by Lucy Keating
I turn to point this out to Oliver, but Oliver isn’t there. Max is.
“Hi,” is all he says, and he reaches out to take my hand. My whole body melts as I prepare for him to pull me to his chest, letting one hand rest at the base of my neck, tangled in my hair.
I want to wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head just under his chin. I’ve missed him so much.
But just before Max’s hand touches mine, he pulls back.
“What?” I ask.
“Did you feel that?” he asks, staring at his hand like it doesn’t belong to him.
“No?” I say, confused, and reach out to touch him. But this time I do feel it. It’s like our bodies are two magnets that are repelling the other. I can’t get close enough.
We let our hands drop to our sides and stare at each other, confused.
For the first time, I look ahead, and I see that this swan boat isn’t like the one Oliver and I took the other day. It’s being pedaled by an actual swan, a giant one with soft, luxurious feathers. I reach out and stroke its neck as if it were a pony.
At this, the swan turns around.
“Thank you,” it says. “That feels nice.”
“You’re welcome,” I say back. “You’re a very polite swan.”
“And you are a very skilled back scratcher,” it says.
“Should we go and find her?” the swan asks.
“Find who?” I say.
“Margaret Yang, of course!” the swan explains, pausing for a moment to prune itself. “It’s the only way to fix everything.”
I look to Max, sitting way too far away, and he just nods. “Let’s go and fix it,” he says. His expression is dead serious.
“Tomorrow?” I ask.
“First thing,” he replies. “Alice?”
“Yeah Max?”
Once again he tries to reach out and touch me, and once again his hand can’t break through. “I don’t like this,” he says.
“Me neither,” I say.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats. “I’ll see you soon.”
“I’ll see you soon,” I say.
26
Rio de Janeiro, 22 Miles
“WHAT ARE YOU doing?” my father asks, showing, uncharacteristically, that he is actually paying attention.
“Nothing,” I say, looking at him blankly over the top of my coffee mug.
“Your knee is jiggling, and it’s moving the entire table. I’m trying to do the crossword. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” I say. “I just have a few things on my mind.” Like will Max show up today? Did the plan we made in the swan dream hold true? I think about texting him and just asking, but decide against it. I haven’t heard from him in reality since our conversation in the library. Yes, there was something coming between us in the dream last night, too.
But what? I think as I stare off into space.
“You’re doing it again,” my dad says. “The leg thing. Why don’t you take Jerry for a walk? He has an uncanny ability to fall asleep on my foot, and he really needs the exercise.”
I do my best to steer Jerry away from the Public Garden, because it feels kind of funny going there right after I dreamed about it, but Jerry will have it no other way, pulling me through the gates like a furry Zamboni.
He immediately waddles straight for the pond and begins sniffing methodically around the exterior, as though he is tracking something. That duck, probably.
That’s when I see it. A small swan, floating alone in the water about twenty feet away. And it’s staring right into my eyes.
I stare back curiously. What it’s actually probably doing is eyeing Jerry, the furry hunting beast by my side, having witnessed the duck fiasco in the very same pond a week ago.
But that’s when the swan winks.
There is no mistaking it.
And I know it’s a sign. I have to go to Maine to find Margaret Yang. With or without Max.
But Max’s Volvo is double-parked in front of my house when Jerry and I return, and Max is waiting on the stoop, holding four coffees.
“I didn’t know what kind you liked.” He shrugs as we walk up. “So I just got like … all of them.”
Despite myself, I can’t help but smile from ear to ear.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I shake my head. He did mean it. Agreeing to come. Which means he also meant it in the dream when he said he hated not being able to touch me. “How are we supposed to drink all those?”
“Well, we’re apparently going to have help,” he says.
“Hiiiiiiiiiii,” Sophie squeals as she runs out of the house like a flying squirrel, nearly tackling me to the ground. Then she pulls away from me and looks at my surprised face.
“Oh my God, I knew it. I was just saying so to your dad. I was like, she completely forgot I was even coming this weekend. You did forget, didn’t you?”
