Dream Life Read online

  “Time’s up!” Henry cried out.

  Mom made a little airy gasp and clenched my arm. To see her face, you would have thought she was watching the last minute of a championship basketball game. In fact, she was looking on as her French-professor husband tried to fight his writer’s block. Now that a publisher had agreed to put out his book on Émile Zola, Dad had suddenly discovered how much he loved going to the gym, watching Law & Order reruns, and reorganizing the spice rack. Anything to avoid working.

  “Was it a success, Gustave?” Mom couldn’t contain herself.

  Dad shrugged noncommittally and padded over to his computer. “Good things take time. My book is not McDonald’s.”

  “But you like McDonald’s,” Henry reminded him.

  Mom sighed and turned to me. “He can’t keep losing days. He’s driving himself crazy.”

  “Maybe he’ll get it done if we stop paying such close attention?” I suggested.

  “Yesterday he was avoiding work by watching reality television.” She spat out the words like poison. “Maybe I should fiddle with the cable box and see if there’s a wire to pull out.”

  “Good call,” I said, and on my way out the door, I took one of Dad’s gym sneakers from the shoe heap and stuck it in my bag, to ward off any spontaneous stationary bicycle sessions.

  It was worth a try.

  When I reported to Henry Hudson High, the crowd milling outside school seemed more energized than usual. A cluster of kids was competing Mr. Universe style to see who had the heaviest backpack. A girl with butt-length corn-colored hair was pacing around, conjugating Latin verbs into a Dictaphone.

  Nerd school never ceased to amaze me.

  I rose to my tiptoes and searched for Becca or Ian. Instead, I got a glimpse of Sheila and her friend Ariel trying to abuse a pencil-necked guy who was playing with a handheld video game device. Sheila had no interest in video games—or, I was pretty sure, in Señor Pencil-neck—but that didn’t stop her from homing in on him. If anything, it made the game all the more fun for her.

  “Pleeease?” She was tossing her brassy hair for flirty effect. “Just a little lesson?”

  “How ‘bout a trade?” Ariel said in a fake sweet voice. “You let us play with your toy, then we’ll grant one of your wishes.”

  A few months ago, their taunting surely would have reduced the boy to a pool of compliance. But ever since the publication of The Adventures of Evil Radish, the awesome comic book that Ian and I made about Sheila’s quintet of wannabe mean girls, everybody had stopped taking them seriously. Janice and the two Laurens had found new cliques to glom on to, leaving it up to Sheila and Ariel to carry on the tradition. Or at least try to.

  “That a yes?” Sheila wouldn’t back down.

  “Close. It’s a no.” The pencil-necked kid couldn’t be bothered to raise his voice—or even look up. “I’m sort of in the middle of something.”

  I bit down a smile. Things had come a long way since the beginning of last semester. When I’d started at Hudson, all I could think about was how much I wanted to kill Sheila and her evil friends and go back to Farmhouse, the hippie school my parents pulled me out of when I made the mistake of acing the entrance test to Hudson, New York’s most prestigious public school.

  That was all before I met Becca. I’d known her for only four months, but it felt longer. She was my partner in crime, my conspirator in bad puns, and the only other kid in the entire Hudson student body who didn’t spend every waking hour studying. Since Becca has a photographic memory and I have a way of tuning in to my hunches during tests, our academic survival requires beautifully little work. We get to focus on “more important” things. And by more important I mean more fun.

  “Excuse me!” A classmate’s voice came through like a foghorn and I moved aside to let her pass and walk up the school steps. It took a few seconds to register what I should have noticed from the beginning: she had on a Santa scarf.

  It seemed a little weird. And not because nobody in her right mind wears Santa clothing in January. It was a little too close to my Santa dream for comfort.

  I watched the girl reach into her pocket for a ball of paper and toss it into the trash can by the school entrance. Then I counted to ten and made my way up the stairs. I took one glance behind me to make sure that nobody was watching. And then, making an effort not to breathe through my nose, I reached into the bin and snatched the girl’s tossed-out paper. A quick glance down revealed what looked like the lines of a map.

