“Thanks.” I shake his hand. And then I promptly roll my eyes as soon as the door shuts behind me.
“That bad?” Oliver asks. He’s sitting on top of the desk in the waiting room like it’s a kitchen counter, next to an ancient-looking receptionist who is trying not to appear amused.
“What are you still doing here?” I ask.
He hops off the desk. “Chatting with Roberta, my one true love, of course.” He winks at the woman behind the desk. “Don’t worry, Roberta, our illicit affair is safe with Alice. She’s new here, so she doesn’t know anyone anyway.” In response, Roberta just shakes her head.
“Let me walk you to your first class,” he says. And it’s not a question.
“Somebody looks happy for their first day at a new school,” Mr. Levy observes when I walk through the door of Psych 201. “You must be Alice. I had the rest of these guys last spring for Intro to Psych, and you’re the only one who I don’t recognize. Well, except for Kevin MacIntire, who apparently spent the whole summer eating his Wheaties.”
He says the last part in a lowered voice, leaning forward with his hands in his pockets, a secret between the two of us while the rest of the class is still settling in. Mr. Levy is obviously the “cool” teacher you “respect.” Wearing jeans and an olive-colored buttondown, he’s also young. Like just-out-of-college young. And he seems pretty pleased with himself about that.
“You know what this means, right?” Levy continues. “You’re going to have to introduce yourself to the group. Alice? Did I lose you already?”
He has lost me. I’ve stopped listening entirely. I’ve also stopped breathing. I’m thinking about a letter my mother once wrote me about the beaked sea snake, and how she barely escaped its jaws. Commonly found off the coast of Madagascar, the beaked sea snake has enough venom to kill five people with one bite and can paralyze a victim with just one strike. But you don’t die right away. So you just have to lie there, knowing the end is near, unable to move. That’s exactly how I feel right now—totally and completely paralyzed, with the exception of my heart thwacking against my ribcage.
Because standing in the doorway of the classroom, looking directly at me, is Max.
My Max.
My Max of my dreams.
My Max who does not exist.
You’ve finally lost it, I think. You’ve gone and imagined him. But just then somebody bustles through the door, bumping Max’s shoulder and sending his books spilling onto the floor. I lean down to help pick them up, but he quickly grabs them, avoiding my gaze and moving to find a seat.
Okay, so not a mirage, I think. But perhaps a doppelg?nger. Because there’s no way his name is actually—
“Max!” Mr. Levy calls out, teasing. “I hope to see better coordination on the soccer field this season. Welcome back, buddy.”
Max only looks up to give Mr. Levy a grin, then sits, staring down at his textbook like it’s a bomb that might explode at any moment.
“So, Alice, we ready for that intro or what?” Levy asks. The whole class is quiet now, staring at me. Including the boy of my dreams, who just became a reality.
3
Noodly
I MADE HIM up. At least that’s what I always told myself. The combination of all my childhood adorations, combined into one perfect guy. The trouble is, I was wrong. Because right now Max is sitting directly across the quad from me, reading our psych textbook and pausing every few minutes to type something on his phone. He’s wearing a heather-gray T-shirt and I want to go over and sit on his lap.
“Pull it together,” I whisper, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear and staring at the U.S. history handout. I have yet to register a single line on the page. What was that article I read over my father’s shoulder a few days ago? How the internet has connected our world so completely that it took six degrees of separation down to four? I probably just saw him on Facebook . . . Except for the fact that I’ve been dreaming about him since way before I ever knew Facebook existed.
When I was little, I was absolutely terrified of blood, which was inconvenient, since I also suffered from chronic nosebleeds. My dad and I had a word we used to explain the feeling I got when I saw blood of any kind, in real life or in movies. Noodly. Because one minute I’d be fine and then the next, someone would scrape their knee or knick their finger on an X-Acto knife in art class, and I felt like all my bones had disappeared. Like I was just a sack of skin wiggling in the wind, or one of those weird balloon people they put outside of car dealerships. Sometimes in non-noodly moments, I’d act it out for my father, holding my arms above my head and moving my hips in a dolphin kick.