by Lucy Keating
I brace myself for Petermann’s response. Will he look at me with wonder or shoo me from his lab? But before I get to see the look on his face, the peacock beneath Miles’s arm breaks free, heaving itself onto the marble floor before running wildly around the room, making absurd yodeling sounds as Miles and Nanao chase frantically after it.
When Petermann turns to me now, he seems actually agitated. “Like I said, Alice.” He clears his throat. “Now is not a great time. But if you’ll make an appointment with Lillian, we will get to the bottom of all this.”
He is lying. It’s all over his face—the tightness in his features, the clenching in his jaw. His voice, once upbeat and welcoming, is becoming short. He just wants to get me out of here, that much is clear. Which can only mean one thing: He’s scared.
“I’m sorry.” I give my sweetest smile, tilting my head to the side. “I didn’t mean to waste your time. I’d be happy to make an appointment with Lillian. She’s been so kind already.” I slowly turn and give the same smile to Lillian, who I notice is eyeing me warily. The other thing I notice is her employee ID card on her desk. And in the shuffle that occurs in the next three minutes as Miles and Nanao maneuver the peacocks up the stairway, I have just enough time to grab it.
SEPTEMBER 16th
Everywhere I look there are bubbles, fat and wobbly, as though someone gave a class of preschoolers too much candy and then handed them bubble wands. The shiny spheres glide toward me like happy Martians. We come in peace. I try to pet one, but it pops.
“We have to turn off the washing machine!” my mom cries. She is standing by the overworked appliance, which gyrates and gurgles, dripping foam like it’s right out of Fantasia. She’s wearing a green safari jacket and camo boots. But the binoculars that hang around her neck are bright blue and bedazzled, sparkling endlessly.
“I’ll get it,” I offer, and climb inside the washer. But it catches me, whirling me to and fro like a riptide, until I tumble out into a clear blue ocean. All around me, floating in the water, are rubber duckies and plastic tugboats and also some bras and socks.
“Alice,” I hear Max call out to me. His voice is muffled through the water, but he sounds happy. “Alice, come here! I think I found it.” The surface of the water seems like a million miles away, but I am never out of breath.
When I reach the top, I’m at the edge of a swimming pool. I hop out, soaking in a gold one-piece, and Lillian from CDD is there, holding a fuzzy golden retriever puppy and smiling.
“Here,” she says. “This is for you.”
I take the puppy, but it squirms out of my arms and runs to a set of lawn chairs, where a guy is holding an iPad in front of his face.
“Max?” I say, pushing the iPad out of the way. But it’s not Max, it’s Oliver.
“What are you watching?” I ask.
He holds up the iPad and doesn’t say anything. He just smiles. On the screen is Max, and he’s talking to me.
“Alice, I found it!” he says to the camera. “Come here!”
“How?” I say desperately. “I don’t know how to get inside!”
“Don’t be silly,” he says. “You know how.”
“Max, I can’t!” I cry. But he just shakes his head and walks off screen. Frustrated, I hurl the iPad into the pool.
“That was rude,” Oliver says. But when I turn to apologize, I see Oliver is now a peacock, and it’s wearing glasses.
7
And, They’re Vegan!
“TODAY WE’LL BEGIN our discussion of one of social psych’s most popular topics,” Mr. Levy is saying. I am barely listening, because I’m totally distracted by Max’s eyelashes. They’re so long that even though he is sitting one row in front of me, just to the left, I can still see their tips peeking out past his profile. I know these lashes. Beyond today, beyond last week. I’ve known these lashes forever.
But that doesn’t mean these eyelashes know me. Ever since I left CDD, the stolen ID tucked into the back pocket of my jeans, I’ve been thinking about those peacocks. Clearly, the Center for Dream Discovery is an eccentric place, and I had been a part of it. What’s more, I’d apparently had such vivid nightmares as a kid that I’d actually required professional help to fix them. What does that say about how far my imagination can go? Who knows what my mind is capable of? I can’t explain it yet, but I must have seen a picture of Max somewhere and my brain handled the rest. Which is not just embarrassing and pathetic, it also breaks my heart. To know that, really, I’ve been alone in this all along.
