Petermann leans over a desk, a pair of spectacles perched at the end of his nose as he looks between two large computer screens. Because they are made from renovated rooms of the old observatory, CDD’s labs are far from the sterile environments you’d expect. They have black-and-white-checkered floors, huge windows, and classical moldings. If it weren’t for all the technical equipment, you’d think you’d been transported back a hundred years. I like it here.
Petermann continues. “If our data isn’t clear enough, I can’t tell what you’re thinking.” He scratches his head. “See, Max, you just told me that this dream was about a hot air balloon.” He points to a series of data on the screen to the left. “But all I’m getting on the monitor at the right, is a balloon from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.” He’s not lying. On the monitor on Petermann’s right is an image of a giant helium-filled Snoopy dog.
The goal of today’s session was to spend the first part sleeping in the pods while a monitor mapped our brain activity, then wake up and tell Petermann everything we dreamed about. He will line up the imagery we describe with what parts of the brain light up, and try to understand our dream logic and the pathways in our mind that got us there.
Except apparently there isn’t much logic to be found, as the confusion over the Snoopy balloon can attest. It’s as though our brains are trying to trick Petermann, because it doesn’t want him to figure it out. And that makes me kind of happy.
Petermann rubs his face in his hands, looking worse for wear. “Alice, can you tell me more about the dream? Max doesn’t seem to remember much at the moment.”
“Sure,” I say, taking the only seat I see, next to Max on the windowsill. “It was pretty simple, we were basically just sleeping on a cloud.”
“Together?” Petermann asks.
I hesitate. Max stares at his shoelaces. “Yes . . .”
“And then what happened?” Petermann asks.
“Um,” I say, glancing at Max.
Now Max breaks into a smile, still looking down at his feet. “Yeah, Alice,” he says, furrowing his brows together mock-inquisitively. “Then what happened? Sounds like a pretty boring dream.”
I want to whack him, but smile despite myself. “I don’t know,” I say. “I think I might have woken up just before it got good.”
Max looks up suddenly, his eyes cutting into me, surprised and curious. I feel a shiver run through my body. Max smiles.
We should just tell Petermann about the almost-kiss. Why aren’t we? This is why we’re here. But to tell Petermann about the almost-kiss would mean giving up our moment, something only we share. And also admitting it had happened, something I’m not sure we’re ready to discuss.
“How odd,” Petermann says, oblivious to the tension. “Your dreams are usually so much more diverse. There’s usually more material to work with. But our data is inconclusive regardless. The sleep pods are just not as conducive as I’d hoped. Never fear, I have another idea.” He takes a seat on a stool facing us. “If anyone is interested in hearing it?”
Scratch that. Petermann now seems to have noticed that Max and I are looking at each other with googly eyes.
“Of course we are.” Max shifts and sits up straighter, giving Petermann his full attention. I stay where I am, leaning back against the window where I can keep an eye on him, as though I expect him to lunge at me with his mouth at any moment. But I can’t help it. We are inches from taking this a step too far. We woke up before it happened, sure. But what if he hadn’t? What would have happened? Would he have let it?
When I was in the seventh grade, my cousin Jane came to stay with us in New York. Jane was starting at Barnard in the fall but had an internship the month prior, before the dorms opened. And for that month, she drove me mostly insane. She borrowed my books and gave them back with food stains all over the pages. She left her hair covering every inch of the bathroom sink. And she had about eight thousand dietary restrictions. For example, Jane was a pescetarian, but only if the fish was killed humanely. Excuse me, I imagined Jane asking a waiter at a fancy French restaurant, but was this fish gently euthanized by syringe as soothing symphony music played? Or did it just die of natural causes immediately at the time the fishing boat came by, like a heart attack or brain aneurysm?
In this moment, watching Max, I picture my heart as one of Jane’s beloved fish. How many ways could it possibly be murdered before Max is through with me? I picture it now, swimming with a bunch of other little heart muscles down a stream, before they are all caught up in a net, jumping and wiggling around.