  Intriguing.

  A sneaky feeling worked its way up my spine. I opened the building door and stepped into the hallway’s soupy green light. Once I’d passed through the metal detector, I leaned against a glass trophy case and smoothed out the paper.

  Only then did I realize what she’d tossed out: a Chinese takeout menu.

  My insides deflated like a balloon from yesterday’s party. How many false starts was I going to have to suffer through before I’d understand what this new cluster of dreams was trying to tell me?

  “This is your final reminder.” Assistant Principal Dr. Arnold’s nasal drawl came blaring through the loudspeakers, rupturing my defeated reverie. “First period is suspended. You are all to report to your homerooms immediately.”

  Of course, none of the other kids flinched. I’m always the last one to know what was going on at Hudson.

  When I got to homeroom, everyone was sitting up straighter than usual and paying extra-close attention to Mr. Tisardi, our beanpole of a homeroom teacher.

  “In light of this year’s disappointing results in early entrance college admissions,” he was saying, “Hudson is requiring all of its students to submit to a trial interview.”

  “Like a mock college interview?” Sarah DeVeers gasped excitedly. You could say my classmates have a thing for college preparation.

  “No.” Mr. Tisardi shook his head. “This is for internal use. We’re trying to determine whether your outside interests are adequately developed.”

  A creaking sound came from the back of the room, and up stood a lady whose beady eyes matched her tomato-red lipstick. She introduced herself as Ms. Dykstra and told us she worked for a team of consultants Hudson had hired. “Colleges are looking for more than participation in school clubs. I’m here to make sure you have interests that extend beyond the realm of Hudson. I’m going to be interviewing each of you to make sure you’re on track.”

  Considering the new strange dreams I had to work out, I was pretty sure I had non-Hudson interests covered. But maybe not.

  When my turn rolled around, Ms. Dykstra looked at my transcript and complimented me on my grades. “I see you’re a very hardworking student,” she told me.

  Hardly. I just have a way of acing tests—so long as I wear my necklace, my hunches tell me what bubble to fill in. “I do my best.”

  “And what about your extracurricular activities?”

  “I stay busy,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and not let it show how proud I was of all the cool ways I filled my time.

  “Busy how?”

  I shrugged. “I do lots of stuff. I belong to a Sunday night Scrabble club with this group of senior citizens who live at the Waldorf- Astoria hotel. … Sometimes I attend academic conferences. … I take lots of long bike rides all over the city.”

  A crease formed at the corner of her mouth as she took it all in. “And does anyone supervise these excursions?”

  “I’m pretty self-directed,” I said, still confident that I was charming the pants off of her.

  “Self-directed.” She sighed. “You should know that when college admissions committees see such independence, they tend to think ‘liability.’ Have you considered joining any organizations that reflect your interests?” And then she started offering possibilities, like fashion design classes at Pace University or the Jewish Youth Association Sunday morning bicycle league.

  What had I been thinking? Even if Hudson activities didn’t carry weight, we were being judged by Hudso
n standards. And from what I’d seen this year, Hudson is the most regimented institution this side of West Point.

  Having apparently failed my interview, I was assigned to attend the same intensive “character-building” program as practically everyone else in the school.

  Joy.

  That wasn’t the only thing about this semester that was different. We all had new schedules, our classes meeting at different times and with different people. Every time I walked into a new class, I looked around for Becca or Ian. And every time I did that, I came up empty. The one upside was that my lunch had been bumped down to sixth period, meaning I no longer had to eat at ten-thirty in the morning. And while we’re on the subject of positive developments, I did notice a cute guy in my lunch period—a Hudson first. He was wearing a cowboy shirt and reading an issue of The New Yorker. He definitely hadn’t been around first semester. He was the kind of guy I would have noticed.

