Plum scowls, heaves a loud, overly dramatic sigh, and storms toward the house like she can’t get away from us quickly enough.
I turn back to Tinsley, having no idea what just happened, but I’m fully prepared to beg her to stay if that’s what it takes, when I see she’s not the one who misunderstood. I did.
Crossing the lawn, making his way to the pool, is a guy who looks a lot like Mac Turtledove.
But that’s only because he is Mac Turtledove.
And from the way he and Tinsley look at each other, well, it’s clear he’s the reason she’s in such a hurry to leave.
Her face lights up when she sees him, then she turns to me and says, “If you’re up for it, I’ll ask Ezer to set up some studio time.”
The best I can do is shrug and pretend not to care either way, my brain hijacked by the thought that my dream has just turned into a nightmare.
Like Tinsley’s, Mac’s makeover is more a matter of adding a few enhancements, as opposed to big, major changes like my parents and Holly got.
Then again, as with Tinsley, there wasn’t much to improve.
Still, the differences are right there for anyone to see.
Like the extra inches added to his height.
The additional muscles that seem like they’re glued on top of the ones he already had.
And the undeniable haze of cool that announces itself from afar.
And the worst part is, it’s not like he actually needed any of that.
“Hey, babe.” He snakes a hand around Tinsley’s waist and pulls her close to his side. And the way she smiles in response makes me wonder if this is maybe her dream and not mine.
Tinsley hugs the pile of songs to her chest, looking a little uncomfortable when she says, “Nick, Mac. Mac, Nick,” her beautiful head bobbing toward each of us.
“Nice spread.” Mac surveys my yard like he’s planning for the day when he’ll live somewhere bigger, better, a place where Tinsley will never want to leave.
“So—” Tinsley pauses in a way that could be adorable under different circumstances. “See you soon?”
I nod, hoping to appear noncommittal, but nobody’s fooled. And if that wasn’t enough, I then decide to reach into my pocket and pretend to check the messages on a cell phone that no longer works.
And don’t think they don’t notice that too.
Make that smooth move number two.
When they’re finally gone, I retrace my steps back to my house and go in search of one of the gazillions of people who seem to work for me so I can ask them to brew up a strong pot of coffee.
It’s time to wake up.
STARBUCKS EXPRESS
First thing I see when I head into the kitchen is Plum talking to Dougall.
Only it takes me a moment to realize it’s Dougall.
Mostly because he looks like the kind of Hollywood hipster who wouldn’t know the first thing about Bigfoot, UFOs, or wormholes.
His usual Einstein-fro is now tamed, he’s wearing dark skinny jeans that look a lot like mine, and there’s a black leather cord hanging from his neck with a silver skull attached to the end. With his multipierced ears covered with small silver hoops and his black V-neck tee clinging to a set of muscles the Greentree version of Dougall doesn’t own, he’s definitely tied with Sir Dasher Dashaway for the prize of Most Surprising Makeover.
“Hey, Nick.” He glances toward me in a way that causes his hair to sweep over his eyes.
I nod, but only barely. Sure, it’s kind of cool to see my best friend since third grade looking like an off-duty movie star, which is exactly how I wanted him to look. I mean, if he’d dressed like that back in Greentree, we would’ve easily clinched our popularity. But here in Tinsel Hills, where nearly everyone seems to work with a stylist, it does nothing to help me. All I care about now is getting a triple shot of caffeine so I can wake up.
Getting eclipsed by Mac Turtledove in real life is one thing—in a dream it’s just cruel.
“Coffee. Where can I get some?” I direct the question at Plum, since she seems so at home in my kitchen.
She lifts her gaze from her magazine as though it requires every ounce of effort just to acknowledge my presence. “My mom will be back in a minute. She ran out to the store to food-shop for you.” Her voice is as full of contempt as her face.
I stand there, stunned, not knowing what surprises me more: the fact that she really, really (and I mean really) seems to hate me or that she just mentioned her mom buying my food.
But then I remember that Plum’s mom is named Lisa, so I’m guessing it’s the same Lisa who told her to deliver lemonade to Tinsley and me. She probably works as my personal chef or something. Which is kind of cool if you think about it—having a personal chef, I mean.
Still, because of it, Plum probably spends a lot of time hanging around my house resenting the heck out of me, and I can’t understand why I’d include something as awful as that in my dream.
Except for maybe the fact that I’ve always hoped Plum would stop liking me so much.
Which, if that’s the case, then I guess it could count as another wish come true.