Dreamology(26)

“I have a question,” someone says, and I recognize the nasal tone and poor voice modulation immediately. “Could we actually start with open? I want to make a desert vacation home for my lizard, Socrates, and I’d like to give it to him for his birthday in November.” Jeremiah pushes his glasses up further on his face and blinks a few times.

“Jeremiah, what did I just say?” Parker replies, his patience already waning. “Terrariums are meant to be independent ecosystems. They aren’t meant to house creatures.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jeremiah says matter-of-factly. I wonder if Jeremiah gets beaten up every day.

“Sorry I’m late,” Celeste says as she hustles through the doorway, and Parker’s face changes from annoyance to deer-in-headlights in a matter of seconds. “I was coming back from third period when I found this injured baby squirrel on the side of the path. I brought it to Mrs. Hakes, and she’s going to nurse it back to health. You should see its tiny cast!” She throws her leather bag down by a turquoise planter and plops her butt casually on the dirty floor, crossing her legs. “What did I miss?”

I study Celeste, wearing perfectly distressed jeans, embellished boots, and the kind of T-shirt that looks like a hand-me-down but was actually purchased for at least fifty bucks, and wonder if, like Sleeping Beauty, she is dressed by a band of merry bluebirds every morning. Except these would be merry hipster bluebirds with tiny fedoras and vests. And Max would be her prince.

Ugh.

I’m not the only one staring. So are Parker, Jeremiah, and the handful of other students in the room, because just my luck, Celeste seems capable of actually producing a near-celebrity reaction. She glances around, smiling at everyone. Then she looks at me. I freeze, wondering what’s coming next. A watchful stare? A look that says, Stay away from my boyfriend, dream-freak?

“Oh, hey!” Celeste calls out with a wave.

I smile feebly and am startled to see her turn next to Jeremiah, of all people. Aren’t people like them supposed to mutually loathe each other? “Hey, Jer,” Celeste says. “How’s Socrates?”

Jeremiah glares at Parker. “Homeless.”

Parker rolls his eyes. “Forget it. And it’s no problem, Celeste. I was just explaining what we’ll be up to for the rest of the semester. We’ll start by building a basic, small-scale terrarium today, just something easy, and then I’m going to ask you guys to actually cultivate your own plants, because I have a surprise . . .” He bites his bottom lip as he rocks on his heels a bit, trying hard to contain his excitement. “I spoke with Dean Hammer this morning, and, with work on the new science center being finished soon, he has commissioned us for a project—a large-scale succulent wall!” Parker holds his hands out like ta-da! and everyone oohs and aahs, and I try to Google succulent wall on my phone without anyone noticing.

“Now, if you’ll all please choose a glass orb and grab a bag of rocks and soil from the back table, I can begin the terrarium demonstration,” Parker says.

Once we’ve retrieved our materials, Celeste comes to take a seat with me at one of the workstations. “How’s it going?” she asks. “Dean Hammer got you down?”

I look up at her. “How did you know?”

Celeste giggles. “Because I was new last year. Let me guess. Potential and opportunity?” I nod slowly, and she puts a hand on my forearm and says, “Don’t worry, soon there will be someone else for him to mold into the perfect Bennett candidate. Just hang in there.”

I’m beginning to get it, why people react to her the way they do. I mean, she’s dating the guy I’ve been in love with my whole life. I should hate her . . . but for some reason I don’t.

“Thanks,” I say, then lean in closer. “By the way, what’s a succulent wall?”

Celeste pulls out a blue sketchbook covered in ink drawings and opens to a page with pasted photos. They’re of beautiful murals on the sides of buildings, but made entirely out of cactus-like plants, in shades of purple and green and gray-blue. Bordering the images are sketches of flowers and vines, long tendrils reaching from one page to another.

“Cool,” I say, and I mean it.

“They are pretty cool.” Celeste nods, putting her sketchbook away. “So, why did you pick this club if you didn’t even know what a succulent was?” she asks. It’s not accusatory; it’s interested.

“Honestly? Mrs. Weatherbee told me I had to choose three clubs, and this was one of the first I saw.” I shrug. “How about you?”

“My parents have a farm about forty-five minutes outside town,” Celeste says. “That’s where we live. I’ve had my own garden since I was practically old enough to carry a watering can. And I’m pretty into design . . . it just seemed like kind of a cool comingling of the two.”

I study Celeste’s gorgeous olive skin and her earnest, deep brown eyes, and I realize with only mild dismay that she is, like, the coolest of cool. And more importantly, she’s nice. The idea of her and Max forming some superhuman dynamic duo is easier to picture than I’d like to admit.

“So, I feel like we should talk about something,” Celeste says as she removes some soil from a bag and puts a thin layer in the base of her orb. I follow her lead, my hand jerking involuntarily and spilling some on the table. Celeste doesn’t even comment on it. Here it comes. Has Max told her something?