Dreamology (11 page)

“I don't even know where he lives,” I whine.

“You go to the same high school,” Lillian says. “I'm sure you can figure it out.”

“ALICE IS ONE
of the most forgetful people I have ever met,” I say out loud to nobody. My Max impression sounds more Neanderthal than teenage boy (if there's a difference). “Who's forgetful now, Max?” But when I look down at his phone in my hand, I see that unlike mine, his has a case. And it looks like the same material that the Batmobile is made out of. Indestructible. “How responsible,” I observe.

It's eight p.m. and I'm standing on the stoop of Max's house. It's a lot like mine, four stories high with a black doorway and shutters (Doesn't anyone have any creativity around here? What I would give to see just one door painted blue . . .), but Max's house has a curved façade, as though the building ate
too much for dinner. I half expect the front door to come popping off like a button from the strain.

Without warning, Max's front door opens, and it startles me. I haven't even pressed the doorbell yet.

“Alice, what are you doing here?” Max asks, furrowing his brows together while he stands a few steps above me. He has on a charcoal-gray collared shirt, untucked, and green khakis. It must be nice to wake up in the morning and just look great in whatever you put on.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask, ignoring his less-than-welcoming welcome. Dream Max loves surprises, but Real Max probably hates them.

“I heard voices,” he replies, and looks around while I cringe. “Or . . . voice.”

“How come nobody ever paints their door blue?” I ask, nodding behind me to the other houses on the street. But Max has already started walking inside, back down the hallway.

“Historic preservation,” he calls out. “It's basically illegal to change the exterior of your house at all.” Then he turns back and gives me a look like I'm a puppy who needs training. “Come on,” he says with a small motion, and I follow.

Soon I'm seated on a stool in Max's gorgeously renovated kitchen, while he rummages in a drawer for something. The exterior of the house may look like any other on the hill, but the interior is all modern fixtures and clean design. Nothing is
out of place. Not the white throw on the cream-colored couch, not the architecture books on the coffee table, not even the spice drawer I just pulled open.
Who has a clean spice drawer?
I think, before shutting it. In our house, you're lucky if your cinnamon pancakes don't accidentally taste like cumin.

Max reveals a wine opener and pulls a bottle of something white and crisp out of the fridge. The cork gives a swift pop, followed by silence, and I suddenly feel very awkward, standing in Max's house with nobody else around.

“Oh, no wine for me, thanks,” I say, putting out a hand as if to stop him.

“Good, because it isn't for you,” Max says, and raises an eyebrow at me. “I'll be right back.” Without explanation, he exits the room and I hear the sounds of voices and forks scraping plates increase and then decrease in volume as he opens and shuts a door.

Finding myself unsupervised, I use the opportunity to take in my surroundings, which, apart from the tasteful décor, mostly consists of photographs. They are everywhere: lining the mantel in polished silver frames, hanging from the walls in perfectly curated rows. The images are mostly of a woman I assume to be Max's mother, because of her brown hair and large almond-shaped eyes, with some people I know (government figures, a few celebrities), and a lot of people I don't know. There are also a lot of Max—one in his soccer jersey, sweaty after a game, a man I assume is his dad with a hand
on his shoulder. One looking dirty but happy on the side of a mountain with some Nepalese guides, and one proudly brandishing a silver plaque that must be some kind of honor or award.

“Bet he didn't get that for hula-hooping,” I say.

Then I'm glancing at the lushly carpeted staircase out in the front hall, and before I can help it, I'm wondering what Max's bedroom looks like. I bet it's classic and adult, with dark wood furniture and a well-organized closet. An immaculate desk with his textbooks on one side and a smudgeless computer on the other. Max is not the kind of guy who still has his old racecar bed. The idea of being inside it makes me even more nervous than I feel right now. A space that's wholly his, where everything is all Max. I shiver.

“Are you cold?” Max asks, walking back into the room, looking confused. “You still have your coat on.”

“Nope,” I say, quickly changing the subject. I turn to the first thing I see, a silver and black device set into the wall with a glass pane at the center, displaying a keypad. “Is this your intercom?” I ask. “We have one in our house, too! I just learned how to use it.”

“That's the alarm system,” Max replies from across the room, hands in his pockets. His face twitches as though he wants to smile, but is being polite about it.