“Um,” I start to say.
“Even if you did, just lie,” she suggests.
“I did not forget?” I try.
Sophie lets out another squeal and hugs me again, jumping up and down and pausing to straighten her glasses when they nearly fall off her nose. She is all rosy cheeks and shiny straight brown hair. I forgot how much light she emits without even trying. “I met this one, by the way,” she says, nodding to Max. Then she leans in and whispers, far too loudly, “Even hotter than you said.”
I just hang my head in shame, and Max pretends not to hear and takes a sip of coffee to hide his smile.
“Oh, hello, Gerald,” Sophie says then, glancing down at Jerry and looking away disdainfully.
“You know that’s not his name,” I chide her.
“Maybe I don’t care,” Sophie huffs.
I roll my eyes and turn to Max. “Sophie hates Jerry because he ate her favorite Barbie doll when we were little,” I say. “And she’s never forgiven him.”
“Why would I forgive a slobbery beast with no self-control or sense of decency?” Sophie puts a hand on her hip. “One minute Barbie had a head and face; the next we were monitoring his bowel movements for signs of blond hair to make sure it had passed.” She shudders.
“Watch what you say about Jer-Bear,” I hear someone say, and I turned to find Oliver on the sidewalk, astride his Segway like a modern knight.
“And what is going on here exactly?” Sophie asks. “Seventeen going on seventy? My nana has one of those. Hers is hot pink. You guys could take them on your dates together.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Oliver says. “Which you will never get to do, because with that attitude you’re never going to ride it.”
Sophie gasps as though she has just been slapped with a glove, and I take the opportunity to interrupt.
“Okay, guys, Max and I actually had a plan today.” I turn to him, suddenly nervous. “Just to confirm, that is why you’re here, isn’t it?” I ask. “The road trip?”
Max gets up and walks over to me, looking confused. “Of course that’s why I’m here. I told you I would be, didn’t I?”
I can’t help but relax, breathing a sigh of relief, and Max squeezes my shoulder, which makes me the opposite of relaxed all over again.
“Road trip!” Oliver exclaims, rubbing his hands together. “Where are we going?”
“We,” Max says, pointing from himself to Sophie to me, “are going to Maine. I have no idea where you are going.”
I expect Oliver to reply with something witty, something to save face. But instead he does something I’ve never seen him do before. He lets his guard down, and he actually looks hurt as he turns back to remount his Segway. “Oh,” he says. “Okay.”
“You know what?” I announce. “I think we have room for one more.”
“We do?” Max asks, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
“We do,” I say, turning to give him a look.
“Whatever,” Max mutters. “As long as I’m driving.”
It turns out Max Wolfe is a big fan of Motown, and
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take me by surprise. But as we cruise up I-95 toward Maine, I realize it makes a bit of sense. Like Max, Motown is classic. It’s a little bit reserved, but it still knows how to have a good time.
“I didn’t know you liked this kind of stuff,” I say.
“It’s fun to drive to,” Max explains. He seems really relaxed today. We’re about forty minutes outside the city, and the leaves are positively on fire. Lemon yellow, fire-engine red, and a color of orange reserved for only the cheapest orange soda you can find.
“I wish they stayed this way all year long,” I say wistfully.
“Me too,” Max agrees. “But then we wouldn’t have snow … or summer.”
“You’re right,” I say, and let my head fall back against the seat as I listen to Sophie and Oliver bickering behind us.
“I’m just saying, no offense, but I think I have a solid chance of replacing you as best friend by the end of the school year,” Oliver says. “I mean, how long have you known Alice anyway?”
“Oh, only like, my entire life,” Sophie replies. “But what’s that compared to knowing her for not even two months?”
“I’m sensing quite a bit of hostility from you right now, Sophie, and I gotta tell you I’m sort of into it,” Oliver says. “But I’m still going to need more evidence of friendship.”
