Dreamology(5)

Oliver’s light eyes have gone nearly black. “Good luck with that,” is all he whispers, and stalks out of the room.

“Miss Rowe,” Dean Hammer says after the door slams. “Take a seat. I have to apologize for Oliver. I promise it’s rare to find a student here so disillusioned.”

“That’s okay.” I shrug, sitting. “He was actually pretty entertaining.”

The dean frowns. “Not too entertaining, I hope. You’ve only been here about ten minutes, I wouldn’t want you falling in with the wrong crowd. Speaking of . . .” He is unmistakably serious. Not necessarily sullen, but clearly interested in minimal bullshit.

Here we go, I think to myself. It’s a tone I’ve grown accustomed to. Forewarning. “You have a great opportunity ahead of you, Alice.”

“You sound just like my dad.” My voice comes out a little strained.

But Dean Hammer barely seems to hear me. “Your grades are superb,” he goes on, skimming my file. “But it’s your teacher recommendations I’m a little concerned about.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I assume this is about my focus?”

“You assume correctly,” he answers. “All your instructors mention the same word. Potential. The consensus seems to be that you tend to sort of ‘scoot’ by.” He makes little quotation marks with his hands at the mention of the word scoot. “If you were to home in on what you really want, there’s no limit to what you might achieve.”

I know what he wants me to say. That I am ready! That I know where I want to go to college and who I want to be and what I want etched on my gravestone. But I’m not, and I don’t.

At my stubborn silence, Dean Hammer clears his throat. “So, what’s first on the docket today?” he asks pleasantly.

“Social Psychology with Mr. Levy,” I answer, double-checking my schedule.

“A solid choice. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” He gets up and opens the door, and I realize I have not seen him smile once. “And remember, Alice, we’re here for you. We just want you to get everything you can from this experience.”

“Thanks.” I shake his hand. And then I promptly roll my eyes as soon as the door shuts behind me.

“That bad?” Oliver asks. He’s sitting on top of the desk in the waiting room like it’s a kitchen counter, next to an ancient-looking receptionist who is trying not to appear amused.

“What are you still doing here?” I ask.

He hops off the desk. “Chatting with Roberta, my one true love, of course.” He winks at the woman behind the desk. “Don’t worry, Roberta, our illicit affair is safe with Alice. She’s new here, so she doesn’t know anyone anyway.” In response, Roberta just shakes her head.

“Let me walk you to your first class,” he says. And it’s not a question.

“Somebody looks happy for their first day at a new school,” Mr. Levy observes when I walk through the door of Psych 201. “You must be Alice. I had the rest of these guys last spring for Intro to Psych, and you’re the only one who I don’t recognize. Well, except for Kevin MacIntire, who apparently spent the whole summer eating his Wheaties.”

He says the last part in a lowered voice, leaning forward with his hands in his pockets, a secret between the two of us while the rest of the class is still settling in. Mr. Levy is obviously the “cool” teacher you “respect.” Wearing jeans and an olive-colored buttondown, he’s also young. Like just-out-of-college young. And he seems pretty pleased with himself about that.

“You know what this means, right?” Levy continues. “You’re going to have to introduce yourself to the group. Alice? Did I lose you already?”

He has lost me. I’ve stopped listening entirely. I’ve also stopped breathing. I’m thinking about a letter my mother once wrote me about the beaked sea snake, and how she barely escaped its jaws. Commonly found off the coast of Madagascar, the beaked sea snake has enough venom to kill five people with one bite and can paralyze a victim with just one strike. But you don’t die right away. So you just have to lie there, knowing the end is near, unable to move. That’s exactly how I feel right now—totally and completely paralyzed, with the exception of my heart thwacking against my ribcage.

Because standing in the doorway of the classroom, looking directly at me, is Max.

My Max.

My Max of my dreams.

My Max who does not exist.

You’ve finally lost it, I think. You’ve gone and imagined him. But just then somebody bustles through the door, bumping Max’s shoulder and sending his books spilling onto the floor. I lean down to help pick them up, but he quickly grabs them, avoiding my gaze and moving to find a seat.

Okay, so not a mirage, I think. But perhaps a doppelg?nger. Because there’s no way his name is actually—

“Max!” Mr. Levy calls out, teasing. “I hope to see better coordination on the soccer field this season. Welcome back, buddy.”

Max only looks up to give Mr. Levy a grin, then sits, staring down at his textbook like it’s a bomb that might explode at any moment.

“So, Alice, we ready for that intro or what?” Levy asks. The whole class is quiet now, staring at me. Including the boy of my dreams, who just became a reality.