“Oh,” I say, pursing my lips together seriously. “Did you know that in ancient China, an emperor's last line of defense
against an intruder was a tiny Pekingese dog hidden up the sleeve of his kimono? Maybe you should get one of those.” I read about that the other day on one of my animal-lover blogs, designed solely for weirdos like me. “You know, if you're worried about security . . .” I trail off.

Max shakes his head, but now he finally does smile, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “I didn't know that,” he replies. “But I'm not surprised that you do.”

“What's going on in there?” I nod to the doorway he just came out of, with the symphony of clanking plates.

“Just the millionth dinner party of the season. My parents have a lot of friends,” Max answers, sitting down next to me at the island. He sounds exhausted. “So what is this, Alice. Twenty questions? What are you doing here?” He folds his arms across his chest, then places them on the countertop, before ultimately letting them rest in his lap.

I give him a look. “I have your phone,” I say. “Relax. Why are you being so weird?”

“I'm not being weird,” Max says, in a voice that's uncharacteristically high and squeaky. “You have my phone?”

“That's why I'm here,” I reply coolly.

“So, can I have it?” he asks impatiently.

“You know what?” I reply, sliding the phone across the marble countertop so fast I think it might fly off the other side, and I sort of hope it does. “I came here tonight to do you a favor. And I'm getting kind of tired of your manic behavior.”

“What do you mean?” Max asks, looking genuinely confused. He snatches the phone with ease before it can shatter on the floor.
Of course.

“I mean one minute you're a jerk at Oliver's party. The next you're apologizing to me in an elevator, then you're coming to my rescue when I think I might suffocate in the MRI machine, and now you're acting like I'm some stalker who just showed up at your home. I mean really? Pick a side, Max. I feel like I'm living through some vampire romance where you can't be near me because my blood smells delicious.”

I'm obviously kidding, but Max suddenly looks more uncomfortable than ever. He stares awkwardly down at his hands.

“What?” I ask, watching him. Then my mouth falls open slightly. “Is that it? You're afraid to be alone with me?”

Max still doesn't say anything, and his jaw clenches. “Kind of,” he admits.

It takes me a moment to find my voice, and when I do, it comes out small and unsure. “Why . . . what is it you're afraid will happen?”

Max finally meets my eyes with a look that says,
What do you think?
And I think I might actually pass out.

Instead we're interrupted by a voice from the hall. “Max? Could you bring a bottle of red as well?” Max's mother appears in the hallway between the dining room and living area. She's immaculate with a friendly, open face. “Oh,” she says when she sees me.

“Mom, this is my friend Alice. She was just leaving,” Max says quickly, standing up from the table.

I can take a hint. “It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Wolfe.”

“Not so fast,” Max's mother says. “Alice, first of all, it's lovely to meet you. And please call me Katherine! Secondly, I'm sorry Max is in such a foul mood. He hates our dinner parties. Why don't you come in and join us for dessert? Someone canceled at the last minute and we have an empty seat.”

I look to Max, but he's intentionally not meeting my gaze.

“I—I'm not sure . . .” I stammer.

“Well, I am,” Katherine says, putting a sparkling diamond-clad hand on my back. “Besides, we have a flourless chocolate torte for dessert, and if more people aren't here to eat it, I'll do it all myself.” She winks.

The chocolate torte is what dreams are made of. Like a brownie that's been cooked just right, warm and gooey at the center, with a deliciously crisp crust. I would swim in it if I could. Or just dig a hole and sit inside it with a spoon and eat my way out. Maybe tonight when I fall asleep, I'll dream about this cake.

“So, Alice,” Jacob Wolfe says. Over the course of dessert I learned Max's dad is the head of pediatric surgery at Mass General Hospital, a few blocks away. His mother, meanwhile, works for the largest philanthropic foundation in the city.
No pressure or anything. “How come we've never seen you before? Where have you been hiding?”

I put my spoon down, embarrassed to realize it hasn't left my hand since I sat down. “I just moved here, actually.”

“Alice is in one of my classes at school,” Max says. He's acting different, like he's playing a version of himself. His speaking is more formal and enunciated, his posture more rigid. Like the way you speak to someone who is hard of hearing. Not the way you talk to your father.

“Yes, psychology,” I add. I was only trying to participate, but immediately I see Max wince.

“Psychology?” Jacob asks. But he's not speaking to me anymore, he's speaking to Max. “I thought you decided not to take that this semester?”

Max takes a deep inhale, nodding, and I realize I've made an error. “We did discuss that, yes, but this is the only semester Mr. Levy teaches Psych 201, and I didn't want to miss the opportunity. Especially if I want to get into his three-hundred level next year.”

