“So let me get this straight,” Celeste says a while later as we each lean against a pillar by the steps of CDD. We’ve been here in silence while I bite my fingernails and Celeste has been chewing on her lip, as I wait for her to say something. It’s all on the table now. She just has to believe it.
“You and Max came here to have your dreams analyzed so you could effectively be rid of each other forever?” She pushes herself off the building and pulls her leather bag over her arm. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, okay, I get it. Frankly, because this crap is just too crazy to make up. But this doesn’t mean we are friends. Plus, you have other stuff to worry about.”
“Like what specifically?” I ask, and I really do want to know, because there are too many things she could be talking about.
“Like how you are going to fix this mess when the scientist performing the procedures is in lockup,” Celeste answers, before walking off across the lawn.
I stare after her, because of course, as usual, she’s right. If CDD is closed indefinitely, then we’ll never get to the bottom of the dreams. And if we never figure out why we dream about each other, we’ll never be able to stop it. All of this, the drama and confusion, will just keep happening again and again.
I look down at my brown boots and take a deep breath, and when I exhale, the ground ripples under my feet, like I just blew across a perfectly still lake. Except this isn’t a lake, it’s a lawn at MIT. Not again, I think, before breathing in deeply, pursing my lips, and pushing all the air out of me, this time harder. Sure enough, it’s not just the grass that ripples, but the ground itself.
I pause for a moment, then raise one of my boots and stomp it down on the grass, hard, and watch a wave of green earth rise and swell, undulating across the lawn. It would be beautiful if it weren’t so weird. I stomp both legs down and the next wave is even bigger, maybe even knee high, which is when I look up suddenly and notice it’s heading right for Celeste as she walks into the distance. It’s just about to topple her over when I scream out her name like she’s about to get hit by a truck.
“What?” She turns around, annoyed. And just like that, the grassy wave has disappeared.
“Um, I’m . . . never mind,” I call out, feeling pathetic, and also mildly insane.
Celeste just shakes her head and keeps walking. “You really are a weird one, Alice Rowe,” she says out loud.
This was about so much more than me and Max and all the drama we were causing. This was about our sanity.
OCTOBER 15th
I am not sure if I have ever felt something as wonderful as the sun on my face right now. I’m draped across an innertube on some windy river in Texas, my toes dangling in the water, my head and arms splayed backward across the other end. I adjust the big round sunglasses above my nose and sigh.
“You look happy,” Max calls out, and I raise the sunglasses again and turn my head in the direction of his voice to give him a wink.
“You betcha,” I say, and grin at him.
Max is floating along a few yards away in navy swim trunks and black Ray-Bans. He grins back. “Come here.”
“You come here,” I say, waving an arm out toward him. That’s when I notice my fingernails are painted the most beautiful shade of sparkly sunset red. I wiggle my fingers in front of my face and marvel at the sight of it, the sun shining between my fingers.
I go to rest my hand down again and am confused by the texture of the innertube. It’s rough and chalky to the touch, and it has big holes in the surface. That’s when I sit up and realize I’m floating along in a giant Cheerio, and the river is now made entirely of milk.
“This must be great for our skin,” I observe, and look at Max again. “Hey, how come you get a Froot Loop?” I demand to know.
“Because I’m more fun than you are,” Max quips back. He reaches down and breaks off a piece of his lime-green vessel, dunks it a few times in the milk river like a donut, and pops it in his mouth. “Mmm,” he says.
“Wanna trade?” I ask sweetly.
“No way,” Max says, and now he’s sitting up, too, because he knows better.
“Too bad,” I reply, and start paddling madly toward him. He’s going to give me that Froot Loop whether he wants to or not.
But no matter how hard I paddle, I can’t seem to reach him. The river is picking up pace, and suddenly it’s no longer white—it’s rainbow-colored milk, like someone just finished a bowl of Lucky Charms and is pouring the remaining milk down the drain.
“Max, slow down!” I cry.
“I can’t!” he yells back, moving farther and farther away, until he’s just a dot on the horizon, and I’ve stopped moving altogether. Dejected, I pull my giant soggy Cheerio to shore and fall asleep with my head against it, my legs resting on a beach made of sugar.
24
They’re Just Breasts