“The topic we’ll be discussing today is love,” Levy says now, and I finally look up at the board.
“But first we have to start with the basics,” he continues. “Attachment. Can anyone tell me who is responsible for the study of attachment? Kevin?”
“Um, Freud?” Kevin MacIntire mumbles almost inaudibly. He’s a big kid who has yet to grow into himself. I catch him staring at me sometimes in class with a dazed expression, but he’s never even said hello.
“MacIntire, you’ve answered Freud to almost every question I’ve asked this year. I commend the perseverance, but do your reading. Max, what do you have for me?” Levy jerks his chin upward slightly, giving Max the go-ahead.
“John Bowlby,” Max says without so much as a pause. As usual, he sits up straight in his chair, never looking anywhere but the board, Levy, or his notebook to take neat, concise notes. I would know, because I’m usually watching him. He has these perfect wrists. Strong but delicate at the same time, with smooth skin, the joint sitting well past the cuff of his oatmeal-colored sweater, which he has pushed up below his elbows. I’m transfixed by them, how beautiful they are, and how funny it is that such a vulnerable, intimate part of a person can be in front of us every day, yet we rarely take note of it.
“Bowlby!” Levy says loudly, raising his arms like hallelujah and jerking my mind back to attention. “That is correct. For those of you who did the reading, like Max, you might recall that Bowlby believed early experiences in childhood have an important influence on our development and behavior later in life. Yes? And our attachment styles are established through the infant/caregiver relationship, or, to put it more simply, your relationship with your parents. Make sense?”
I nod and wonder briefly what happens if you barely had a child/caregiver relationship. If your mom moved halfway across the world, so you spent most afternoons putting your overweight bulldog in a tutu and pretending to interview him on Oprah.
“Can anyone tell me why we form these early bonds in the first place? What purpose they serve us?” Levy asks. He is met with silence.
“Survival,” I say without raising my hand.
Max shifts in his seat but doesn’t turn. Levy looks pleasantly surprised. “That’s right, Alice,” he says. “Care to elaborate?”
“Okay,” I say, suddenly a little self-conscious. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious, right? We’re born these tiny things, unable to do anything on our own. So we need someone to do it all for us. Attachment to another person guarantees we will always be close to someone who can do that. Who will ensure we survive.”
Levy nods. “But even though survival is the basis for these early bonds, it’s not the only positive outcome. Attachment theory supposes that the child who has a supportive and responsive caregiver develops a better sense of security. The child knows that the caregiver is dependable, which creates a base for the child to then explore the world.”
Levy turns back to the board and starts writing the stages of attachment, which is exactly the question I will get wrong on the exam, because it’s exactly the moment I start tuning out. A base from which to explore the world. I keep turning the phrase over in my head. My mom was gone by the time I turned seven, and sure my dad was there … he just wasn’t always well, there.
Suddenly I look up and notice Max staring at my bouncing fingers, which I didn’t even realize I’d been tapping. I slap them down flat on instinct. He looks at me quizzically and directs his gaze forward again. My w
hole body tingles, a combination of embarrassment and the feeling of his eyes on me.
“What about other kinds of attachment?” Leilani Mimoun says. “Like in adults?”
“Miss Mimoun!” Levy teases. “So eager to discuss that beautiful and tragic thing we call love.” He perches on the edge of his desk, his hands pressed to his heart.
Leilani blushes, removes her glasses, and starts cleaning the lenses furiously. She is totally in love with Levy. She is the first one in class and the last one to leave, never misses a homework assignment, and cleans her glasses every time he asks her a direct question.
