Dreamology by Lucy Keating
Dedication
To my family,
and to our late summer dinners
where I learned to tell a story
AUGUST 28th
I am smack-dab in the middle of the Great Hall at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, exactly three feet from the spot where I barfed on my tenth birthday, just outside the Egyptian wing. But this time there are no fanny packs, no sounds of sneakers squeaking against well-polished floors. Pooling at my feet this time isn’t bright pink vomit (raspberry gelato, if you’re interested) flecked with Lucky Charms pieces (“Only on your birthday,” my dad said—and never said again). It’s a fifteen-pound gown, encrusted with crystals, just like the one Beyoncé wore to the Grammys. Tonight, the lights are bright and flashing and people are whispering and looking in my direction. Tonight, for some reason, I am someone. I sip champagne and glide from room to room, admiring the art. And that’s where Max finds me, standing in front of the Degas ballerinas, in the Impressionist section.
“You know, I can dance, too.” He slips an arm around my waist, and my whole body feels instantly warmer.
“Prove it,” I say. I don’t have to look away from the painting to feel his eyes on me, to know he is smiling. I have every inch of his face mapped in my brain, all of his mannerisms. I am constantly afraid of forgetting him.
He takes my arm and gives me a twirl, and I close my eyes. When I open them again, we’re in the rooftop garden, swaying. The shrubs are covered in twinkle lights.
“You look good in a tux,” I mumble into his neck.
“Thanks. It’s the one Beyoncé wore to the Grammys,” he says in a serious tone, and we both burst into laughter. Before I can even catch my breath, Max’s arms grip me tighter and he kisses me, tipping me so far back I lose all balance and sense of self. I didn’t realize there was a good kind of dizzy until this.
“I missed you,” he says then, and twirls me again.
The delivery guy from Joe’s Pizza on 110th appears, looking impatient.
“You hungry?” Max asks. “I ordered.”
But inside the pizza box there’s no pizza, just a giant Oreo cookie cut in eighths like a cake. We reach our hands in and each pick up a heavy slice. No sooner have I brought it to my mouth than I catch mischief reflected in Max’s sea-gray eyes, and he swiftly smushes his cookie into my cheek. Whap. I throw mine right back at him.
We race through the galleries, ducking behind Roman statues and dodging mortified patrons as we hurl handfuls of Oreo cake at each other. I notice a museum security guard marching in our direction. When I look more closely, I see he’s also my middle-school science teacher. I always hated that guy. We run faster.
When I’m finally cornered in the courtyard of Perneb’s tomb, I stop and face Max. We’re covered in cookie. Jewels from the European textiles exhibit dangle around my neck and arms, and Max has a medieval helmet on his head. We look like a royal couple gone horribly awry. A country under our rule would surely revolt.
Max says something, but I can’t hear him through the helmet, so he flips the facepiece up, exposing flushed cheeks.
“Let’s take a time-out,” he says again. We lie on our backs in the courtyard of the tomb, listening to the symphony music and the low hum of chatter continuing outside. Above our heads, where the ceiling of the Met should be, there is instead a starry sky.
“You know when Egyptian royalty died, they often had loved ones buried with them,” I say.
“I think it was just servants, actually, so they could be waited on in the afterlife,” Max corrects me. Always such a know-it-all.
“Well, if I died, I’d have you buried with me.” I turn over on my side to face him.
“Oh, babe, thanks,” he exclaims. “That is by far the creepiest thing you have ever said to me.”
A low snort echoes against the stone walls, and I notice a small African warthog lying beside Max, staring at him fondly.
“Who is this?” I ask.
“This is Agnes.” Max nods to the pig. “She’s been following me since the Oceania wing. I think she’s in love.”
“Well, get in line, Agnes,” I say, resting my head on his chest and breathing deeply. As always, he smells like laundry detergent and something woody. The sound of his heartbeat lulls me.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he pleads. “We haven’t had enough time.”
But I disagree. This evening was perfect, all I could ask for.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say, praying I won’t drift off until I hear him say it back. It’s our thing, an almost superstitious habit, to make sure we find each other again.
“I’ll see you soon,” he finally says with a sigh.
My eyes float slowly closed, the sound of Agnes lightly snorting in my ear.
1
Museums Are for Visiting, Not for Living In
JERRY IS SNORING directly into my mouth, his warm dog breath wafting at me with every exhale.
“Well, that explains Agnes,” I mutter.
“Who’s Agnes?” my dad calls from the driver’s seat. Behind his voice comes the light clicking of a turn signal, back and forth like a metronome.
“Nobody,” I say quickly, and he doesn’t notice. My dad is a brain guy. A well-known neuroscientist—which doesn’t mean much unless you also happen to be one—he understands things about the mind that are a mystery to most. But when it comes to the heart, he’s clueless. I have no interest in telling him about Max, so at moments like this his shortcomings work in my favor.