But in my dreams, Max would always be there. “Fried plantains are actually really good by themselves,” he said as we sat in a tree in the Amazon rainforest, watching a lime-green sunset. “Have you ever tried them with cinnamon and brown sugar? Here.” He popped one into his mouth and passed me the brown paper bag, smiling as I gorged myself on the greasy chunks of fruit. Then we hopped down to explore and ended up discovering a new species of fish that had fur instead of scales.
“Have you ever tried these with cinnamon and brown sugar?” I ask now, pointing at the plantains with a serving spoon and looking at Max out of the corner of my eye. Please say yes.
“Nope,” Max says casually. “Are they good?” But he doesn’t even wait for my reply and just moves to the next station.
“Yeah, they are, actually,” I say to nobody while my body deflates. “Thanks for asking.”
I follow him to the soda station, where he doesn’t get soda but instead fills six small cafeteria glasses with ice water that he organizes in a neat row on his tray. I can’t help but make a face. So boring. So not Max.
“What about the Amazon?” I push further. “Ever been there?” Max finally looks at me, but the expression on his face isn’t exactly what I was hoping for. It’s quizzical, not kind. I glance away, placing a glass under the milk spout and pulling the lever a little too roughly. Chocolate milk spurts all over my tray. I sigh. “I guess I’m about to find out how plantains and chocolate taste.” I smile feebly.
Max is still looking at me with his brows furrowed together, but this time I swear there is the slightest hint of a smile playing across his lips. Like he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. You ask a lot of questions,” Max says.
“The Amazon is in Brazil, and it’s Brazilian Night,” I explain.
He starts picking up utensils. “Never been.”
“What about Thailand? Or Egypt?”
“Nope.” He starts to lift his tray again, nodding to a table of soccer players who are motioning him over.
I take a deep breath, giving it one last shot. “Me either,” I say. “But the Metropolitan Museum of Art has a pretty great Egyptian tomb . . . I went there once.” I swish a plantain around in chocolate milk for a second before peering back up at him. “Have you?”
Max puts his tray down a little too roughly. His silverware clangs against the plate, and now people are looking over and conversations have become hushed. I’m sure everyone wants to know why one of the most notable guys in school is looking at the random new girl like he wants to swat her with a piece of rolled-up newspaper.
“I was just . . . making conversation . . .” I mutter. “Sorry.”
Max shakes his head, inhaling deeply. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just really hungry, low blood sugar, and a rough practice today . . .” He takes the napkin on his tray and hands it to me. “You might need this. I’ll see you in class.”
My face burns as I take the napkin, wiping my hand on it and then using it to dab my tray. I feel dozens of eyes slowly turn away from me, and the chatter of the dining hall resumes. What was I doing? Because all I’ve actually accomplished is alienating the one person I am trying to get close to, who very clearly isn’t the person I so badly want him to be. How many times did he need to brush me off before I got it in my head? Of course Max isn’t the same guy I dream about. It’s not possible.
“Alice Rowe?” A tired woman’s voice comes over the school intercom. “Could Alice Rowe please report to the dessert section of the dining hall? I repeat, Alice Rowe to the dessert section of the dining hall. Thank you.”
Confused, I run a hand through my hair and do as instructed. Oliver is standing by the confections, arms crossed and chin resting atop a fist, studying them as though this decision will affect the rest of his life.
“Do I want a brownie or fro-yo?” he asks aloud, then turns to look at me, eyebrows raised, like it’s a perfectly natural question.
“Did you just page me?” I ask. I’m still totally confused, but I’m also relieved.
“You’re right, fro-yo is pretty girly,” he says.
“How did you just page me if you are standing right here?” I say.
“Fro-yo is for babes, but I feel like a man can get away with a sundae. No?”
“Oliver.”
“Pick a pastry, Alice,” he says. “Then we’ll talk.”
A few minutes later we are peering at each other over the biggest sundae I have ever seen, piled high with everything we could get our hands on—gummy bears, sprinkles, cookie crumbles, fudge sauce, and a mother lode of whipped cream.
“Roberta,” Oliver says with his mouth full. “The dean’s receptionist. She hides it well, but she loves me. I texted her and asked for the loudspeaker announcement. You looked like you needed it.”
I can’t help but notice that this is the second time Oliver has saved me when I “needed it.” I really hope I won’t be in a position to need rescuing again. “Why do you have Roberta’s number?” I ask, taking a giant bite of mostly whipped cream.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Oliver asks.