Dreamology (3 page)

I MADE HIM
up. At least that's what I always told myself. The combination of all my childhood adorations, combined into one perfect guy. The trouble is, I was wrong. Because right now Max is sitting directly across the quad from me, reading our psych textbook and pausing every few minutes to type something on his phone. He's wearing a heather-gray T-shirt and I want to go over and sit on his lap.

“Pull it together,” I whisper, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear and staring at the U.S. history handout. I have yet to register a single line on the page. What was that article I read over my father's shoulder a few days ago? How the internet has connected our world so completely that it took six degrees of separation down to four? I probably just saw him on Facebook . . . Except
for the fact that I've been dreaming about him since way before I ever knew Facebook existed.

When I was little, I was absolutely terrified of blood, which was inconvenient, since I also suffered from chronic nosebleeds. My dad and I had a word we used to explain the feeling I got when I saw blood of any kind, in real life or in movies.
Noodly
. Because one minute I'd be fine and then the next, someone would scrape their knee or knick their finger on an X-Acto knife in art class, and I felt like all my bones had disappeared. Like I was just a sack of skin wiggling in the wind, or one of those weird balloon people they put outside of car dealerships. Sometimes in non-noodly moments, I'd act it out for my father, holding my arms above my head and moving my hips in a dolphin kick.

Noodly is how I feel right now, despite there being no blood in sight. And I am determined not to feel this way for the rest of the year.

Don't be creepy don't be creepy don't be creepy
, I repeat to myself as I make what feels like an epic journey across the well-manicured lawn. I have a million introductions swirling around in my head. Phrases that will make me seem witty and cool, a femme fatale of someone's dreams, which technically, I am.
His
. Like, “Fancy meeting you in reality,” or, “Have any good REM cycles lately?” He will smile and pull me to him and we will kiss and he will explain everything and he will never let me go again.

“Hi,” is all I actually manage to say, staring down at Max and rocking on my heels a little. It feels like every nerve in my body is suddenly screaming, and I have the urge to run very fast and very far away.

Max takes his time before looking up, giving me the impression he's seen me quietly stalking him across the quad this whole time. He finishes highlighting a sentence with exaggerated diligence, then sets his book to the side.

“Hi,” he says back, finally looking me square on and folding his hands in his lap. There is something behind his eyes I can't read that I've never seen before. There is a formality to them. It's almost . . . challenging.

Suddenly, the idea occurs to me that I may truly be unhinged, like the homeless lady who used to call our apartment every Saturday from a pay phone down the block and ask what the lunch specials were. If I was in a good mood, I'd humor her. “Baked ziti!” I'd proclaim. “Is it good today?” she'd ask, and I'd say, “Oh, absolutely, our chef is famous for it,” as my dad gave me a skeptical look over the top of one of his medical journals. But now that I'm standing in front of Max, he's so familiar that it's almost overpowering. This isn't a face I Photoshopped from the web into my subconscious. This is the guy I know and love. My guy. He is mine and I am—

“Did you need something?” Max cocks his head to one side.

I swallow. “Do—do you remember me?” I finally ask. And as I search his face for recognition—something like what I
thought I saw in the doorway to Levy's classroom—it feels like my heart has fallen into my stomach and the sides of my stomach are folding around it like caramel on a candy apple.

Just then a wash of shining black hair leans over the back of Max's bench, and a pair of tan, toned arms encircles his neck. The arms belong to a girl, and she's kissing him.

“Hello,” the-girl-who-apparently-also-kisses-Max says. “Who are you?”

Who are YOU?
I want to yell. I feel tears forming behind my eyes, and I am doing everything in my power to keep them there.

“She's new,” Max cuts in. For a moment his face shows the smallest sign of sympathy, but it is immediately replaced with the same eerily calm look. “It's Alice, right?” he says. The-girl-who-apparently-also-kisses-Max is still hovering over the bench, her elbows on Max's shoulders, her pretty face next to his.

It's Alice, right?

“Yeah,” I muster, and extend a hand. The girl takes it, smiling politely.

“New blood.” She nods. “I'm Celeste.”

Oh god.
Celeste
? Names like Celeste kick dirt on names like Alice on the playground. Names like Celeste steal names like Alice's prom dates. Names like Celeste are apparently dating names like Alice's imaginary dream boyfriends.

“That's a pretty name,” is all I say.

“Thanks. How do you two know each other?” Celeste asks.

