by Lucy Keating
But in my dreams, Max would always be there. “Fried plantains are actually really good by themselves,” he said as we sat in a tree in the Amazon rainforest, watching a lime-green sunset. “Have you ever tried them with cinnamon and brown sugar? Here.” He popped one into his mouth and passed me the brown paper bag, smiling as I gorged myself on the greasy chunks of fruit. Then we hopped down to explore and ended up discovering a new species of fish that had fur instead of scales.
“Have you ever tried these with cinnamon and brown sugar?” I ask now, pointing at the plantains with a serving spoon and looking at Max out of the corner of my eye. Please say yes.
“Nope,” Max says casually. “Are they good?” But he doesn’t even wait for my reply and just moves to the next station.
“Yeah, they are, actually,” I say to nobody while my body deflates. “Thanks for asking.”
I follow him to the soda station, where he doesn’t get soda but instead fills six small cafeteria glasses with ice water that he organizes in a neat row on his tray. I can’t help but make a face. So boring. So not Max.
“What about the Amazon?” I push further. “Ever been there?” Max finally looks at me, but the expression on his face isn’t exactly what I was hoping for. It’s quizzical, not kind. I glance away, placing a glass under the milk spout and pulling the lever a little too roughly. Chocolate milk spurts all over my tray. I sigh. “I guess I’m about to find out how plantains and chocolate taste.” I smile feebly.
Max is still looking at me with his brows furrowed together, but this time I swear there is the slightest hint of a smile playing across his lips. Like he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. You ask a lot of questions,” Max says.
“The Amazon is in Brazil, and it’s Brazilian Night,” I explain.
He starts picking up utensils. “Never been.”
“What about Thailand? Or Egypt?”
“Nope.” He starts to lift his tray again, nodding to a table of soccer players who are motioning him over.
I take a deep breath, giving it one last shot. “Me either,” I say. “But the Metropolitan Museum of Art has a pretty great Egyptian tomb … I went there once.” I swish a plantain around in chocolate milk for a second before peering back up at him. “Have you?”
Max puts his tray down a little too roughly. His silverware clangs against the plate, and now people are looking over and conversations have become hushed. I’m sure everyone wants to know why one of the most notable guys in school is looking at the random new girl like he wants to swat her with a piece of rolled-up newspaper.
“I was just … making conversation …” I mutter. “Sorry.”
Max shakes his head, inhaling deeply. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just really hungry, low blood sugar, and a rough practice today …” He takes the napkin on his tray and hands it to me. “You might need this. I’ll see you in class.”
My face burns as I take the napkin, wiping my hand on it and then using it to dab my tray. I feel dozens of eyes slowly turn away from me, and the chatter of the dining hall resumes. What was I doing? Because all I’ve actually accomplished is alienating the one person I am trying to get close to, who very clearly isn’t the person I so badly want him to be. How many times did he need to brush me off before I got it in my head? Of course Max isn’t the same guy I dream about. It’s not possible.
“Alice Rowe?” A tired woman’s voice comes over the school intercom. “Could Alice Rowe please report to the dessert section of the dining hall? I repeat, Alice Rowe to the dessert section of the dining hall. Thank you.”
Confused, I run a hand through my hair and do as instructed. Oliver is standing by the confections, arms crossed and chin resting atop a fist, studying them as though this decision will affect the rest of his life.
“Do I want a brownie or fro-yo?” he asks aloud, then turns to look at me, eyebrows raised, like it’s a perfectly natural question.
“Did you just page me?” I ask. I’m still totally confused, but I’m also relieved.
“You’re right, fro-yo is pretty girly,” he says.
“How did you just page me if you are standing right here?” I say.
“Fro-yo is for babes, but I feel like a man can get away with a sundae. No?”
“Oliver.”
“Pick a pastry, Alice,” he says. “Then we’ll talk.”
A few minutes later we are peering at each other over the biggest sundae I have ever seen, piled high with everything we could get our hands on—gummy bears, sprinkles, cookie crumbles, fudge sauce, and a mother lode of whipped cream.
