Dreamology(24)

If you Google “how to mend a broken heart,” which I did on my phone while brushing my teeth this morning, you get more search results than you could probably read in a year. Some of the advice is okay (Make a list of everything you hated about them! Don’t be afraid to laugh! Go to the gym and Work. It. Out!). And some of it is terrible (Find someone new immediately! Post pictures of you and that person on social media to make your ex jealous! Make a voodoo doll of them and Light. It. Up!). But I know of a much better cure-all: music. I scoured my library until I found the perfect genre for my mood, and currently I’ve got a bunch of folk rolling around in my ears. Somber thoughtful fellows like Nick Drake, Jeff Buckley, Elliot Smith, and James Vincent McMorrow. They sing about love and loneliness and you know they just get it. What it feels like to lose something. Of course, half of them are also dead. I listen to them all as I bike to school and keep listening as I trudge up through the main stairway of the administrative building and make my way down the hall.

Which is where I am unfortunately forced to stop short, once I see Max waiting for me up ahead. Truthfully he looks a little ridiculous, just standing there watching me, his eyes large and maybe even a little glassy. Today he’s wearing some dark brown khakis and a gray-blue sweater, which makes his eyes pop against his skin. Max opens his mouth as though he’s about to say something, and I realize that his presence, set against my overindulgent heartache mix, makes me feel like we might actually be the main characters in a romantic drama. And now is the moment where he starts crying and I start crying and we run to each other and then—

And then suddenly a door flies open between us and Dean Hammer pops his head out, straightening his glasses and peering in my direction.

“Alice. Excellent. I was hoping I’d catch you. I saw you walking up the stairs from my window. Any chance you have a moment?”

“Sure,” I say, hesitating slightly. Was Max going to say something? Do I even want to hear it?

“Great,” the dean says, stepping aside and motioning to the open doorway. Reluctantly, I lead the way inside.

“So, how is it all going?” Dean Hammer says with both brows raised, the most enthusiastic I’ve seen him yet, as he sits down across from me in a leather armchair in his office. I realize this is actually the perfect place for me to be right now, in my heartbroken and jaded state. With someone whose own natural demeanor mimics my current internal apathy. Sometimes people with too much enthusiasm make me wonder: Are they actually that excited, or are they acting excited in the hopes that it will make them feel that way? That whole “Smile and you’ll feel happy” thing.

Like crap, I want to say.

“Pretty well,” I reply instead. If you say “pretty good” in my house you practically go without dinner. You are not good, you are well! I can hear my father correcting me as though he were standing at his lectern.

“I’ve checked in with a few of your teachers, and they say the same.” The dean nods. “Mr. Levy in particular is a fan.”

This actually does elicit a small smile from my lips. Levy may be fulfilling some kind of Dead Poets Society fantasy, but he’s smart, I’d give him that. I want him to feel the same way about me.

“So now comes the next step,” Dean Hammer says. “I didn’t want to throw this on you right away, but we need to set you up to talk with our college counselor. All the other juniors got assigned one at the end of their sophomore year.”

“One?” I say. “You have more than one college counselor?”

Dean Hammer nods solemnly again. “Another Bennett benefit,” he says like he’s advertising car insurance he doesn’t believe in. “We actually have four. Most of them are at capacity, but not to worry, I found just the one for you. She had a little space.”

As I approach Delilah Weatherbee’s office, I can tell immediately that, like me, she does not belong. For one thing, her office isn’t even in the administrative wing. It’s in the attic of the creative arts center, and I have to push past fashion mannequins and forgotten sculptures and broken easels to even knock. Also, it smells like incense, and the sound of New Age flute music is whistling from beneath the door.

Delilah opens it almost instantly. “Alice,” is all she says, her face glowing and rosy and tilted to one side, her arms stretched wide. I understand almost too late that I am supposed to embrace her. Which I do, and she smells like patchouli. She pushes me away but, still gripping my shoulders, whispers, “Welcome.”

Delilah ushers me in, all effortless beach waves and bare feet, her long linen skirt trailing on the floor. “Have a seat,” she says, nodding to the corner as she pours some tea. I look over, but there are no chairs. Then I notice the floor pillows.

“So,” Delilah says when we are seated cross-legged, facing each other, each clutching a small mug of fragrant green tea. “Who is Alice Rowe?”

“I don’t think I understand the question,” I say.

“Exactly,” Delilah says, which only confuses me more. “I know you met with Dean Hammer and discussed your academics. Good work, by the way.” She gives my knee a squeeze. “But now I want to ask you: What else?”

“What else what?” I ask.

“What else is there to Alice? What are your interests? What clubs have you joined? Who have you been hanging out with? You see, Bennett is a great school, but in order to make you a good candidate for college, we really need to cultivate a sense of self. I like to encourage my students to practice a certain kind of mindfulness. Taking time, paying attention to your likes and dislikes, your behavioral tendencies, to help you figure out who you are.”