Neither Max nor I speak. I can't bear to look at them together any longer, so I just stare at the ground, waiting for his response. And when it comes, I just shut my eyes altogether.

“We don't,” Max says quietly.

Now I don't just feel noodly. Now I'm a noodle that's been chewed up by a mother bird, regurgitated, and fed back to her babies in the nest. My brain knows it's completely idiotic, to feel rejected by someone you aren't sure you actually know . . . but my heart does not seem to have gotten the message yet.

Thankfully we are interrupted by what sounds like a broken AC unit coming toward us, and I turn to find Oliver speeding down the path on a lime-green Segway. All across the quad people are laughing or rolling their eyes. Oliver just grins.

“Alice!”
he cries when he gets closer. He makes a circle around me as he asks, “Care for a ride?”

“I thought you had your vehicle privileges revoked,” I say.

“Oh, that situation. Turns out under article seven, section two of the Bennett Academy rule book, students cannot be prohibited from using a personal transport vehicle if they can provide documentation of a disability requiring such vehicle, be it physical, mental, or cognitive.”

“That shouldn't be a problem,” Max snorts. Then without pausing he says, “How do you know Alice?”

“When did you get so mean?” I blurt out. As soon as I do, I realize how crazy it must sound. But Oliver is oblivious, and Celeste is scrolling through something on her phone.

“Max Wolfe, clever as always,” Oliver says. “Reminds me of something my seven-year-old stepbrother would ask me. Don't be offended; he's mature for his age. I met the beautiful Alice Rowe in the dean's office this morning.” He has stopped the Segway and is leaning on it, staring at me admiringly. “You look great, by the way. Is this your natural hair color?” He reaches out effortlessly and lets a piece of my dark blond waves glide through his fingers.

Despite knowing he is totally full of it, I still blush when I nod.

“What do you care?” Max interjects.

“Okay.” Celeste jumps in, taking Max's hand and giving him a tug. “I know you guys can't stand each other, but you're particularly grouchy today. Let's go grab a bagel, you big baby.”

Max relents, but he gets up slowly, still frowning at us.

“So how about that ride?” Oliver asks me again.

“I'd love to,” I say emphatically. He offers his hand like he is escorting me onto a horse-drawn carriage, and hoists me onto the Segway. As we speed off into the metaphorical sunset, I glance past Oliver's flying blond curls to see Max walking away with Celeste, his face turned back and looking right at me.

“Are you ready?”
Max asks. I am perched on a foam boogie board, surfer style, at the top of Nan's twirling staircase, while Max holds on to my arms to keep me upright. I look down ahead of me and notice that this time, the staircase actually
does
seem to extend all the way to infinity.

“This seems less than safe,” I observe.

“It's gonna be great,” Max says. “And I'll be right behind you, I promise. And what's the worst that can happen?”

“I don't know, that I go somersaulting down instead, thereby breaking every bone in my body?” I say.

“On what?” Max asks then, and when I go to point out the obvious liabilities, I notice the walls of the staircase, even the stairs themselves, are made of sofa cushions. All colors and fabrics, deep
salmons and pea greens and midnight blues. The worst falling on this staircase would probably do is put me immediately to sleep.

“I see your point,” I say.

“So?” Max asks again.

I break into a slow smile. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Max grins, kisses me on the cheek, and gives me a big push. Down I go, swishing along the cushion steps like I'm snowboarding. It's bouncy and smooth and way too fun. I start to notice I'm passing photographs, and when I look more closely, the staircase has become the central gallery at the Guggenheim in New York, which swivels like a corkscrew.

“Max?” I cry out.

“WAAAAHOOOOOOOO!” I hear Max yell as he comes zipping along after me. He looks like he's about to pass me but instead sticks an arm out, pulling my board up to his. And then we're sharing one, his arms wrapped around me tightly, as priceless artwork whizzes by.

When we come zipping onto the bottom floor, Nan is sitting in a chair in a red Chanel suit and a large gardening hat, holding a racing flag. She swishes it down.

“You win,” she says in her normal tempered enthusiasm.

“Against who?” I ask.

In response, Nan just points, and coming down behind us on their own boogie boards are Dean Hammer and Roberta. Roberta picks up speed, and just as she is about to pass Dean Hammer, she gives him a swift push with one arm and he topples over.

“Hey!” Dean Hammer calls out. Roberta just chuckles to herself.