“Roberta,” Oliver says with his mouth full. “The dean’s receptionist. She hides it well, but she loves me. I texted her and asked for the loudspeaker announcement. You looked like you needed it.”
I can’t help but notice that this is the second time Oliver has saved me when I “needed it.” I really hope I won’t be in a position to need rescuing again. “Why do you have Roberta’s number?” I ask, taking a giant bite of mostly whipped cream.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Oliver asks.
I snort. “I just can’t believe you paged me to the desserts. I thought we were in an episode of Law & Order: Special Cookie Unit.”
Oliver smiles. “Well, until I paged you, I thought you were in an episode of The Young and the Restless. What’s with Captain Douche?” He gives a quick nod in the direction of the doorway, where Max is putting his tray away.
I just shrug and take another bite of ice cream that takes forever to swallow. How can I tell him that I thought I knew Max from a lifetime of dreams, but I somehow managed to imagine everything? That even though I really feel like I know Max, he’s not actually the Max I know. That the Max I know … well, that Max doesn’t even exist.
“You don’t wanna talk about it?” he asks.
I just shake my head.
“In that case, may I Segway you home?”
It turns out Oliver lives four blocks from Nan’s house, which I know I should start calling my house. But my house is a floor-through walk-up on 119th Street, a strange hybrid of teenage lair and perpetual man cave. Not an endless maze of Oriental carpeting and paintings with heavy gold frames. My house has restaurants representing six different countries within a one-block radius. Nan’s has a place called Beacon Hill Fine Linens.
“Is there anything more ridiculous than a store specializing in five-hundred-dollar sheets?” I ask Oliver when we pass it on our way home. “It makes sleep, one of our most basic needs, elitist.” I am walking Frank beside him, and he is walking his Segway, because it ran out of juice.
“You want ridiculous?” he asks. “I went to the corner store to grab some milk for my cornflakes last week, because my parents forget I need to eat sometimes, and the lady said they only carry organic sheep’s milk. She told me that with a completely straight face. I just turned and walked out.”
“Your parents sound busy,” I say.
“They run their own packaging company, so they’re always running off to China at the last minute. They aren’t around a lot.”
“Do you get lonely?” I ask.
“Sure, but a guy finds ways to entertain himself.” He gives one of his charming Oliver smiles. “Like doing poorly in school and getting into trouble all the time.”
“I get it,” I say. “My mom took off when I was little, and my dad isn’t much of a talker, so I developed a pretty active imagination.”
I expect him to feel awkward after my admission, or ask where my mom went. But instead he just says, “Like what?”
“I dunno, I was a curious kid,” I say.
“Give me an example,” he presses.
“I can’t tell you!” I cry. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Alice Rowe, so secretive,” Oliver teases. “You could be a Russian spy, for all I know. Have you already stolen my identity?”
“Okay fine!” I say when we stop at a crosswalk. A m
an walking a pair of poodles stares at Oliver’s Segway. Oliver just nods hello. “For example, I used to follow our dog Jerry around like we were in one of those National Geographic documentaries, recording his every move on my dad’s old tape recorder. He’s a bulldog, and they aren’t exactly energetic, so you can imagine how interesting it was.”
“Please tell me you still have the tapes,” Oliver says.
“If I do, you will never hear them,” I reply.
“I think I know what’s bugging you,” my dad says over paella that night. He learned to make it when we were in Portugal two summers ago for one of his conferences. Besides scrambled eggs, it is basically all he can make.
“Oh yeah?” I say absentmindedly, staring into a prawn’s eyeballs. He can’t just make it with the store-bought shrimp. It has to be authentic.
“The boy,” he says then, and I almost drop my fork. “The one from New York. Come on, you can’t fool your dad.”
“You’re right.” I nod, though of course he has it all wrong. Because there is no boy from New York. “It’s the boy from New York.”
My dad sits there quiet a moment. “Did you know the brain processes emotional rejection the same way it processes physical pain?”