“Alice and I have an old inside joke where we pretend we have clones of each other that we hang out with when the other isn’t around, because that’s how much we miss each other when we aren’t together. Can you beat that?” Sophie asks.
“Do you know that a woman in England just cloned her dachshund? It’s true. I read about it,” I call back to them.
“You would read something like that,” Max pipes in. He was so intent on the road, I hadn’t even realized he was listening.
“I’d like to clone both you ladies,” Oliver calls out.
“In your dreams,” Sophie shoots back. Then she pauses for a second, thinking. “I guess that phrase holds a little more meaning in this crowd.”
“Well, I’ve known Alice longer than either of you, so beat that,” Max says. And the car falls awkwardly silent.
“Yeah, but only in a weird parallel dream universe, so I’m not sure that counts,” Sophie says.
“Speaking of parallel universe, did you just see that sign?” Max says quietly to me. “Rio de Janeiro, twenty-two miles.”
“That’s not possible,” I say. “There’s no Rio in Maine.”
“I know,” Max says, looking at me pointedly. “That’s the point. We’re probably going to get totally lost because our minds are dreaming up alternate road signs.”
But I’m thinking about something else. “So that time in the cafeteria, when I asked you about the Amazon … you remembered that, right?”
“Of course I did,” Max says. “You were so sad that week. You missed your dad like crazy. I was trying everything I could to make you happy. The fried plantains were the first thing that worked.”
“I knew it,” I say, a little drowsy.
“You’re falling asleep, aren’t you?” Max asks.
“Plains, trains, and automobiles,” I manage to mumble. And just as my eyes are about to close, I see the weirdest thing I’ve seen so far, since my reality and dreams started bleeding. A motorcycle has sped up next to the car, and Jerry is at the wheel, with a smaller bulldog riding shotgun. They’re wearing tiny helmets and goggles. Jerry’s black, and the smaller dog’s hot pink. They turn and stare at me for a second before riding off again.
27
I Like Your Alpacas
THE FIRST THING I do when I wake up in the passenger seat of Max’s station wagon, besides notice how beautiful my surroundings are, all green farmland and stone walls and quaint shingled houses, is wonder why there is a camel wearing a fur hat staring at me through the window. The second thing I do is notice that I am totally alone.
“Alpacas have got to be one of the most ridiculous-looking animals on earth,” I hear Sophie say as I step out of the car and join the rest of the group where they are leaning against a large wooden fence, peering into a field. “He needed a break,” she adds, and points to Max, who is stretching.
Directly facing them and looking about half as curious is a small pack of alpacas, noiselessly chewing on grass. They do look a lot like llamas, except their fur is shorn so they appear to be wearing wide, fuzzy bellbottoms, and the tops of their heads carry chic bouffants of frizzy hair.
“They sort of look like eighties pop stars,” Oliver observes.
“I don’t think they like us,” I say.
“That’s probably because Sophie insulted them.” Max smirks.
“Did Max Wolfe just make a joke?” Oliver waves his hands in front of Max’s face and then says loudly, “Max, are you in there? Can you hear us? Or is this the beginning of some Invasion of the Body Snatchers–type horror flick?”
“Shut up,” Max says playfully. Then in a deep scary voice that surprises all of us, he says. “Or you’ll be the first to die!”
“Another joke!” Oliver cries. “Now this is just getting freaky.” Oliver is still laughing when he falls flat on his face, and then Max is the one who is laughing.
“Dude, did you just trip me?” Oliver says from the ground, and he does not sound pleased.
“Relax,” Max says. “I was just kidding around. I’ll help you up.” He reaches out a hand to Oliver, who moves to take it but instead pulls Max down onto the grass with him.
“What the hell?” Max yells.
And suddenly they are wrestling.
“Real mature, Healy!” I hear Max grunt.
“You’re one to talk, Wolfe!” Oliver sneers back. “What, are you showing off?”
“Are they okay?” Sophie asks, walking up beside me.
“I think so?” I say. “I think they’re just idiots. They have a history.”
