Dreamology(60)

It is safe to say that Bartholomew Burns and his suitemates at Leeland Hall, a two-story white-shingled house on the edge of campus, were not aware of this list or these movies, or they chose to ignore all of it out of some vague hipster principle. Perhaps we—Max, Sophie, Oliver, and I—should have anticipated this, given the wall of Latin awards and the expansive insect collection that welcomed us upon arrival to the suite. But I guess we just assumed that in college, anyone could be cool.

We were wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.

“I’m not kidding when I say my grandmother’s retirement community is more fun than this,” Sophie says as she stands in the doorway between a room where people are playing Monopoly and one where they are playing video games, clutching a raspberry wine cooler. “I’m so depressed I could scream.” She takes a giant swig.

“Hi.” A skinny redhead approaches me wearing thick hipster glasses, and leans casually on the edge of the fireplace. “I’m Wallace,” he says with a wink. “How come I’ve never seen you around?”

“She doesn’t go here,” Sophie mentions between chugs.

“Oh.” Wallace nods. “I just thought maybe I hadn’t seen you since I’m generally in the art studio. You know . . . doing my art.” He looks at me intently then, as though expecting me to gasp in awe.

“So you’re an art major?” I ask politely as Sophie unapologetically rolls her eyes.

“Thinking about it,” he says. “At the moment I’m really just creating, exploring the possibilities of my work.”

“And what kind of work do you do?” I say.

“It’s so refreshing to hear someone ask that question,” he says, and leans in closely. “Currently I’m doing a series where I take photographs of my dachshund, Arabella, in historical contexts, wearing period-appropriate outfits, and use it as a commentary on modernity and the general lack of culture in our present-day world,” he says in complete seriousness. “For example, last week I built a small-scale rendering of the White House and dressed her up as George Washington. Next week I’m hoping to do Frida Kahlo.”

I stare at him, using every muscle in my body to maintain composure, as Sophie just starts cackling so hard I think she might actually be crying.

“Uh-huh,” is all I can manage to say.

“Do you wanna see a photo?” he asks.

“Hell yeah!” Sophie yells, and just starts laughing again. And then I just can’t handle it any longer, and I start laughing, too.

“You guys are really rude,” Wallace observes.

“Your dog is really lucky!” Sophie manages to whimper as she wipes her tears away.

“Okay, people!” We hear a familiar voice shout. Sophie and I peer around the corner and are mortified to find Oliver standing in the middle of the room, holding a beer. “You don’t know me. My name is Oliver, and I don’t go here. I won’t tell you where I go because that would betray my age and I think there is a sixty percent chance of me kissing at least one girl at this party tonight. But you know how that’s not going to happen?” He walks over to the stereo and plugs in his iPod, which he has pulled out of his pocket. “If this party keeps going the way it’s going. So that’s all about to change right . . . now.” He hits a button and cranks up the volume.

Within seconds, the rhythmic synth of Prince’s “Kiss” comes gyrating over the speakers, and it comes on loud. The whole room seems transfixed as Oliver begins to wiggle his shoulders to the music, complete with spins, pelvic thrusts, and lip-synching.

My mouth is hanging open—I can’t help it—as he forms the words with passion. I look over at Sophie and can’t tell if she looks totally horrified or kind of into it.

But then, like magic, the room starts to move. Everyone is dancing, and I mean everyone. Even Wallace. Oliver makes his way over to where I am standing, but just when I think he is about to take my hand, he sings the chorus in Sophie’s ear. Kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kiss.

I wonder where Max is as I dance, and then spot him across the room, bopping his head and shuffling his feet. I’m about to dance my way over when the crowd clears and I see he’s not alone. A dark-haired girl in tight black jeans is circling around him with flamboyant, check-out-my-body, disco-type moves. I’m still glaring at them when Oliver spins me, and I lose them for a moment.

The song turns slow as “Purple Rain” comes on and I am just about to escape to a bathroom to avoid watching Max slow dance with the brunette when suddenly he is there by my side, taking my hand. Sophie gives me a look as Max pulls me through the party, past the gyrating dancers and loud conversations and outside onto the chilly front lawn, where all is quiet.

“Do you see this?” Max asks, his finger pointing up toward the sky. I can see it. Above us is a beautiful starry night, but the stars are all the colors of the rainbow, and they’re twinkling like glitter nail polish.

“I can see this,” I tell him. “It’s incredible.”

“I guess not all the dream-melding moments are that bad,” he observes. I look at him, and the ground where we are feels so dark by contrast to the sky. And the space between us feels so cold and so far. As if on cue, Max pulls me to him, keeping one hand in mine as the other encircles my back, and my face rests in the crook of his neck as “Purple Rain” keeps playing in our ears.