Dreamology (19 page)

As we get up to make our way toward Bartholomew's dorm, I notice Max is looking back at the car with an odd expression.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“I could've sworn she just flashed her lights at me,” Max says.

“You're just tired,” I say.

“No.” He frowns. “They flashed. Which would be weird, even if her battery wasn't dead.” His tone is off. He sounds very far away.

Then, with no rational explanation and nobody behind the wheel, the car honks.

Max looks at me, helpless. “This is getting really weird, Alice. We have to make it stop.”

I look at him, his hair out of place and a wild look in his eyes. What will happen if we can't make it stop? Will Max go full-on meltdown mode?

But also, what will happen if we do?

ACCORDING TO MY
very basic knowledge of college social life, which I have gleaned entirely from gems of modern cinema such as
Animal House
and
Old School
, there seem to be a number of foolproof ways to throw a decent party. The list includes such things as a great band, scandalously clad coeds, limitless amounts of illegal substances, and a general lack of consideration for the well-being of oneself and others.

It is safe to say that Bartholomew Burns and his suitemates at Leeland Hall, a two-story white-shingled house on the edge of campus, were not aware of this list or these movies, or they chose to ignore all of it out of some vague hipster principle. Perhaps we—Max, Sophie, Oliver, and I—should have anticipated this, given the wall of Latin awards and the expansive
insect collection that welcomed us upon arrival to the suite. But I guess we just assumed that in college, anyone could be cool.

We were wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.

“I'm not kidding when I say my grandmother's retirement community is more fun than this,” Sophie says as she stands in the doorway between a room where people are playing Monopoly and one where they are playing video games, clutching a raspberry wine cooler. “I'm so depressed I could scream.” She takes a giant swig.

“Hi.” A skinny redhead approaches me wearing thick hipster glasses, and leans casually on the edge of the fireplace. “I'm Wallace,” he says with a wink. “How come I've never seen you around?”

“She doesn't go here,” Sophie mentions between chugs.

“Oh.” Wallace nods. “I just thought maybe I hadn't seen you since I'm generally in the art studio. You know . . . doing my art.” He looks at me intently then, as though expecting me to gasp in awe.

“So you're an art major?” I ask politely as Sophie unapologetically rolls her eyes.

“Thinking about it,” he says. “At the moment I'm really just creating, exploring the possibilities of my work.”

“And what kind of work do you do?” I say.

“It's so refreshing to hear someone ask that question,” he says, and leans in closely. “Currently I'm doing a series where
I take photographs of my dachshund, Arabella, in historical contexts, wearing period-appropriate outfits, and use it as a commentary on modernity and the general lack of culture in our present-day world,” he says in complete seriousness. “For example, last week I built a small-scale rendering of the White House and dressed her up as George Washington. Next week I'm hoping to do Frida Kahlo.”

I stare at him, using every muscle in my body to maintain composure, as Sophie just starts cackling so hard I think she might actually be crying.

“Uh-huh,” is all I can manage to say.

“Do you wanna see a photo?” he asks.

“Hell yeah!”
Sophie yells, and just starts laughing again. And then I just can't handle it any longer, and I start laughing, too.

“You guys are really rude,” Wallace observes.

“Your dog is really lucky!” Sophie manages to whimper as she wipes her tears away.

“Okay, people!” We hear a familiar voice shout. Sophie and I peer around the corner and are mortified to find Oliver standing in the middle of the room, holding a beer. “You don't know me. My name is Oliver, and I don't go here. I won't tell you where I go because that would betray my age and I think there is a sixty percent chance of me kissing at least one girl at this party tonight. But you know how that's not going to happen?” He walks over to the stereo and plugs in his iPod, which he has pulled out of his pocket. “If this party keeps going the
way it's going. So that's all about to change right . . . now.” He hits a button and cranks up the volume.