Then we hear a voice from behind us that makes even Oliver and Max lift their hands off the ground. “You boys better get your act together. You’re scaring the kids,” it says. We turn to find an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, a navy wool sweater, and high rubber boots strolling toward us. He’s pointing toward the field, and that’s when I realize kids refers to alpacas.
“Sorry, sir.” Max and Oliver stand up immediately, wiping off their knees, like foot soldiers at the attention of their general, which is amusing since this man comes up no higher than their chins. But there’s something about him, an undeniable presence. It makes you listen closely.
The only person who does not seem to be intimidated, of course, is Sophie. “Are you Alfred?” she asks, glancing at the sign that says ALFRED’S ALPACA FARM.
“I am,” Alfred says.
“I like your alpacas.” She smiles, as though complimenting his boots.
“Thank you, young lady.” Alfred smiles back. “Would you be interested in a tour?”
Even though we were on a mission, not one of us says no.
It turns out alpacas are not just fun to look at, they are quite useful. We follow Alfred up over the rolling hill of his property, past his white-shingled farmhouse with a wide wraparound porch, and into a big red barn, while he shares with us the secrets of his trade. We learn that alpaca fiber is three times warmer than wool, and much more fine. We learn there are two types of alpacas—Suri, which come in a range of colors and have curlier locks, and Huacaya, which is the most common breed found in the United States. We all take a turn spinning fiber into yarn at the wheel.
“I made you this,” I hear Oliver tell Sophie under the heavy beams of the barn, holding out a small piece of yarn he just spun. Sophie responds by giggling and walking away, but not before taking the useless piece of yarn with her, and I can’t help but raise my eyebrows at this.
The best part is that we even get to pet an alpaca or two, and I am just bidding good-bye to a sweet one named Mildred when I glance over and see Max, practically nose to nose with another, whispering sweet nothings
to it. He catches me smiling and clears his throat, giving it one last swift pat atop its head before walking my way.
“What? We had a connection,” he says.
My heart can’t help but swell at the sight of this Max. This is the Max I know and love. Open and relaxed and happy. I go to rest a hand on his back but pull it away almost instantly, unsure of what’s okay anymore. Max gives me a look I can’t decipher.
I wish things were simpler. That this was just a normal day hanging out with friends at a normal alpaca farm. And Max was my normal boyfriend, who I didn’t dream about. I wish Sophie lived here. I wish I hadn’t seen my dog ride by me on a motorcycle today. I wish we weren’t losing our grip on reality.
We find Alfred, Oliver, and Sophie standing on the porch. Sophie is holding a beautiful cream-colored sweater she just purchased, and Oliver is holding a box of sugar cookies shaped like alpacas.
“I’m sorry, Mildred!” Oliver cries, before biting off one of the alpaca cookie heads. “But you are delicious. What?” he asks between chews when he notices the way I’m looking at him.
“Nothing,” I say, breaking off a sugar cookie alpaca leg as we turn back toward the main road. “I’m just happy. I wish it could stay this way.”
“Why can’t it?” Oliver looks genuinely confused.
“Because things are about to change,” I answer.
“Not if we don’t let them.” Oliver shrugs like it’s all so simple, and I wish it were.
“So, how far are we from the college?” I ask Max as we pile back into the car.
“Only about ten minutes,” he replies, looking at Google Maps on his phone. “So we should have answers in no time.” A feeling of sadness rises up in my throat. After we find Margaret, nothing is going to be the same.
But as we drive through the campus of Wells College, I start to relax. It’s strikingly beautiful, an abundance of pathways weaving around pristine brick buildings and giant leafy trees, and all of it resting atop vast, well-manicured lawns. A perfect little academic haven.
At least, at first.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that,” Doreen McGinty says between gum snaps over the top of her desk at the faculty center. We already tried Margaret Yang’s office in the biology wing, and it was locked, and now we are hoping Doreen can provide us with a home address. Doreen’s hair is both very large and very permed, like it hasn’t been changed since the late eighties.