I raise my eyebrows. “I did not.”
“Well, it’s true.” He always lights up when he discusses the brain. “When you’re in love, your brain has an influx of dopamine. The same effect people get from doing drugs. You’re basically an addict. But when love, the person of your affection, is taken away from you, we process it in the same part of the brain that tells us if we’ve burnt ourselves, or broken a bone, or scratched our skin. So what I’m telling you, Bug, is not to worry. Heartache is not just a word we use. It has a scientific basis. So you don’t have to feel bad for missing him. It’s totally normal. But all broken bones or burns or hearts … well, they all heal up eventually.”
I reach over and give my dad a pat on the forearm, just short enough so neither of us gets uncomfortable. Sometimes I wish he was the kind of dad that would just ask where the guy lived, drive to his house, and grab him by the collar. But I know this kind of dad is better.
6
Mrs. Perry Requested Peacocks
THERE IS NO number 1.
I’m circling the interior of Dunham Court at MIT, peering at all the names and numbers like an old lady, while students shuffle by me. Dunham is made up of a central lawn bordered on four sides with university buildings, not unlike Bennett’s main quad, except it’s a fully closed square. CDD is listed at 1 Dunham Court, yet there is no number 1. The building at the most northwestern corner of the quad is number 2, and they increase in number as they circle around, with the highest, number 15, meeting right up with number 2 again.
I sit down on a bench and am just about to give up when I notice something peculiar. In the center of the quad is a small cupola-like building that looks as if it was removed from a rooftop and placed on the ground. It’s solid white and has a dome on top, surrounded by pillars. A woman in a copper-colored sweater has just ducked out from behind one of the pillars and is skittering in the direction of Massachusetts Avenue, books clutched to her chest.
I approach the rotunda, and begin to walk the exterior. Sure enough, next to a set of heavy wooden double doors is a sleek metal sign, almost undetectable. It reads, CENTER FOR DREAM DISCOVERY. GUSTAVE L. PETERMANN, PHD.
I press a small button just below the placard and am jolted backward when a loud intercom voice comes out of nowhere.
“Yes?”
I hesitate, not sure how to begin.
“Do you have an appointment?” The voice is female and impatient.
I think for a second. “Um … Sure?”
“Name, please.”
I roll my eyes, knowing this isn’t going anywhere good. “Alice Rowe.”
There is a long pause.
“You don’t have an appointment.”
“Is this an automated machine?” I ask. And what I think is another pause turns out to just be no response at all.
“I used to be a patient,” I finally say, smacking my hand on the button again. “I need to speak to Dr. Petermann.”
“Then you will need to call the number listed in your CDD handbook,” the voice says matter-of-factly.
I think for a second. “Is there a security camera out here?” I ask.
“To your left,” she eventually responds.
I look, and just above the door is a sleek white camera pointed directly at me. I pull the stack of postcards from my bag, fan them out like a poker hand, and hold them up to the lens.
“I don’t have a handbook,” I say, “because I haven’t been here in ten years. All I have are these and some whacked-out dreams of a guy that I thought was a figment of my imagination, but turns out is a real person. So like I said, I want to speak to Petermann, and I am willing to wait. There can only be one way out of this funky little rotunda, and I’m standing in front of it.”
After a moment of silence, the door clicks open. I enter the circular main floor of CDD. Across from me is a reception desk, with two sets of stairs ascending on either side behind it, meeting at a doorway at the top.
“Cool place,” I say to the girl behind the desk, her hair in a smooth bun, her face serious. Charm her, I think. So I also say, “And that is a nice … dress.” It is not a nice dress. It’s a hideous brown pattern with a rounded collar. It looks like something someone’s grandmother would wear. This girl is not much older than me. She’s pretty, but this dress is not doing her any favors.
“It’s the old observatory,” she explains. “And my grandmother made this for me. May I see the cards?” She holds out a hand.
