Dreamology(10)

The phone call I received from Sophie during free period is what really set me in motion.

“I Googled him!” she proudly announced when I answered the phone.

“Who?” I asked.

“Who do you think?” she said. “Dreamboy, obviously. We couldn’t do it before, because we only had spare defining characteristics: name, age, height, and . . . hot. But now we know so much more! Last name, hometown, even high school!”

“And what did you find?” I asked, my heartbeat picking up a little bit. Sophie was a total genius.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” she said, her tone going flat. “At least nothing that links him to you. He’s gone to Bennett since kindergarten, he’s a scholar-athlete, captain of the soccer team—a pretty big deal for a junior, by the way—and he spent the spring of his sophomore year in Costa Rica—some kind of student travel program. Impressive.”

“Glad you’re so fond of him,” I muttered.

“Could you lose the attitude, please?” Sophie said. “I just went full-on Nancy Drew for your butt.”

“Sorry, Soph, you know I appreciate it. I’m just disappointed. I’m dying to figure out how I know him. Especially since despite all my best efforts, he’s made it pretty clear I’m nothing more than some new girl who showed up in his psychology class.”

“You’re getting closer,” Sophie said. “Don’t lose hope. Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss Tassioni is giving me the evil eye.”

“Where are you?” I asked, chuckling.

“As a matter of fact, I am in the first row of English class,” she said. Then in response to a voice in the background, her tone turned slightly hostile. “Okay! God! The world didn’t begin and end with Jane Austen, you know.” Followed by a click. I put my phone back in my bag with a sad smile and tried to ignore the ache in the pit of my stomach. Sophie was bold and unapologetic. But she was also as loyal as they came. I missed her too much to even think about.

And as much as I appreciated her help, it had gotten me nowhere. So I’ve been looking for Max all day, and I’ve finally tracked him down at dinner. And currently Dreamboy is picking up a plate and moving toward the food line, and my mission today is to see what he eats. Because if I can figure out if he shares the same likes and dislikes as Dream Max—a hatred of cilantro, a love of hamburgers, ambivalence about sweets in general—I’ll know I’m actually dreaming of a real person . . . and then maybe I can figure out why. Maybe I can figure out what all this has to do with this mystery place CDD and what to do about it.

“Mmmm!” I say with way too much enthusiasm, coming up next to Max in line and reading the menu. “Brazilian Night.” My old school had two kinds of food. Edible and inedible. This place is silly.

Max just nods as he places some steak on his plate and doesn’t look up.

I tap my fingers on my tray nervously and scoot it along the line, feeling relieved when I come to the fried plantains. Here it is. My “in.” Once when I was little, my dad had to go away to a conference and left me in the care of a Brazilian lady who lived in the apartment downstairs. I’d felt pretty great about it at the time and planned to watch all the television my eyeballs could stand before they melted into their sockets. But Beatriz was surprisingly strict, and to make matters worse, every night she cooked plantains and spiced ground beef. I’d smile as I chewed, then spit it into my napkin and feed it to Jerry under the table when she wasn’t looking.

I went to sleep at night feeling an intense hunger and impossible loneliness for my dad.

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.