by Lucy Keating
“She kind of looks like an alpaca,” Max says under his breath as Doreen chews her gum, and I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle.
“No personal addresses are to be given out to students, academic policy. My sincerest apologies,” Doreen explains. But she does not sound very sincere.
“But we aren’t students!” Sophie pipes up, trying to be helpful, and the rest of us groan.
“Then I definitely can’t give it to you,” Doreen says.
“What about when she holds her office hours?” Max tries. “Can you tell us that?”
“That I could give to you if you were students, but not if you aren’t,” Doreen replies.
“Doreen,” Oliver says, coming over and leaning one arm casually along the top of her desk. “Let me ask you two questions. One. Has anyone ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to a young Princess Diana? Because you do, Doreen. And two, hypothetically, if you were a few students who weren’t technically enrolled at the moment …” He makes little quotation marks with his hands.
“So not students,” Doreen deadpans.
“Tomato-tomahto,” Oliver says. “Anyway, if so … how would you go about finding a professor?”
“Sure, I can help you with that,” Doreen says, shuffling in her desk for something.
“I knew you could, Doreen.” Oliver bats his eyelashes.
Doreen thwacks a thick stack of pamphlets down on top of her desk. “Applications for enrollment,” she states. “Fill these out, and I can answer your questions when you get in next year.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting on a bench outside the coffee shop in the center of Wells, feeling totally hopeless.
“My charms always work on Dean Hammer’s assistant,” Oliver says, stunned. “Reference an attractive public figure from the eighties or nineties, then slip in your request, boom.”
“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” I say. “We’re in Maine.”
“Maybe you should try actually working for what you want instead of playing games all the time,” Max says. I give him a look that says, Whoa, and he just shrugs.
“Spare me, Wolfe,” Oliver replies. “I don’t see you doing anything to fix the situation.”
“I’d love to do that, Healy, but you seem to always be getting in my way,” Max says.
“How can I possibly be getting in your way when you spend most of the time pretending I don’t exist?” Oliver almost-sneers, and Max is quiet.
“I don’t pretend you don’t exist,” Max says finally. “We grew apart. Our lives are different than they used to be.”
“You ditched me, dude,” Oliver says. “Don’t try and deny it. We wouldn’t even be hanging out right now if it wasn’t for Alice.” In response, Max looks pained. I can tell he knows Oliver is sort of right.
“So what are we going to do?” I ask, breaking the tension.
“We can always try her office again tomorrow.” Oliver shrugs. “Or hit up the dining hall at dinner and ask around?”
“But where will we stay tonight?” I ask.
“What about Alfred’s?” Sophie says. “He has that big old house. I think it might be a bed-and-breakfast, too.”
“Really?” Oliver looks skeptical.
“In Maine, everything is a bed-and-breakfast,” Sophie says with certainty.
We pile back in the car in slightly better spirits, but find ourselves back at square one when the engine won’t start.
I am about to make a suggestion about a tow truck when I notice how rigid Max’s posture has become, and I choose to remain quiet. Oliver unfortunately does not get the hint.
“That’s what you get for driving this hunk of junk,” he mutters in the backseat. “This car is older than we are.”
Sophie is tapping away on her phone, and I am still watching Max, waiting for him to explode.
“It was supposed to be my sister’s,” Max says through gritted teeth.
Oliver rubs his forehead for a second and exhales. “I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t know.”
Max turns around in his seat. “I drive this hunk of junk because it was supposed to be Lila’s. You remember my sister? She used to babysit us every day after school, until she died?”
Oliver’s face doesn’t flinch. He just sits there taking it. “I remember,” is all he says.
“So, I’m sorry if I ditched you, dude,” Max says. “But I had to move on with my life. Do something besides play video games with you all day and drop water balloons off the balcony of your bedroom. And I’m sorry you got left behind, but I’m also sorry you couldn’t grow up.”
I wait for Oliver to yell back, to start something, but he doesn’t. He just nods. “You’re right,” he says. And then he says it again. “I’m sorry.”
Max tries the key a few more times, begging it to turn on, and when it doesn’t he just leans his head against the horn, groaning along with it. Reluctantly, I put a hand on his shoulder, and he doesn’t shrug it off. He just lifts his head off the steering wheel a little, tipping it to the side so he can stare at me, his eyes pleading.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Everything is going to be okay.” I’ve never seen him like this before.
“I just want to figure it out,” he says. “I just want everything to be right again. In life, and … with us.”
“I know,” I say.
“Bartholomew Burns!” Sophie cries from the backseat. And all three of us turn and stare at her.
“Say what?” Oliver asks.
“How much do you all love me?” Sophie announces, wiggling her cell phone in the air like it’s a golden ticket.
“That depends,” I say. “Is Margaret Yang inside that phone?”
Sophie shakes her head. “Bartholomew Burns,” she says again.
“Bartholomew Burns, your old Latin tutor?” I ask. “The guy who wore the cross with a detachable Jesus on it?”
“It’s true, he did wear a necklace with a detachable Jesus,” Sophie calmly explains. “Sometimes he liked to wear a cross with Jesus, sometimes without. But that was a phase, and anyway, he could more than stand me, if you get my drift.” She raises her eyebrows up and down.
“What does this have to do with anything?” Max asks.
Sophie rolls her eyes. “Because I posted a selfie of me and Mildred the alpaca at Alfred’s today, and Bartholomew saw it, and it turns out he goes here!” Her eyes light up, like ta-da. “So he messaged me, and I told him what was up … well, part of it … the not-weird parts … and he said we can crash with him tonight if we want, at his dorm! Like half his floor is out of town.”
The tension releases from the car like pressure evening out inside an airplane. “Nice work, Soph!” I say, giving her a high five. “That’s a great idea.”
“There’s just one problem.” She makes a face. “He says he’s having a huge party tonight … he hopes we don’t mind?”
At the word party, Oliver’s eyes light up. “I suppose we could attend,” he says.
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?
28
Your Dog Is Really Lucky!
ACCORDING TO MY very basic knowledge of college social life, which I have gleaned entirely from gems of modern cinema such as Animal H
ouse 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.
29
He Always Shows Up
“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 s
igh. “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.