Dreamology(61)

I don’t know if it’s Prince crooning or the raspberry wine coolers, but something feels different. It’s sweet but also a little sad. Like we’ve come to this place together, but we know that we have to say good-bye. To a whole part of our lives, half our lives, where we go at night, and in some ways, to each other. There is a reason I don’t like to tell Petermann about our dreams, why I hold my dream journal so close to my heart. Our dreams are the one thing we share that nobody else can touch. And now we’re going to lose it, and I am terrified.

I look down and see we’re floating again. Max sees it, too. But we aren’t scared this time. I just hold on tight and think that if this were a dream, it would just go on forever.





29


He Always Shows Up




“I NEED TO ask you something, and I don’t want you to laugh at me,” Sophie says. We’re lying side by side on a hammock in the yard outside Leeland Hall, all bundled up in wool blankets we stole from the common room. Her eyes are half-open and her hair is sticking out in every direction possible from dancing so hard. It’s pretty difficult to take her seriously right now.

“Okay, I’ll try,” I say.

“Why does Swiss cheese have so many holes in it?” Sophie asks. “Or for that matter, any holes at all?” And I don’t even try to stop myself from erupting in laughter.

Sophie gives me a tiny punch in the arm. “I told you not to laugh!” she cries. “Come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t wondered that before.”

I stare at the sky, still full of multicolored twinkles, and am disappointed that Sophie isn’t able to see it, too. Because she’d love it.

“Yes, Soph,” I say, and glance at my watch. 11:59. Where was Max? He disappeared after our dance, and I haven’t seen him since. “I think about cheese fungus all the time.” Then I start laughing again.

“Mmm, fungus,” Sophie says between giggles, and we laugh even harder. “I love you, Al,” Sophie says once we’ve settled down, and leans her head on my shoulder.

“I love you, too, Soph,” I say, standing up and giving her head a little pat.

“Do you know who else I like?” she asks.

“I have an idea,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Max.”

“No kidding,” I say.

“I get it now,” she says. “And I see the way he looks at you, and I love that.”

“Then why is he always disappearing? Like, where is he now?” I say, throwing my hands up in the air with a sigh. “I’m going to go to bed, all right? Will you be okay?”

“Okay, you go to bed,” she says with a big smile.

“Sure you don’t wanna come?” I ask.

Sophie just shakes her head. “I’m good. I’m gonna stay out here a little longer and see if I can make these stars change color like they do for you.”

I smile. “Holler if you need me.”

“I will,” she says, snuggling up more in the blankets. “And Al?” she calls.

“Yeah, Soph?” I wait.

“I know he’s always disappearing. But do you know what?”

“What?” I ask.

Sophie turns her head practically upside down so she can say this last part while looking back at me. “He always shows up. At CDD that night you broke in, on your front stoop with coffee . . . even in your dreams. He shows up.”

Bartholomew Burns told me there was a spare room open on his floor, lived in by a girl who was away on a trip with her a cappella group, which sounded pretty normal to me. Perhaps I’d have to deal with a few too many Taylor Swift posters, but I could live with that. Besides, I like Taylor Swift. I just don’t announce it publicly. But when I open the door to 201, there is no Taylor Swift, no pink beanbag chairs, no shabby chic vanity mirror.

There are ponies. Ponies, and only ponies, everywhere.

Pony posters on the walls. Riding ribbons spanning an entire bulletin board, pony sheets, and photographs of a dark brown horse with a white spot between its eyes on every possible surface.

“Valerie is a riding champion,” Bartholomew Burns says when he walks by and catches me still standing in the doorway, gaping in awe. “Did I forget to mention that?”

“What’s the horse’s name?” is all I can think to ask.

“Theodore,” he answers, before trotting down the stairs.

I brush my teeth and pick out a copy of Horse and Hound magazine off her desk to read myself to sleep, trying not to make eye contact with Theodore in his many incarnations. I’ve just dozed off with the magazine across my chest when I hear someone come into the room.

I open my eyes with a start, fully expecting to have to apologize to Valerie, who surely will have somehow returned early from her trip and is wondering who the heck is in her pony bed, and I am stunned to see Max instead.

“Hi,” is all he says. He stands there, one hand in his pocket, one hand still on the door, his eyes wide.

“Hi,” I say, sitting up on my elbows, my eyes a little fuzzy, as Max takes a seat at the end of the bed. “Is everything okay? Did Oliver finally blow the speakers downstairs?”

“No.” Max chuckles. “Not yet anyway.” He’s facing away from me, and his posture is rigid, his hands clutching the sides of the mattress. “So.”