Within seconds, the rhythmic synth of Prince's “Kiss” comes gyrating over the speakers, and it comes on loud. The whole room seems transfixed as Oliver begins to wiggle his shoulders to the music, complete with spins, pelvic thrusts, and lip-synching.

My mouth is hanging open—I can't help it—as he forms the words with passion. I look over at Sophie and can't tell if she looks totally horrified or kind of into it.

But then, like magic, the room starts to move. Everyone is dancing, and I mean everyone. Even Wallace. Oliver makes his way over to where I am standing, but just when I think he is about to take my hand, he sings the chorus in Sophie's ear.
Kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kiss.

I wonder where Max is as I dance, and then spot him across the room, bopping his head and shuffling his feet. I'm about to dance my way over when the crowd clears and I see he's not alone. A dark-haired girl in tight black jeans is circling around him with flamboyant, check-out-my-body, disco-type moves. I'm still glaring at them when Oliver spins me, and I lose them for a moment.

The song turns slow as “Purple Rain” comes on and I am just about to escape to a bathroom to avoid watching Max slow dance with the brunette when suddenly he is there by my side, taking my hand. Sophie gives me a look as Max pulls me
through the party, past the gyrating dancers and loud conversations and outside onto the chilly front lawn, where all is quiet.

“Do you see this?” Max asks, his finger pointing up toward the sky. I can see it. Above us is a beautiful starry night, but the stars are all the colors of the rainbow, and they're twinkling like glitter nail polish.

“I can see this,” I tell him. “It's incredible.”

“I guess not all the dream-melding moments are that bad,” he observes. I look at him, and the ground where we are feels so dark by contrast to the sky. And the space between us feels so cold and so far. As if on cue, Max pulls me to him, keeping one hand in mine as the other encircles my back, and my face rests in the crook of his neck as “Purple Rain” keeps playing in our ears.

I don't know if it's Prince crooning or the raspberry wine coolers, but something feels different. It's sweet but also a little sad. Like we've come to this place together, but we know that we have to say good-bye. To a whole part of our lives, half our lives, where we go at night, and in some ways, to each other. There is a reason I don't like to tell Petermann about our dreams, why I hold my dream journal so close to my heart. Our dreams are the one thing we share that nobody else can touch. And now we're going to lose it, and I am terrified.

I look down and see we're floating again. Max sees it, too. But we aren't scared this time. I just hold on tight and think that if this were a dream, it would just go on forever.

“I NEED TO
ask you something, and I don't want you to laugh at me,” Sophie says. We're lying side by side on a hammock in the yard outside Leeland Hall, all bundled up in wool blankets we stole from the common room. Her eyes are half-open and her hair is sticking out in every direction possible from dancing so hard. It's pretty difficult to take her seriously right now.

“Okay, I'll try,” I say.

“Why does Swiss cheese have so many holes in it?” Sophie asks. “Or for that matter, any holes at all?” And I don't even try to stop myself from erupting in laughter.

Sophie gives me a tiny punch in the arm. “I told you not
to laugh!” she cries. “Come on, you can't tell me you haven't wondered that before.”

I stare at the sky, still full of multicolored twinkles, and am disappointed that Sophie isn't able to see it, too. Because she'd love it.

“Yes, Soph,” I say, and glance at my watch. 11:59. Where was Max? He disappeared after our dance, and I haven't seen him since. “I think about cheese fungus all the time.” Then I start laughing again.

“Mmm,
fungus
,” Sophie says between giggles, and we laugh even harder. “I love you, Al,” Sophie says once we've settled down, and leans her head on my shoulder.

“I love you, too, Soph,” I say, standing up and giving her head a little pat.

“Do you know who else I like?” she asks.

“I have an idea,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Max.”

“No kidding,” I say.

“I get it now,” she says. “And I see the way he looks at you, and I love that.”

“Then why is he always disappearing? Like, where is he now?” I say, throwing my hands up in the air with a sigh. “I'm going to go to bed, all right? Will you be okay?”

“Okay, you go to bed,” she says with a big smile.