I wait patiently as she examines them, then types a few things into her computer. “You can sit over there,” she says without looking up, and points aggressively to a bench on the side wall, its back curved to fit the shape of the room.
As soon as I sit down, I understand why she exiled me here. Due to something about the acoustics, I am unable to hear what she is whispering into the phone, no matter how far I lean in her direction.
“He’s coming out,” she says finally.
When Dr. Petermann descends one of the staircases, he is everything and nothing I expected. Expected are his fluffy white hair and thick spectacles. Unexpected are his spandex cycling shorts, racing top, bike shoes, and charm.
“Alice,” he says, extending a leather-gloved hand. “What a pleasure. I knew both your parents way back when.” He smiles heartily. “Please forgive the outfit. One must take advantage of these last warm days before the winter tundra sets in, correct? I’m just about to take my bike out for a spin around the river.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. Petermann,” I say. “But I recently found these cards, and understandably I had some questions …” I realize I’m not holding the cards, that the blond vintage-loving cyborg still has them, so I take a few steps over to the desk and hold my hand out expectantly. She finally rolls her eyes and gives them back.
“Of course you must!” Petermann says jubilantly. “And I would be more than happy to fill you in on what we do here, if you’d just make an appointment.” He purses his lips in such an exaggerated smile that I stop finding him sincere. “I am quite booked up at the moment, but I’m sure we can figure something out in the next couple of months. Right, Lillian?”
“Months?” I say. “No. This is slightly more time-sensitive than that. If I could just have a moment of your time, or perhaps take a look at my files?”
“I’m afraid not.” Petermann laughs nervously. “You see, we’ve just recently upgraded to a new computer system, and not even half of our records have been logged. It’s an arduous process, I’m sure you understand.” He waves his hand in the air and begins to head for the door.
“Please, Dr. Petermann,” I say, stepping in front of him. “I’ve been having the craziest dreams, and I’m starting to question what is real and what isn’t. My dad says you guys helped m
e when I was little. I want to know exactly what you did.”
Just then there is another buzz at the door, and Petermann stiffens slightly. Lillian looks up at him from behind the desk, her nostrils flaring.
“Should I—” she asks.
“No,” he says quickly. Then turns back to me. “I’m sorry, Alice. Like I said, I’m very busy.”
Another buzz. Petermann closes his eyes. Then a banging at the door.
“Expecting someone?” I ask.
Petermann grits his teeth. “Do not let them in,” he orders Lillian.
“But, doctor,” she hisses. “They may do more harm out there than in here.”
Petermann looks at her hard. “You’re right,” he finally agrees. “Go ahead.”
I hear a faint click before the heavy doors shove open and a male voice hollers, “I’ve got seven peacocks out here. Could you have taken any longer to open the door?”
To my utter astonishment, he’s not kidding. A guy with shaggy brown hair and thick glasses strides in, a peacock squirming under one arm. Behind him, a girl with a copper sweater pushes a dolly with six more, stacked in cages. They flutter and shake and cry out again and again, their green tails sticking out every which way.
“I know Mrs. Perry requested peacocks,” Dr. Petermann scoffs. “But next time we have to think of a better substitute.” Suddenly he stops, remembering me. “Alice, this is Miles, one of our research assistants, along with Lillian and Nanao.”
“Hey,” Miles says.
“Nice to meet you.” I look from him to Nanao, who merely stares back at me while a peacock pecks at her fingers.
“So about the files,” I try again.
“I’m afraid it’s just not going to be possible right now, Alice,” Dr. Petermann replies. “As you can see, we sort of have our hands full.”
I want to tell him that having your hands full with peacocks is not a legitimate excuse coming from a medical professional, but I bite my tongue and try another angle instead. I didn’t want to have to go here so soon, but I’m not sure I have a choice. “It’s just that there’s this boy. I keep seeing him in my dreams …” I stop short when I hear an incredulous snort from behind me, but when I look, Lillian is staring at her computer with deep focus. “Anyway,” I say. “I know this is going to sound insane, but I think he might actually be … real.”