Jacob clears his throat, his posture still like stone. “I just thought we agreed you'd wait until your senior spring to take the fluffier courses,” he says.

“He just said it wasn't offered in the spring, dear,” Katherine says in that same soothing tone. A tone that says,
I'm putting out this fire, and don't bother trying to light it again.
She brushes
a strand of Max's hair out of his eye. “And besides, you have such a great relationship with Levy. It will look even better on your transcript to show a continued interest in a specific subject.”

This conversation stuns me. In my house we talk about the things we saw or learned that day. The new bicycle share in Harvard Square, or the coffee shop that just opened on Marlborough Street. Max's parents seem to know every detail of his life, and everything they don't know yet, they seem to have planned for.

“Max is by far the smartest in the class,” I chime in. “I swear he knows the questions Levy will ask before Levy does.”

In response to this Jacob beams. “That's great to hear. Good work,” he says to Max.

“And he doesn't hesitate to make sure we all know it, either,” I tease, and the whole table erupts in laughter, including Max, whose eyes shine at me gratefully from the other end.

After I thank Max's parents for dessert, Max walks me to the door. I am just turning to give him a wave when I see him putting on his own coat.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Walking you home.” He shrugs. “It's late.”

“I thought you didn't want to be alone with me?” I tease him.

“I think I can handle myself,” he says with a laugh, playing
along. But I notice he missed one of the buttons on his coat, and without thinking I reach over to fix it. Suddenly, a moment too late, I am aware of how close he is, and even though I refuse to look up and meet his eyes, something crackles between us.

“I'll be fine, really,” I say, taking a step back. “I like to walk alone. It clears my head. Besides, my dad makes me use one of those apps where he can locate me whenever he wants.” I sigh and wish I were kidding.

Max actually looks a little hurt. And a little silly, standing there in his brown waxed-cotton coat with a plaid scarf that's less wrapped around his neck than draped over it, where it won't do any good. “Oh,” he says. “That's cool.”

I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn't. “Okay, so . . . I'll see you at school.” I turn to leave.

“Alice,” Max calls out.

“Yeah?” I say.

“Thanks,” Max says.

I smile at him, and as I make my way back down the hill, I can't help but feel like something between us is changing. It's not just about our memories anymore. We're getting to know each other again. We're building something in real life. And it's not always pretty, but I'd rather have that than have no Max at all.

The first thing
I
think is that I've obviously eaten the same
mushrooms that Alice, the other Alice, eats in Wonderland. The ones that both shrink her and make her grow. I've eaten the first kind. I'm making my way through the living room at Nan's house, but I'm so small I'm able to walk directly under the piano without crouching an inch, and the carpet seems much softer than usual, squishier beneath my feet. I'm looking for something, but I don't know what.

I take the stairs slowly, flipping over onto my stomach and wiggling down each one. I cling to pieces of carpet with my fists to hold on for dear life. I can hear voices in the distance and want to go faster, but I don't know what I'm looking for.

In the kitchen, I hoist myself up onto a chair and lift a teacup the size of a kiddie pool from where it lies facedown on a saucer. I poke
my head underneath it and see if anyone's inside, but find nothing. I'm disappointed, but then I'm momentarily distracted by a pile of cream puffs in the middle of the table. They are as big as loaves of bread. I pick one up and break it in my hands, then begin to nibble around the edges, and I take it with me as I continue on my way.

I hear a laugh, a woman's laugh, loud and full, and suddenly I'm excited. I smile and pick up my pace, hustling back through the dining room, checking beneath each piece of furniture as I go. But I can't find her. In the main foyer I catch a whiff of something lovely. Sweet and a little bit spicy. Familiar. Like shampoo. I close my eyes and breathe it in. But as soon as it comes, it goes again.

Where is she?

Anxious and alone, I wander over to the window curtains and wrap myself up in deep green silk. I wait; for what, I'm not exactly sure.

That's when I hear the breathing—large grunts and snorts. I think I should be afraid, but I'm not. I'm less afraid than ever. I'm relieved. They are getting closer, and I wait patiently. Suddenly the curtain is pulled away and I am face-to-face with Jerry, except he's as big as a buffalo. His wet nose wipes against my face as he sniffs, and then he nudges me, before picking me up by the collar of my sweater and carrying me back through the house.

He hops up the stairs and places me back in my bed, giving me a big slurp with his tongue and curling up next to me. I fall easily to sleep.