Free Dreamology by Lucy Keating Page B

into an incredulous grin.
    â€œWhat?” I ask.
    He shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s this place, I think it’s you,” he says.
    â€œ Me? No way.” I laugh, walking over to the scattered papers.
    Max thinks for a second. “Then maybe it’s us.” Our eyes meet, and we hold each other’s gaze for a moment. His hair has been blown a little out of place from the file cabinet gust, all fluffy like a baby chick, and I can’t help but think that even imperfect looks perfect on him. I reach out and run my hands through the front piece, smoothing it down against his head,suddenly very aware of the way Max is breathing, his chest heaving in and out. But then I think about Celeste’s hair, falling over his face as she kissed him on the bench at school, and I stop myself.
    â€œThis could take a while,” I say, clearing my throat and kneeling down on the paper-covered floor. “Why don’t you keep looking in some of the other rooms while I try and get this organized?”
    â€œAre you sure?” Max asks, kneeling next to me to begin gathering documents of his own. We accidentally grab the same stack, and when I look up at him, he’s so close I can smell him. I want to make a pillow out of his sweater.
    â€œI’m sure,” I say.
    Max replies with a nod, before getting up and strolling into the next room. I’m creating piles by last name when I hear him whisper-shout my name from the next room. I find him standing in the circular space below the old observatory dome. The opening for the telescope has been permanently removed and replaced with glass, so you can see the stars above.
    â€œWow,” I say as the sky sparkles down on us. “This is just like—”
    â€œThe Met,” Max finishes my sentence. We look at each other. I can almost hear the symphony music in the background, and suddenly I’m craving Oreos. “You looked good that night,” Max says slowly, subtle emphasis on the good , and even though his words send me into a state of sheer bliss, I still roll my eyes.
    â€œYou’ve always sucked at taking a compliment,” he observes, trying not to smile.
    â€œI know,” is all I can think to say, because he’s right.
    Max puts his hands in his pockets. “I went there once. To the Met. We took a train down from Boston as a family. I dared my sister to touch a Rothko and she actually did it.” He laughs. “Needless to say, it was a short trip to the museum.”
    Sister? I open my mouth to ask—she’s never been in any of our dreams—but Dr. Petermann’s voice rings out instead of mine, and the overhead lights flick on.
    â€œWhat is this?” Petermann asks. He’s standing in the doorway in shockingly small white athletic shorts with a canvas duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a sweatband in his hair.
    â€œDr. Petermann.” I falter. “What are you doing here?”
    â€œI have squash doubles on Wednesday nights, and saw the light on as I was heading home,” he says. “And now I’m calling security.” Miraculously, he manages to pull a cell phone out of his tiny shorts.
    â€œGo ahead,” I say. “But it will be a complete waste of your time. I’ll just keep coming back.” I can feel my nerves start to stand on end and a flush rise to my cheeks. He can’t take this away from me. Not when we are so close.
    â€œI don’t appreciate your tone, Alice,” Petermann says.
    â€œAnd I don’t care .” I’m trying to control the level of my voice, but it’s not going well. This always happens when I feelcornered. All my manners go right out the window. “I’m not giving up. If I have to set up camp outside the building or burn this whole operation to the ground.” I don’t mean it, of course. I just get carried away sometimes, the words come out before I have a chance to think about