Dreamology Read online

  2

  Venom of the Beaked Sea Snake

  I AM OBVIOUSLY entirely aware that it sounds one hundred percent nuts to be in love with someone I’ve never met, who isn’t even real. But since I can’t remember a time when I haven’t dreamed about Max, it can be hard to tell the difference. The locations change and so do the stories, but Max is the constant, greeting me each dream with his mischievous grin and big heart. He is my soul mate.

  I know it can’t last forever, though. So just to be safe, I write it all down in my notebook. Sophie once called it my dream journal, which sounds like something you’d find next to the incense section in a gift shop. It goes with me everywhere, and right now it’s riding in my I ♥ NEW YORK tote bag, in the wicker basket of a rusty old Schwinn I found in the garden behind Nan’s house. I named the bike Frank, short for Frankenstein, since I essentially brought him back from the dead.

  Currently Frank is standing between the two stone pillars marking off Bennett Academy from the rest of the world—pillars that seem to say, Oh, no you don’t. Not in here. What they actually say, carved across their granite façade, is HE WHO FINDS SOLACE WITHIN THESE WALLS, FINDS SOLACE WITHIN HIMSELF. I am skeptical of this statement.

  I survey the student parking lot, chock full of sparkling Volvos and Audi SUVs, and then glance down at Frank. The only reason I am even standing here is due to a reciprocity program Harvard has with Bennett for the children of its professors. The handbook claims it’s because Marie Bennett, who started the school on her back porch in the 1800s, was the daughter of a Harvard president, and therefore a “relationship based on mutual respect” has existed ever since.

  “Whatever that means,” I’d said when my father read me the description out loud over dinner last night.

  “It means having the child of the chair of the Neuroscience Department as a student makes Bennett look good,” my dad explained. “And in return you get a top-notch high school education for free.”

  “Are you sure?” I said, tilting my head to the side and twirling some angel hair pasta on my fork. “Because I’m pretty sure I got the scholarship for my athletic prowess.”

  “Ah, yes.” My dad nodded, playing along. “It’s probably that trophy you won in the fourth grade. What was it for again?”

  “Longest hula-hooper,” I reminded him, taking a big bite of pasta. “The highlight of my sports career.”

  “That’s the one.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and winked at me.

  Now I chain my bike outside the main administrative building, which looks more like the White House than a high school, and all but tiptoe down the sparkling marble hallway, because no other way seems appropriate. I rap on the door of the dean of students’ office for my nine a.m. “meet and greet,” a term that made me wrinkle my nose when I read it in my info packet last night.

  “Come iii-iiinnnn.” The singsong reply surprises me, but I find nobody in the waiting area, so I wander into Dean Hammer’s office, avoiding the serious gaze of old portraits. It looks like the New York Public Library has been condensed into one little room—dark wood, brass lamps, and rows upon rows of books.

  “So, what did you do?”

  I whirl around so quickly at the sound of someone’s voice that I trip over the coffee table, landing flat on my back atop the cranberry carpet. I squint up at the figure now peering over me, grateful that I chose a pair of shorts instead of the tangerine sundress I’d thought about wearing this morning. All I can make out is hair. Lots of it, blond and unruly.

  “N-nothing,” I finally answer, blinking a few times. “I’m just … new.”

  “Well, my advice, run like hell,” the hair says, holding out a hand and pulling me off the ground. The face that comes into view bares a bemused look due mostly to large dark eyebrows that contrast strongly against his bleached surfer curls and bright blue eyes.

  “So what did you do?” I ask, eyeing him warily.

  “Me?” he says, placing a hand over his heart as though I had stabbed him. “What makes you think I did anything?” But something about the way his eyes sparkle tells me not to believe him. “Can’t a guy just take a nap in the dean’s office in peace? I like the smell of his leather-bound books.” The corner of his mouth rises in an almost undetectable smirk.

  “Oh good, Oliver, you’re here,” Dean Hammer says as he shuffles in, removing his blazer and hanging it on the door hook. He’s stocky, probably midforties, but looks older, no doubt due to dealing with students like Oliver. He wears delicate wire-rimmed spectacles and perfectly pressed pants.

  “Yes, sir,” Oliver-with-the-hair says, sitting down on the sofa and resting one arm casually along its back. “I missed you so much, Rupert, I couldn’t wait to see you.”

  “Yes, you could,” Dean Hammer says, taking a seat at a library table–sized desk piled high with papers. “You’re actually here because, by some amazing circumstance I have yet to comprehend, you are already in trouble, before the school year has even begun.”

  “It’s a minor offense, really.” Oliver rolls his eyes.

  “Paying another student for their on-campus car registration and sticking it on your vehicle because your own privileges were revoked at the end of last semester does not seem minor to me,” the dean says.

  “Can you blame me?” Oliver pleads. “How am I supposed to get my lunch? Do you want me to starve?”

  “Here’s a wild idea: How about the cafeteria,” Dean Hammer deadpans.

  “Rupert, if I have to spend days—actual full school days—at this claustrophobic hellhole for my entire senior year, I won’t be paying for someone’s registration, I’ll be paying them to run me over.”

  At the word hellhole, Dean Hammer bristles, suddenly aware of my presence.