“Sure you don't wanna come?” I ask.

Sophie just shakes her head. “I'm good. I'm gonna stay out here a little longer and see if I can make these stars change color like they do for you.”

I smile. “Holler if you need me.”

“I will,” she says, snuggling up more in the blankets. “And Al?” she calls.

“Yeah, Soph?” I wait.

“I know he's always disappearing. But do you know what?”

“What?” I ask.

Sophie turns her head practically upside down so she can say this last part while looking back at me. “He always shows up. At CDD that night you broke in, on your front stoop with coffee . . . even in your dreams. He shows up.”

Bartholomew Burns told me there was a spare room open on his floor, lived in by a girl who was away on a trip with her a cappella group, which sounded pretty normal to me. Perhaps I'd have to deal with a few too many Taylor Swift posters, but I could live with that. Besides, I like Taylor Swift. I just don't announce it publicly. But when I open the door to 201, there is no Taylor Swift, no pink beanbag chairs, no shabby chic vanity mirror.

There are ponies. Ponies, and only ponies, everywhere.

Pony posters on the walls. Riding ribbons spanning an entire bulletin board, pony sheets, and photographs of a dark
brown horse with a white spot between its eyes on every possible surface.

“Valerie is a riding champion,” Bartholomew Burns says when he walks by and catches me still standing in the doorway, gaping in awe. “Did I forget to mention that?”

“What's the horse's name?” is all I can think to ask.

“Theodore,” he answers, before trotting down the stairs.

I brush my teeth and pick out a copy of
Horse and Hound
magazine off her desk to read myself to sleep, trying not to make eye contact with Theodore in his many incarnations. I've just dozed off with the magazine across my chest when I hear someone come into the room.

I open my eyes with a start, fully expecting to have to apologize to Valerie, who surely will have somehow returned early from her trip and is wondering who the heck is in her pony bed, and I am stunned to see Max instead.

“Hi,” is all he says. He stands there, one hand in his pocket, one hand still on the door, his eyes wide.

“Hi,” I say, sitting up on my elbows, my eyes a little fuzzy, as Max takes a seat at the end of the bed. “Is everything okay? Did Oliver finally blow the speakers downstairs?”

“No.” Max chuckles. “Not yet anyway.” He's facing away from me, and his posture is rigid, his hands clutching the sides of the mattress. “So.”

And suddenly I think I know what's happening. “Wait,” I say.

“What?” He turns and looks at me, confused.

“I don't think you should be in here.” The words come out a little desperate before I even have a chance to decide if I want to say them or not. He is just too close, and he looks so good. And if he's still not sure what he wants, or if he's just going to choose Celeste after everything, I really need him to leave.

Max looks at me now, straight into my eyes. And then he just says, “Why?” And my heart starts to pound a million miles a minute, because him asking why he shouldn't be here is like an acknowledgment of everything that is happening.

I swallow. “I thought you wanted to be alone,” is all I can manage to say.

“I did say that,” Max says now, his eyes not leaving mine. “So,” he tries again. “I don't know what to do. I've been walking around campus, wracking my brain, trying to figure out what to do. Because I want to get better, really. I know we have to get better. I know the dreams have to stop. But I also don't want to lose you.”

You could hear a spider sneeze in the room right now, it has gone so quiet. No party music, no footsteps on dorm stairways, no shouts of revelry. Just silence, and my eyes and Max's eyes and Max's perfect mouth and the feeling that is welling up from the bottom of my stomach up through my chest and neck to the tops of my ears.

“I can't lose you, Alice,” he says again. And then before I can help myself, I have leaped across the bed to kiss him and
fall into his arms, my legs circling his waist. And he accepts me, his arms coming up around to support my back while his hands grip the base of my head, under my hair.

“I can't lose you,” he says for a third time, in a whisper. And I take his face in my hands and push his hair behind his ears, as I stroke his jaw with my fingers.

“You will never lose me,” I say. “I'm right here.” And I kiss him again.