“It’s so refreshing to hear someone ask that question,” he says, and leans in closely. “Currently I’m doing a series where I take photographs of my dachshund, Arabella, in historical contexts, wearing period-appropriate outfits, and use it as a commentary on modernity and the general lack of culture in our present-day world,” he says in complete seriousness. “For example, last week I built a small-scale rendering of the White House and dressed her up as George Washington. Next week I’m hoping to do Frida Kahlo.”
I stare at him, using every muscle in my body to maintain composure, as Sophie just starts cackling so hard I think she might actually be crying.
“Uh-huh,” is all I can manage to say.
“Do you wanna see a photo?” he asks.
“Hell yeah!” Sophie yells, and just starts laughing again. And then I just can’t handle it any longer, and I start laughing, too.
“You guys are really rude,” Wallace observes.
“Your dog is really lucky!” Sophie manages to whimper as she wipes her tears away.
“Okay, people!” We hear a familiar voice shout. Sophie and I peer around the corner and are mortified to find Oliver standing in the middle of the room, holding a beer. “You don’t know me. My name is Oliver, and I don’t go here. I won’t tell you where I go because that would betray my age and I think there is a sixty percent chance of me kissing at least one girl at this party tonight. But you know how that’s not going to happen?” He walks over to the stereo and plugs in his iPod, which he has pulled out of his pocket. “If this party keeps going the way it’s going. So that’s all about to change right . . . now.” He hits a button and cranks up the volume.
Within seconds, the rhythmic synth of Prince’s “Kiss” comes gyrating over the speakers, and it comes on loud. The whole room seems transfixed as Oliver begins to wiggle his shoulders to the music, complete with spins, pelvic thrusts, and lip-synching.
My mouth is hanging open—I can’t help it—as he forms the words with passion. I look over at Sophie and can’t tell if she looks totally horrified or kind of into it.
But then, like magic, the room starts to move. Everyone is dancing, and I mean everyone. Even Wallace. Oliver makes his way over to where I am standing, but just when I think he is about to take my hand, he sings the chorus in Sophie’s ear. Kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kiss.
I wonder where Max is as I dance, and then spot him across the room, bopping his head and shuffling his feet. I’m about to dance my way over when the crowd clears and I see he’s not alone. A dark-haired girl in tight black jeans is circling around him with flamboyant, check-out-my-body, disco-type moves. I’m still glaring at them when Oliver spins me, and I lose them for a moment.
The song turns slow as “Purple Rain” comes on and I am just about to escape to a bathroom to avoid watching Max slow dance with the brunette when suddenly he is there by my side, taking my hand. Sophie gives me a look as Max pulls me through the party, past the gyrating dancers and loud conversations and outside onto the chilly front lawn, where all is quiet.
“Do you see this?” Max asks, his finger pointing up toward the sky. I can see it. Above us is a beautiful starry night, but the stars are all the colors of the rainbow, and they’re twinkling like glitter nail polish.
“I can see this,” I tell him. “It’s incredible.”
“I guess not all the dream-melding moments are that bad,” he observes. I look at him, and the ground where we are feels so dark by contrast to the sky. And the space between us feels so cold and so far. As if on cue, Max pulls me to him, keeping one hand in mine as the other encircles my back, and my face rests in the crook of his neck as “Purple Rain” keeps playing in our ears.
I don’t know if it’s Prince crooning or the raspberry wine coolers, but something feels different. It’s sweet but also a little sad. Like we’ve come to this place together, but we know that we have to say good-bye. To a whole part of our lives, half our lives, where we go at night, and in some ways, to each other. There is a reason I don’t like to tell Petermann about our dreams, why I hold my dream journal so close to my heart. Our dreams are the one thing we share that nobody else can touch. And now we’re going to lose it, and I am terrified.
I look down and see we’re floating again. Max sees it, too. But we aren’t scared this time. I just hold on tight and think that if this were a dream, it would just go on forever.
29
He Always Shows Up
“I NEED TO ask you something, and I don’t want you to laugh at me,” Sophie says. We’re lying side by side on a hammock in the yard outside Leeland Hall, all bundled up in wool blankets we stole from the common room. Her eyes are half-open and her hair is sticking out in every direction possible from dancing so hard. It’s pretty difficult to take her seriously right now.
“Okay, I’ll try,” I say.
“Why does Swiss cheese have so many holes in it?” Sophie asks. “Or for that matter, any holes at all?” And I don’t even try to stop myself from erupting in laughter.
Sophie gives me a tiny punch in the arm. “I told you not to laugh!” she cries. “Come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t wondered that before.”