  “And who are you?” he asks.

  “Alice Baxter-Rowe,” I say. “Though I’d prefer just to go by Alice Rowe, if that’s okay. I can wait outside …”

  “Don’t move, Alice,” Dean Hammer orders. “You’re the one with the appointment. Welcome to Bennett, by the way. As for you, Oliver, I can’t suspend you because I know that’s exactly what you’re hoping for. Do not leave this campus for the rest of the day, or so help me God I will find a way to make you sleep here, too. I’ll be in touch about disciplinary measures once I’ve spoken with your parents.”

  Oliver’s light eyes have gone nearly black. “Good luck with that,” is all he whispers, and stalks out of the room.

  “Miss Rowe,” Dean Hammer says after the door slams. “Take a seat. I have to apologize for Oliver. I promise it’s rare to find a student here so disillusioned.”

  “That’s okay.” I shrug, sitting. “He was actually pretty entertaining.”

  The dean frowns. “Not too entertaining, I hope. You’ve only been here about ten minutes, I wouldn’t want you falling in with the wrong crowd. Speaking of …” He is unmistakably serious. Not necessarily sullen, but clearly interested in minimal bullshit.

  Here we go, I think to myself. It’s a tone I’ve grown accustomed to. Forewarning. “You have a great opportunity ahead of you, Alice.”

  “You sound just like my dad.” My voice comes out a little strained.

  But Dean Hammer barely seems to hear me. “Your grades are superb,” he goes on, skimming my file. “But it’s your teacher recommendations I’m a little concerned about.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “I assume this is about my focus?”

  “You assume correctly,” he answers. “All your instructors mention the same word. Potential. The consensus seems to be that you tend to sort of ‘scoot’ by.” He makes little quotation marks with his hands at the mention of the word scoot. “If you were to home in on what you really want, there’s no limit to what you might achieve.”

  I know what he wants me to say. That I am ready! That I know where I want to go to college and who I want to be and what I want etched on my gravestone. But I’m not, and I don’t.

  At my stubborn silence, Dean Hammer clears his thr
oat. “So, what’s first on the docket today?” he asks pleasantly.

  “Social Psychology with Mr. Levy,” I answer, double-checking my schedule.

  “A solid choice. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” He gets up and opens the door, and I realize I have not seen him smile once. “And remember, Alice, we’re here for you. We just want you to get everything you can from this experience.”

  “Thanks.” I shake his hand. And then I promptly roll my eyes as soon as the door shuts behind me.

  “That bad?” Oliver asks. He’s sitting on top of the desk in the waiting room like it’s a kitchen counter, next to an ancient-looking receptionist who is trying not to appear amused.

  “What are you still doing here?” I ask.

  He hops off the desk. “Chatting with Roberta, my one true love, of course.” He winks at the woman behind the desk. “Don’t worry, Roberta, our illicit affair is safe with Alice. She’s new here, so she doesn’t know anyone anyway.” In response, Roberta just shakes her head.

  “Let me walk you to your first class,” he says. And it’s not a question.

  “Somebody looks happy for their first day at a new school,” Mr. Levy observes when I walk through the door of Psych 201. “You must be Alice. I had the rest of these guys last spring for Intro to Psych, and you’re the only one who I don’t recognize. Well, except for Kevin MacIntire, who apparently spent the whole summer eating his Wheaties.”

  He says the last part in a lowered voice, leaning forward with his hands in his pockets, a secret between the two of us while the rest of the class is still settling in. Mr. Levy is obviously the “cool” teacher you “respect.” Wearing jeans and an olive-colored buttondown, he’s also young. Like just-out-of-college young. And he seems pretty pleased with himself about that.

  “You know what this means, right?” Levy continues. “You’re going to have to introduce yourself to the group. Alice? Did I lose you already?”

  He has lost me. I’ve stopped listening entirely. I’ve also stopped breathing. I’m thinking about a letter my mother once wrote me about the beaked sea snake, and how she barely escaped its jaws. Commonly found off the coast of Madagascar, the beaked sea snake has enough venom to kill five people with one bite and can paralyze a victim with just one strike. But you don’t die right away. So you just have to lie there, knowing the end is near, unable to move. That’s exactly how I feel right now—totally and completely paralyzed, with the exception of my heart thwacking against my ribcage.

  Because standing in the doorway of the classroom, looking directly at me, is Max.

  My Max.

  My Max of my dreams.

  My Max who does not exist.

  You’ve finally lost it, I think. You’ve gone and imagined him. But just then somebody bustles through the door, bumping Max’s shoulder and sending his books spilling onto the floor. I lean down to help pick them up, but he quickly grabs them, avoiding my gaze and moving to find a seat.

  Okay, so not a mirage, I think. But perhaps a doppelgänger. Because there’s no way his name is actually—

  “Max!” Mr. Levy calls out, teasing. “I hope to see better coordination on the soccer field this season. Welcome back, buddy.”

  Max only looks up to give Mr. Levy a grin, then sits, staring down at his textbook like it’s a bomb that might explode at any moment.

  “So, Alice, we ready for that intro or what?” Levy asks. The whole class is quiet now, staring at me. Including the boy of my dreams, who just became a reality.

  3

  Noodly

  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.