“We’ll get to that next time,” he says. “But there are many theories. Some think love is divided in two categories: passionate and compassionate. Passionate comes first, and lasts only a few years at most, followed by compassionate, which is stronger and more durable. Others have asserted that there are three components to love, intimacy, passion, and commitment, and different combinations of these three things produce different types of love.” He draws a triangle on the board and starts writing words around it.
romantic love = passion + intimacy
liking = intimacy
empty love = just commitment
“That’s sad,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Empty love.” I can’t help but glance at Max. When I look at him, I can’t even conceive that something like empty love is possible.
“That’s BS,” Max says. And when Levy turns to him with his brows raised, he clarifies. “Why bother trying to explain something as arbitrary as love? It’s like the least definable thing in the world.”
“Don’t tell Celeste,” someone calls from the back of the room, and everyone snickers. Everyone except me. I just feel nauseous. So Max and Celeste aren’t just a couple. They’re that couple. That perfect, everyone knows us, everyone wants to be us couple. Max and I don’t even exist in the same sentence.
“It’s human nature, of course,” Levy says, ignoring the comment. “We want to define what we don’t understand. But we’ll cover that part, too. See, you guys, isn’t social psych so cool?”
We all mutter and roll our eyes as the bell rings.
“Oh, and before I forget!” Levy says loudly as people start packing up their things. “I brought you hardworking young scholars a treat. I know what you are thinking: a genius and a chef? The answer is yes. Grab one on your way out.” He produces a small Tupperware container from his desk and opens it to reveal surprisingly perfect-looking chocolate chip cookies. “And, they’re vegan!” he says.
After hearing Celeste’s name, I’m basically the opposite of hungry. But having never met a cookie I didn’t like, I am one of the first to pick one up. It’s plump and soft, and my mouth starts to water. I’m just about to sink my teeth in when someone suddenly grabs my hand, jerking it away from my mouth and pulling me out of my cookie euphoria.
“Don’t eat that!” Max cries, his tone almost irritated as he throws the cookie into the trash can like it’s on fire, more animated than I’ve seen him in days, more animated than I’ve seen him maybe … ever. Then his eyes shoot back to me, wide, as though he can’t believe what he’s just done. I swallow. We both look down at the trash can, and I can hear Max breathing heavily.
“Poor cookie,” is all I can think to say. Because I mean it, it does look so sad there all alone, and also because I have to fill the silence.
“It’s made with almond flour,” Max finally replies, lowering his voice back to normal and not taking his eyes off the trash. “He brought them in last year, too.” There’s another pause before Max asks, a little quietly, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I manage to say, still not daring to meet his eyes. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says, running a hand through his hair. Then he clears his throat and strides out of the room, as though leaving the scene of the crime will erase it from ever having happened.
“That was rude!” Leilani Mimoun says as she walks up next to me. “Are you guys even friends?”
But I can’t manage a response, because my mind is far, far away, standing at a street cart in Bangkok.
He remembered my nut allergy.
Because he remembers everything.
Because he was there.
Because he is the Max from my dreams after all.
8
Crew Is a Sport, Rowing Is a Movement
WHILE I’VE BEEN trying to puzzle everything out the past two weeks, he’s been there all along. My Max. It’s really him. Through all my second-guessing and anxiety, he’s just been there the whole time, literally within my reach. One desk up and to the left. I’m walking down the hall in a haze, trying to grasp exactly what that means, when I catch sight of Oliver’s curls through a doorway in the science building and pause to catch his eye.
“Jeremiah,” Oliver is saying heatedly to a chubby kid with a World of Warcraft T-shirt on. “I don’t know any other way to explain this. The existence of dinosaurs does not in any way prove that dragons once walked among us.”
“I’m merely asking you to admit that just because we have yet to uncover any bones does not mean they are a purely mythical creation!” Jeremiah wrings his undoubtedly sweaty hands. “How else do you explain the burned ruins in Romania I showed you last week?”
“Show me a wing bone and we’ll talk,” Oliver says dismissively. That’s when he notices me. “Speaking of medieval maidens.” He grins.
I smile. “Don’t stop on my behalf, this sounds interesting.”
