“No personal addresses are to be given out to students, academic policy. My sincerest apologies,” Doreen explains. But she does not sound very sincere.
“But we aren’t students!” Sophie pipes up, trying to be helpful, and the rest of us groan.
“Then I definitely can’t give it to you,” Doreen says.
“What about when she holds her office hours?” Max tries. “Can you tell us that?”
“That I could give to you if you were students, but not if you aren’t,” Doreen replies.
“Doreen,” Oliver says, coming over and leaning one arm casually along the top of her desk. “Let me ask you two questions. One. Has anyone ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to a young Princess Diana? Because you do, Doreen. And two, hypothetically, if you were a few students who weren’t technically enrolled at the moment . . .” He makes little quotation marks with his hands.
“So not students,” Doreen deadpans.
“Tomato-tomahto,” Oliver says. “Anyway, if so . . . how would you go about finding a professor?”
“Sure, I can help you with that,” Doreen says, shuffling in her desk for something.
“I knew you could, Doreen.” Oliver bats his eyelashes.
Doreen thwacks a thick stack of pamphlets down on top of her desk. “Applications for enrollment,” she states. “Fill these out, and I can answer your questions when you get in next year.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting on a bench outside the coffee shop in the center of Wells, feeling totally hopeless.
“My charms always work on Dean Hammer’s assistant,” Oliver says, stunned. “Reference an attractive public figure from the eighties or nineties, then slip in your request, boom.”
“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” I say. “We’re in Maine.”
“Maybe you should try actually working for what you want instead of playing games all the time,” Max says. I give him a look that says, Whoa, and he just shrugs.
“Spare me, Wolfe,” Oliver replies. “I don’t see you doing anything to fix the situation.”
“I’d love to do that, Healy, but you seem to always be getting in my way,” Max says.
“How can I possibly be getting in your way when you spend most of the time pretending I don’t exist?” Oliver almost-sneers, and Max is quiet.
“I don’t pretend you don’t exist,” Max says finally. “We grew apart. Our lives are different than they used to be.”
“You ditched me, dude,” Oliver says. “Don’t try and deny it. We wouldn’t even be hanging out right now if it wasn’t for Alice.” In response, Max looks pained. I can tell he knows Oliver is sort of right.
“So what are we going to do?” I ask, breaking the tension.
“We can always try her office again tomorrow.” Oliver shrugs. “Or hit up the dining hall at dinner and ask around?”
“But where will we stay tonight?” I ask.
“What about Alfred’s?” Sophie says. “He has that big old house. I think it might be a bed-and-breakfast, too.”
“Really?” Oliver looks skeptical.
“In Maine, everything is a bed-and-breakfast,” Sophie says with certainty.
We pile back in the car in slightly better spirits, but find ourselves back at square one when the engine won’t start.
I am about to make a suggestion about a tow truck when I notice how rigid Max’s posture has become, and I choose to remain quiet. Oliver unfortunately does not get the hint.
“That’s what you get for driving this hunk of junk,” he mutters in the backseat. “This car is older than we are.”
Sophie is tapping away on her phone, and I am still watching Max, waiting for him to explode.
“It was supposed to be my sister’s,” Max says through gritted teeth.
Oliver rubs his forehead for a second and exhales. “I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t know.”
Max turns around in his seat. “I drive this hunk of junk because it was supposed to be Lila’s. You remember my sister? She used to babysit us every day after school, until she died?”
Oliver’s face doesn’t flinch. He just sits there taking it. “I remember,” is all he says.
“So, I’m sorry if I ditched you, dude,” Max says. “But I had to move on with my life. Do something besides play video games with you all day and drop water balloons off the balcony of your bedroom. And I’m sorry you got left behind, but I’m also sorry you couldn’t grow up.”
I wait for Oliver to yell back, to start something, but he doesn’t. He just nods. “You’re right,” he says. And then he says it again. “I’m sorry.”
Max tries the key a few more times, begging it to turn on, and when it doesn’t he just leans his head against the horn, groaning along with it. Reluctantly, I put a hand on his shoulder, and he doesn’t shrug it off. He just lifts his head off the steering wheel a little, tipping it to the side so he can stare at me, his eyes pleading.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Everything is going to be okay.” I’ve never seen him like this before.
“I just want to figure it out,” he says. “I just want everything to be right again. In life, and . . . with us.”