Dreamology(6)

3


Noodly




I MADE HIM up. At least that’s what I always told myself. The combination of all my childhood adorations, combined into one perfect guy. The trouble is, I was wrong. Because right now Max is sitting directly across the quad from me, reading our psych textbook and pausing every few minutes to type something on his phone. He’s wearing a heather-gray T-shirt and I want to go over and sit on his lap.

“Pull it together,” I whisper, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear and staring at the U.S. history handout. I have yet to register a single line on the page. What was that article I read over my father’s shoulder a few days ago? How the internet has connected our world so completely that it took six degrees of separation down to four? I probably just saw him on Facebook . . . Except for the fact that I’ve been dreaming about him since way before I ever knew Facebook existed.

When I was little, I was absolutely terrified of blood, which was inconvenient, since I also suffered from chronic nosebleeds. My dad and I had a word we used to explain the feeling I got when I saw blood of any kind, in real life or in movies. Noodly. Because one minute I’d be fine and then the next, someone would scrape their knee or knick their finger on an X-Acto knife in art class, and I felt like all my bones had disappeared. Like I was just a sack of skin wiggling in the wind, or one of those weird balloon people they put outside of car dealerships. Sometimes in non-noodly moments, I’d act it out for my father, holding my arms above my head and moving my hips in a dolphin kick.

Noodly is how I feel right now, despite there being no blood in sight. And I am determined not to feel this way for the rest of the year.

Don’t be creepy don’t be creepy don’t be creepy, I repeat to myself as I make what feels like an epic journey across the well-manicured lawn. I have a million introductions swirling around in my head. Phrases that will make me seem witty and cool, a femme fatale of someone’s dreams, which technically, I am. His. Like, “Fancy meeting you in reality,” or, “Have any good REM cycles lately?” He will smile and pull me to him and we will kiss and he will explain everything and he will never let me go again.

“Hi,” is all I actually manage to say, staring down at Max and rocking on my heels a little. It feels like every nerve in my body is suddenly screaming, and I have the urge to run very fast and very far away.

Max takes his time before looking up, giving me the impression he’s seen me quietly stalking him across the quad this whole time. He finishes highlighting a sentence with exaggerated diligence, then sets his book to the side.

“Hi,” he says back, finally looking me square on and folding his hands in his lap. There is something behind his eyes I can’t read that I’ve never seen before. There is a formality to them. It’s almost . . . challenging.

Suddenly, the idea occurs to me that I may truly be unhinged, like the homeless lady who used to call our apartment every Saturday from a pay phone down the block and ask what the lunch specials were. If I was in a good mood, I’d humor her. “Baked ziti!” I’d proclaim. “Is it good today?” she’d ask, and I’d say, “Oh, absolutely, our chef is famous for it,” as my dad gave me a skeptical look over the top of one of his medical journals. But now that I’m standing in front of Max, he’s so familiar that it’s almost overpowering. This isn’t a face I Photoshopped from the web into my subconscious. This is the guy I know and love. My guy. He is mine and I am—

“Did you need something?” Max cocks his head to one side.

I swallow. “Do—do you remember me?” I finally ask. And as I search his face for recognition—something like what I thought I saw in the doorway to Levy’s classroom—it feels like my heart has fallen into my stomach and the sides of my stomach are folding around it like caramel on a candy apple.

Just then a wash of shining black hair leans over the back of Max’s bench, and a pair of tan, toned arms encircles his neck. The arms belong to a girl, and she’s kissing him.

“Hello,” the-girl-who-apparently-also-kisses-Max says. “Who are you?”

Who are YOU? I want to yell. I feel tears forming behind my eyes, and I am doing everything in my power to keep them there.

“She’s new,” Max cuts in. For a moment his face shows the smallest sign of sympathy, but it is immediately replaced with the same eerily calm look. “It’s Alice, right?” he says. The-girl-who-apparently-also-kisses-Max is still hovering over the bench, her elbows on Max’s shoulders, her pretty face next to his.

It’s Alice, right?

“Yeah,” I muster, and extend a hand. The girl takes it, smiling politely.

“New blood.” She nods. “I’m Celeste.”

Oh god. Celeste? Names like Celeste kick dirt on names like Alice on the playground. Names like Celeste steal names like Alice’s prom dates. Names like Celeste are apparently dating names like Alice’s imaginary dream boyfriends.

“That’s a pretty name,” is all I say.

“Thanks. How do you two know each other?” Celeste asks.

Neither Max nor I speak. I can’t bear to look at them together any longer, so I just stare at the ground, waiting for his response. And when it comes, I just shut my eyes altogether.

“We don’t,” Max says quietly.