“We’re just finishing up anyway,” Oliver says. “This is our weekly Game of Thrones Fan Club.” He points to Jeremiah, who I now see is the only other person in the room. “Jeremiah, meet Alice. It’s a little too soon to tell, but I’m pretty sure she is going to be my first wife.”
Jeremiah crosses his arms. “No girls allowed.”
“We do allow girls to join, Jeremiah,” Oliver says. “It’s just that none of them want to join us.”
“I’m having a party Friday,” Oliver tells me as we walk to our two-wheeled vehicles. “My parents are out of town … again.”
“And you didn’t want to invite Jeremiah?” I say with mock incredulity. “But he seems so friendly!”
“Oh, I invited Jeremiah,” Oliver says. “Everyone is welcome at my parties. I don’t buy into that high school exclusivity crap. Unlike some people …”
He looks to where Max is standing by Frank, acting equal parts awkward and annoyed. My heartbeat picks up as I look at him for the first time with the understanding that everything has been real. All of this is real. Then he meets my eyes and I look immediately down at the path again.
“Wolfe,” Oliver says, taking out his keychain and unlocking his Segway with a beep-beep like it’s a Porsche. He’s either oblivious to the tension or he’s just being polite, and since it’s Oliver, it’s most likely the latter. “I was just telling Alice that I’m having a party, and because I’m not exclusive, even people like you can come.”
“Thanks for your generosity,” Max says.
“So will you, Alice?” Oliver ignores Max. “It’s Friday. Come early if you want, so we have some time together alone.” He looks at Max and rides off.
“Why is he always with you?” Max frowns.
“Maybe I’m always with him,” I say, and Max’s frown deepens. Then he looks down at his feet for a minute. When he looks back up at me this time, his eyes are wary but his expression is kind.
“So,” he says. “Can we talk?”
I barely knew what the sport of rowing was until I got to Boston, but it’s everywhere. At least everywhere on the Charles River, and since the Charles River snakes right down one side, dividing Boston and Cambridge, you basically can’t avoid it or the crew boats that dot its shoreline. The sport looks boring and beautiful all at the same time. Boring, I imagine, for the people swinging the oars back and forth, all in a line like a bunch of muscular ducklings. Beautiful for the rest of us, who get to watch them glide along, working
together in perfect unison.
“That’s a lovely crew,” I say, referring to a man moving past Max and me along the river in a shiny caramel-colored boat. I want to dangle my legs in, but the water looks a little too murky for that, so I settle for poking at leaves with a stick.
“That’s actually a scull,” Max says.
“A what?”
“Crew is the sport; rowing is the movement. A boat is a shell. But if it’s a single-person boat, it’s a scull because he’s using two oars. Rowing with two oars is called sculling.” At the look on my face he says, “I know, it’s ridiculous.”
“How do you even know all that?” I ask.
“I dunno.” He shrugs. “I just do.”
I use my stick to pick up a piece of trash and set it on the side of the dock. “Do you think there are any dead bodies in here?” I ask. I have this habit, whenever I’m in a remote location, of wondering if this would be a good place to drop a body. With all the unsolved murders out there, where are people putting them?
Max bursts into laughter. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh in reality. In my dreams, he laughs all the time. “You are so weird,” he says, and leans back onto his elbows on the dock.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Heard it before.” But I want to say, Why are we dodging the subject? I turn halfway around, leaning on a hand to look back at him. “So?” I’m doing my best to remain cool and casual, but despite my efforts, I am positively grinning from ear to ear. I couldn’t help it even if I wanted to. I bet if we had an unexpected solar eclipse right at this moment, my whole body would glow in the dark. I can’t believe that Max is real and he is here and we are merely inches apart.
“So, what,” he replies, giving me a sidelong glance. He seems totally at ease in this moment. Is he teasing me?
“Don’t make me beg,” I say. “I’ve waited long enough.” My coyness surprises me, and that’s when I realize I’m not nervous anymore. This isn’t Max Wolfe, captain of the soccer team, resident babe. This is just Max, as he’s always been. And deep down, I knew it all along. But I need to hear him say it.