Max puts a gold medal around my shoulders, smiling broadly. “Nice work,” he says, his eyes twinkling. But something is off. When I look closer, I see they aren't his normal, indecipherable gray green. They're bright blue like Oliver's.

“Max?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” he asks.

“Your eyes
—”
I start to say. And when I look closely at them again, they are a deep purple this time. But then they flash to sea green again. “Never mind.” I shake my head.

THE CEILING OF
my new bedroom is covered in maps. Subway routes, nautical charts, world geography. It's obvious that from a very young age, my mother was desperate to get out. By the time the nauseating tri-tone alarm of my iPhone erupts through my bedsheets, I'm already awake and staring at a patch of the solar system in the far right corner, thinking about last night's dream. I could swear it's actually twinkling, but it must be a trick of the light coming through the window. Mornings used to be my favorite time of day. Those spare moments when I was able to hold on to Max. I could close my eyes and actually imagine his face right next to mine. Exactly what he looked like, the way it felt to be near him. Because no
matter what happened when I was awake, Max was always my constant when I slept. Until now. Because now his eyes were turning purple.

It's been two weeks since we arrived in Boston, and now seeing Max—in dreams or reality—is basically torture. Last night he may have been the carefree guy I loved, but I am pretty sure when I get to school today, it will be another story.

Max has always been the guy who takes care of me. Who puts me first. Last year I kept dreaming we were in Thailand, riding elephants, floating in long-tail boats on crystal-blue waves, watching sunsets from the beach. It was perfect and beautiful and carefree, except for when it was time to eat: Max taste-tested everything for me, trying to detect any trace of peanuts, because I have a nut allergy that I'm careless about even when I'm awake. I sighed dramatically every time, but on the inside, he made me feel loved and safe. But now I feel awful. Seeing him each day while he treats me like I don't exist. Watching him with someone new as though I never existed in the first place.

I scramble to turn off the alarm and throw myself back down on the bed in resignation, causing all the pillows to fluff around my head. I beat them down angrily with my fist, then hop out of bed, pull on a gray sweatshirt, and stare at myself in the mirror of my mother's vanity table. My caramel-colored hair is sticking out in so many directions you'd think I went
through a car wash in a convertible, and my eyes are bright and intense, sitting somewhere between green and honey colored in the morning light.

“You really have to get over this,” I say.

“Are you up, Bug?” I hear my father's deep, pre-coffee voice call on his way to the kitchen. “I know you're up. I can hear you talking to yourself again.”

I run a brush through my wild strands and trot down the three flights of stairs to the kitchen. I find my dad seated at the large chef's prep table, just opening the
New York Times
.

“Good morning,” I say, leaning down to give him a peck on the cheek, then crouching under the table to do the same to Jerry's fat face. Jerry barely blinks as my lips graze his furry wrinkled skin.

The coffeemaker pops and gurgles in the corner, and I walk toward it, breathing in the delicious smell.

“Sleep okay?” my father asks without looking up from the Opinions page.

I turn around slowly from the counter to face him. “Why do you ask?”

“Bags under your eyes, an unhealthy attention to the French roast,” he says simply. “When our REM cycle is disrupted—”

“Thanks, Dr. Rowe,” I say. “I know how it works.”

My father glances up at me from behind his glasses. “Irritability is another sign of sleep deprivation, for the record,” he mutters.

As soon as the coffeemaker beeps, I fill his favorite grad school mug and slide it across the table to him in apology, waiting until he takes a sip as a signal that he forgives me. Then, after filling my own, I slump down at the table, facing him. He's wearing his old flannel robe over navy pajamas and the same worn penny loafers he's had for as long as I can remember. He's obviously worn this costume outside to get the paper. Meaning he's been seen. By
people
. I wince, and I watch as he flips through the paper, mumbling to himself as he skims, reaching up to stroke his beard when he comes across an article of interest. I know all of his habits, his idiosyncrasies. I understand things about my father he doesn't even realize, and probably wishes I don't. Like how he still misses my mother.

“Do you think I'm going to like it here?” I ask finally. “I mean, eventually?”

“Where? Boston?” my father answers, clearly fixated on something in the Science section.

I tilt my head to the side. “No, Cuba.
Wait
.” I throw my hands up to my face in mock horror. “Where
are
we?”

“Very funny,” he says, folding the paper and looking at me directly for the first time. Then he switches to a topic he finds more interesting. “Odd you're having trouble sleeping again.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “I've always had the best dreams.”

