he presses the Stop button again, and when the doors open this time, we find Jeremiah, Celeste, and Dean Hammer waiting for us.

“We had to call security,” Dean Hammer fumes. “Are you two all right? And who is responsible for this reptile?”

Without a word, I hand Socrates to Jeremiah and leave Max to explain while tears begin to slide down my cheeks.

Somewhere out there,
it sounds like Darth Vader is chuckling. This makes zero sense, since he was arguably the most serious man in the entire solar system, in the history of time. But there it is again, deep and sinister: Ho-ho-ho.

“What is that terrible noise?” I ask, sticking my head out of the safari tent and rubbing my eyes.

“Hippos.” Max looks up from his reading at the breakfast table. He gives a nod to the left. “We're camped next to the river, and they seem to have a lot to say this morning.”

“I can't tell if they are laughing at us or plotting our demise,” I say, grimacing as the strange bellows echo over the camp. “What?” I ask Max, who is giving me a look.

“Nothing!” He shrugs his shoulders good-naturedly. “You've just never been a morning person.”

I shuffle over to the folding camp table and take a grateful sip of coffee from his mug as I sit down.

“Get your own,” he protests. But he knows I won't, so he pours himself a new cup. “Come on,” he says then, standing up and extending a hand to me. “Time to go and see the lions.” His brown hair falls softly in his eyes, and the sun shines from behind his face, making him look almost otherworldly.

“Are there baby ones?” I ask hopefully.

“Of course,” he answers.

“How will we get there?” I ask.

“Did you sleep okay?” Max looks concerned. “The answer is hot air balloon, like always.”

Before I know it, the balloon is touching down among the lion pride, who watch us carefully from where they lie in the long grass, and my fingers go a little numb. But Max pulls a fluffy green tennis ball the size of a grapefruit from his back pocket.

“Ready? Ready?” he shouts, “Go get it!” and hurls the ball across the plains. The mother lion runs and grabs it like a giant golden retriever, then drops it panting at our feet and purrs as we scratch behind her ears.

“Looks like we're in.” Max laughs.

I want to laugh, too, except I am struck by one terrible thought: This isn't Max.

He looks like Max and he smiles like Max, he's sweet and kind like Max. But he's not my Max. He's like a Max decoy. A stand-in. He isn't him, and we aren't us. This isn't something we will each wake up in our beds tomorrow and share, one moment in time the rest of the world will never know about except Max and me. This is just a regular dream. I can't explain it. I just know.

“Can we go now?” I ask Fake Dream Max.

“But we just got here!” Max cries.

“I really wanna go home,” I say, a little frantically now.

Fake Dream Max looks at me, confused, tilting his head to one side. “Okay, Alice,” he says with a nod. “We can go home now.”

I CAN'T HELP
but feel that it's rather rude of Jerry to keep barking incessantly in the front hall when some of us have better things to do, like lie in our beds hating everything.

That isn't true, though, and I know it. Anytime I'm upset, my father will always ask me to think about everything good I have going on. I'm doing well in school, and I joined a few more clubs—BARA, the Bennett Animal Rescue Association, and the Photography Club, and I started my own weekly music podcast. I've even begun picking out potential schools I'd like to go to after Bennett. Now that we've talked about my mom, my dad and I are better than ever. I have a lot to be happy about.

I just don't have Max.

Jerry barks again and I storm over to the intercom, pressing the button for the kitchen. “Dad?” I call. “Will you please let Jerry out? I'm sleeping.” It's only when he doesn't answer that I remember he left early this morning for a conference in St. Louis. I am alone, and Jerry needs to go to the bathroom.

I pull on a sweater and some boots and jog down the stairs, throwing on a gray wool coat.

“Jer?” I call. “Where are you?”

When I hear his bark from outside, I throw the door open, annoyed. “How on earth did you get out here?” I ask before noticing that something is very different, and I wonder if I haven't actually woken up yet.

As usual, the front walk is covered in fallen leaves. But instead of reds and blues and browns, the leaves are neon pink.

And standing a few paces down, among the leaves, wearing a tuxedo, is Max.

And standing next to him, in a much tinier tuxedo, is Jerry.

And Max is holding a pizza box.

“What is this?” I barely manage to ask, slowly taking a few steps toward him.

“Here,” Max says, grinning, his eyes a little glassy. “Open it.”

I open the top of the box, feeling like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
, and am stunned to see not a pizza, but a giant Oreo cookie cake.

“Am I dreaming?” I ask in all seriousness, looking around and rubbing my eyes.

“No, you're not.” Max laughs, but his voice comes out a little choked. “And that's exactly the point I'm trying to make.”

I tuck my hands inside the sleeves of my sweater and bite my lip. “I'm confused,” I say. “That day in the elevator . . .”

Max tips his head to the side. “I know. I know I said that we are just too different. But then I thought about it . . .” He chuckles again. He's honestly acting a little manic, back and forth between giggles and almost-tears. “Getting in the elevator. Just to tell me how you felt. You are totally insane, Alice, and you do live in a dreamworld sometimes. You prefer things when they are stranger and prettier than everyday life. But that means you also make every moment of
my
life dreamier. More exciting and unexpected. When you are around, my life is
always
sparkly. And I don't want to change you. I don't want to run from it, either. I want to make you feel the way you make me feel. I want to make you happy.”

I'm so happy I can barely speak. I never thought I'd hear him say these words. I want to grab him by the lapels and hold him tight. So, after carefully taking the pizza box from him and setting it on the ground, that's exactly what I do.

“You do make me happy,” I say, my cheek pressed against his chest. “Dream Max and Real Max. The one who knows how to push the limits, and the one who grounds me and brings me back to earth. I can't imagine going back to the way
things were, when all I knew was Dream Max, and Real Max didn't exist. It would be like reading alternating chapters of my favorite book, or listening to a skipping record. And I feel like I've ruined it, and we can't go back.”

“But that's the thing, Alice,” Max says, running a hand up and down my back and resting his head on top of mine. “We don't have to go back. We have each other. No matter how different we are or how many dumb things we do, we make each other better. And what we have is better than what the dreams could ever give us. It's real.”

As Max pulls away from me, my heart feels like it's doing rhythmic gymnastics. Then he kisses me, and it's the best kiss yet, because it means more than all the others before it. And I'm not afraid anymore. Of losing the dreams or losing him. I have him. My swan. My African parrot. My fuzzy fish.

I kiss him back, the world around us disappearing completely. When we break apart, Max reaches into his pocket to retrieve something while I reach down to the Oreo cake and pick up a piece.

“One more thing,” he says, handing me a cell phone case with Jerry's face on it.

I stare down at the phone. Even when he's being the most romantic person on Earth, he's still the most practical. Still looking out for me.

“You know you need it,” he says. Then he looks worried. “Did I ruin the moment?”

I shake my head. “No,” I say, looking up into his eyes. “It's perfect.” And then, without warning, I smush a giant piece of Oreo cake across his cheek.

“Oh, really?” Max cries. “You thought that was the right move for this moment?”

I start to back up slowly, inch by inch, grinning wildly. “Maybe?” I say, shrugging.

“You should probably run now,” Max replies, pieces of Oreo falling from his face. And then I take off shrieking into the house, Max on my tail, Jerry nipping at our heels.