  It wasn’t until the end of the day that I saw Becca. As usual, she was floating down the hall, looking oblivious to the masses of kids who were streaming past her. Her hair was done in a French braid and she was wearing a tweed blazer with elbow patches, as if to rub in the fact that she can dress like she’d raided her grandfather’s closet and still look hot.

  “Becca.” I rushed toward her. “Please tell me you have SHINE.”

  “I do?” She patted her nose with her fingertips.

  “No.” I pushed her hand away. “This mandatory character-building seminar. Students Having Idiotic New Experiences or whatever.”

  “Interesting New Experiences,” threw in a classmate who was cruising by on roller sneakers.

  Becca made a face. “They gave you that? I thought it was only for kids who never left the confines of this place.”

  “Apparently I’m too ‘self-directed.’”

  Becca laughed. “I’d take that as a badge of honor.”

  “It would feel like more of an honor if you got it too. It’s every day for two whole weeks. How’d you wiggle out of it?”

  She pulled sheet music out of her brown leather satchel and made an aren’t-I-perfect face.

  “Of course.” I rolled my eyes. Being a member of the Shuttleworth family, one of Lincoln Center’s most generous donors, Becca is entitled to take opera lessons from world-class masters, even if her voice is unremarkable.

  “Can’t your parents pull rank and get you in some NYU society?” she asked.

  “Like what, Tenure Track?” I asked.

  “What’s that, the jogging club?”

  Impressive. Were I in her shoes, it would have taken me at least five minutes to match the unfortunately named group to its actual activity.

  “Yo.” Ian and his wheelie suitcase have a way of creeping up out of nowhere. I was still getting used to his new look, which perfectly coincided with his recent induction into the Propeller comic-book store’s exclusive group of latchkey kids. His brown hair now fell shaggily over his ears, and he wore T-shirts advertising comic books I’d never heard of, like Dog-tropolis or Miracle Showerhead. Ian gestured toward the auditorium. “You guys ready?”

  “She’s not in it,” I said grumpily, then turned to Becca. “You want to meet up somewhere afterward?”

  Her face went slack. “I’m actually supposed to hang out with some Brookfield kids.”

  I felt a little kick in the stomach, and when she didn’t invite me along for the ride it only felt worse. “Oh.”

  “But maybe we’ll catch up later?” she tossed out lamely.

  I was too dumbfounded to respond. It was one thing when she said she’d hung out with the Brookfield girls over vacation, but that was when I wasn’t around. Could she seriously be trading me in for a bunch of uptown aristocrats?

  True, Becca is sort of an uptown aristocrat herself, but she’s not the type to use and lose. There had to be something she wasn’t telling me.

  The way she was nervously tapping her green and white Oxfords into the ground confirmed my suspicion. Was our friendship going to be an eternal game of Becca hides and Claire seeks?

  Becca sucked in her cheeks. “All right, let’s talk later.” Before I could respond, she started to walk down the hallway. After a few steps she turned around to make the universal call-me gesture.

  I couldn’t believe what had just happened. As Ian and I walked into the auditorium, I mentally reviewed the conversation I’d just had with Becca.

  “Ian,” I rasped when we’d taken our seats, “Becca was acting weird, right?”

  “I don’t know how girls work,” he said. I could tell he didn’t want to get dragged into it.

  “Oh, come on. I deserve more of a reaction than that.”

  He mussed up his hair and thought for a moment. “I’ll say this much. The only time I ever see people do the telephone hand signal is on Italian soap operas.”

  “Thank you.” I repressed a smile.

  The only thing that made less sense than the fact that Ian watched foreign soap operas was Becca’s jumpy behavior.

  Something was up, no question about it.

  • • •

  I had too much pride to keep chasing after Becca like a puppy, and apparently she had too much going on to track me down. We didn’t end up hanging out until Thursday night. Henry was out at his friend Dov’s house and Dad was at the library, pretending to work, so it wasn’t a typical two-hour-long everybody-must-comment-on-current-events Voyante family dinner. Over mushroom and ham crêpes Becca and I helped Mom come up with horoscopes for her always-overdue “Priscilla Pluto” astrology column. I told all the Virgos to say no to compromise and keep their eyes open for exciting adventures. Becca chose a month of love and Marc Jacobs flats for her fellow Geminis.