“Now you do,” my dad says. “But after your mom left . . .” He stops for a second.

“Dad . . .” I say. I'm starting to feel a little noodly again.

“You had nightmares that you were lost. You'd wake up hysterical and I'd have to hold you until you fell asleep again. Until I found CDD.”

“CDD?” I ask. Why does that sound so familiar? My coffee hasn't kicked in, but it's on the tip of my tongue.

“Center for Dream Discovery,” my dad says. “You don't remember? Dr. Petermann?”

I stare at him a long moment, and then it clicks. “Wait, these?” I run to and from the front hall and dump the postcards on the kitchen table.

My dad picks one up and makes a face. “I can't believe your grandmother saved these.”

“Dad, can you please tell me what you are talking about?” I ask. “I have no recollection of this place. I'm going to feel like I've had a lobotomy if you don't explain.”

My dad pours another cup for both of us. “As I said, after your mother left, you started having nightmares. You were only six. I think you felt vulnerable. It got so bad that you were barely sleeping.
I
was barely sleeping. So a colleague of mine at Harvard recommended a sleep study on brain mapping.” He pauses. “Is this ringing any bells, Alice?”

“Um, only of a bad science fiction movie,” I say, transfixed. “Go on.”

“Not science fiction, just science.” Dad gets very touchy about the difference. “As you know, much of the brain is still a
mystery. But one advance we've made is in the monitoring of brain activity—what sections of the brain light up when we see or feel different things. Some scientists figured out that if they monitored brain activity during dreaming, then had subjects relay the stories afterward, they could actually—at a very rudimentary level—put those stories together.”

“So basically you turned me into one of the monkeys in Madeleine's lab.”

“I wish you would call her
Mom
,” my dad corrects me, and I don't have the heart to tell him that at a certain point,
Mom
just didn't feel right anymore. “But you're not wrong.”

Monkeys are why my parents met. Apes, actually. People are always mixing up monkeys and apes, when they are in fact two different species. Madeleine was at Harvard, studying the evolution of language. All beings have ways of communicating, of expressing themselves, but not all beings use language, which has grammatical rules. Madeleine wanted to figure out how it all came to be, why some do and others don't. She worshipped Jane Goodall and Dian Fossey, the young women who ran around the African jungle in the seventies documenting gorillas.

So she spent most of her days with a cumbersome boom box playing repeated sound patterns to apes in a lab.
Beep-beep-honk, toot-toot-whistle. A-A-B, A-A-B.
Madeleine believed that if she changed the pattern all of a sudden from
A-A-B
to
A-B-B
(
beep-honk-honk
,
toot-whistle-whistle
) and the ape noticed,
it would mean they had noticed a pattern in the first place. She was a real geek about it; she couldn't get enough. She went to this lecture on how language is mapped in the brain, and that's where she met my dad, who was actually giving the lecture at the ripe age of twenty-eight. They stayed behind talking for hours, and were basically never apart again.

Until they had me. And six years after that, Madeleine's research grant in Uganda came through and she went alone, and never came back. Now she lives in Madagascar with Javier. Javier is a research student half her age from Barcelona. She says they are just friends, but I have seen pictures of Javier, who I Googled on the internet, and I say otherwise. Not that I ever tell her this, since we only communicate about six times a year.

“Anyway,” my dad is saying, “a couple of Saturdays a month at CDD and suddenly you were sleeping like a baby. You were happier. An odd group of people over there, but they were passionate about what they did for you guys.”

“You guys?” I ask. “There were others?” I am staring down at the balloons on the birthday card. I feel like my mind is full of puzzle pieces and I'm trying to put them all together without being able to use my hands.

“Sure,” my dad says. “You know how studies work, Alice.”

“Does CDD still exist?” I ask.

“Well, someone is still sending you those postcards, aren't they?” he says, going back to his paper.

I stand up quickly, feeling awake for the first time all morning and more hopeful than I've felt in days. I go to hustle back upstairs and change, but jerk my foot back when it touches the first step. I could've sworn it just sank right in, like a couch cushion. I stare at the step for a moment. It looks normal, like, you know, a step. I take a deep breath, then gently press my toe against it, followed by a few gentle prods. Nothing. The same wooden step as ever, covered in blue carpet.

Apparently the French roast is taking a long time to kick in this morning.