He’s right. Most people fantasize about a vacation in a tropical destination, and so do I. It’s just that my tropical island also has a bunch of fat jolly pigs on it. And it really exists! But my dad refuses to take me, dismissing it as an obvious tourist trap, not to mention unquestionably filthy.
“Legend has it the pigs were dropped off on the island by a group of sailors who intended to come back and cook them, but never made it,” Max says soothingly. “Or that they survived a shipwreck and somehow swam to shore. Either way, they survived something and now have a happy ending, fed by tourists and locals.”
My body relaxes as I listen to the lull of Max’s voice describe my happy place.
“How remarkable,” Petermann says. “How did you know all this?”
“She told me once in a dream . . . we were in Thailand . . . and Alice turned to me and just said, ‘I wish there were pigs here.’” Max lets out a low laugh, like he can’t help himself. I smile.
“Looks like we’ve got all we need,” Petermann says over the speaker. “You can come out now, Alice. Next session we will start putting you guys to sleep.”
I want to thank Max for stepping in to calm me down, but he leaves while Nanao is still unhooking me from all the wires. When I come back down the stairs to the main hall of CDD, I expect to find my terrarium in the trash, or right where I left it. Instead, Lillian has made a special place for it on the bookshelf behind her desk, nestled in among some tiny cacti pots and a photo of a handsome guy with a man-bun.
Lillian doesn’t say thank you for the terrarium, but she does say, “Your boyfriend left his phone here.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I turn around.
“I couldn’t honestly care less what dysfunctional scenario the two of you are carrying out.” Lillian looks back down at her paperwork. “But I imagine he’ll need it.” She hands the phone out, still not looking at me.
“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.”
15
Attack of the Pekingese
“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 fa?ade, 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.