  Mom was taking notes on it all, and continued scribbling as Becca and I got up to clear the table. “Okay, but let’s just say ‘great shoes,’” she said. “Remember, this is for the Planet, not Vogue.”

  “Everybody deserves something nice,” Becca argued from the kitchen.

  “Everything’s cleaned up,” I told my mom, eager to be alone with my friend. “Can we go now?”

  “Sure,” she said, and I heard her mutter “Marc Jacobs” as we shot into my room.

  “It looks different in here,” Becca said, looking around. “It’s fuller. You have more random crap than I do.”

  My room hadn’t changed at all since the last time she’d been over, and it was kind of upsetting to hear how unfamiliar it seemed to her.

  “I just have less space than you,” I told her.

  “Whatever.” She paused to admire my BONJOUR, MADEMOISELLE Coco Chanel poster, then headed over to my fish tank and let off a squeal.

  “Are you feeding them something different? They are porking out like crazy!” She pointed at Margaux, who was blowing bubbles by the plastic chateau. “He’s growing a potbelly.”

  “That’s a girl,” I corrected her. “And she is so not.”

  “If you say so, but she’s a fat one,” she said softly, then started snickering into the palm of her hand.

  “You’re messing with me!”

  “Sorry.” She was grinning. “I couldn’t resist. You should’ve seen your face.”

  “Those are my babies.” I picked my Eiffel Tower pillow off my bed and raised it overhead.

  “No! Don’t!” She held up a hand and pulled a half-eaten chocolate chocolate-chip cookie out of her bag. “Truce?”

  The cookie was loaded with thick shards of dark chocolate and I could feel myself going weak in the taste buds.

  “You can’t buy your way out of everything, you know.” I’d intended it as a friendly jab, but she sure didn’t seem to take it that way. She just sat down on my fake polar bear rug and twisted her airplane ring, a sign that she was uncomfortable.

  “Is that how you think of me?” She looked hurt.

  “No, I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said. An awkward moment passed before she broke what remained of the cookie in two. We polished it off in no time, then s
tarted flipping through magazines, one of our favorite activities. It felt a little quieter than usual, and I was still feeling sorry about what I’d said. There was a cloud hanging over us. I got up to put on the Shirelles, hoping their energy would rub off on us.

  “Hey, B,” I shouted over the first notes of “Mama Said.” “Do you want to come with Louis and me to the New York Documentary Film Festival on Saturday? There’s this movie about this high-fashion makeup artist who’s really into embalming. You know, dead bodies.”

  Her eyes filled with delight. “No way!” Then she hugged her knees to her chest and she looked down, clearly disappointed. “Oh no. I just remembered.”

  “Let me guess. You have a Brookfield thing?” This time I had to hold back the anger.

  “No, I have to go to this family birthday party thing in Vermont. I’d invite you, but it’s strictly family.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, trying yet again to cover my disappointment. Last semester I’d been a fixture on the Shuttleworth travel circuit. You’d think my lifesaving discovery would have earned me a permanent spot in the caravan, but who was I to think I understood anything? I shrugged, doing my best to look nonchalant. “I should stick around here anyway. Louis gets freaked out pretty easily.”

  “You’re a good friend,” she said.

  Yeah, I thought. That makes one of us.

  Inclined as I was to pout, my weekend was a typical mix of fun and lame. Louis’s dad gave him tickets to the film festival party. Then, thanks to his thick tortoiseshell glasses, some publicist mistook Louis for some filmmaking prodigy and we got to spend the night in the VIP room watching everybody try to figure out who we were. The next day, my parents roped me into joining them at a concert put on by the Belle Curve, our building’s resident chime ensemble. It wasn’t all bad, though—Andy happened to call during the concert, and there was nobody around to tell him where I was. Oh, the mystery!