Chloe Benjamin - The Anatomy of Dreams

“Tonight is the night,” she said. “Women’s intuition.”

She was right. In the middle of the annual Halloween party — a teacher-patrolled affair in the multipurpose room, with an epic snack table to offset the booze we seniors snuck into the punch — Gabe pulled me into the boys’ bathroom and took my face in his hands. He was a hamburger with pool-noodle fries, I a Roy Lichtenstein comic girl. We kissed pressed against the stalls until one of the resident advisers came in to pee, his eyes bulging; then we ran, hysterical with adrenaline, our hands clasped tight as sailor’s knots. We took the fire escape to the first floor and burst outside. It was raining faintly; above us, the windows of the multipurpose room had been pushed open to release the collective heat and Cheez-It breath of two hundred teenage bodies. Their voices floated out to us, free and high-pitched as loose balloons.

“So,” said Gabe.

“So.”

I could barely get the word out. I felt like I’d swallowed my tongue.

Something — not love but its precursor, a love embryo — loomed between us. I moved toward him again, and this time our kiss was tentative, investigative. We covered more ground, moving from mouth to ear to edge of cheek as if to memorize the topography of each other’s faces. That night, we fell asleep outside, and though we got in trouble for it later — Sandy glowering as he lumbered toward us through the trees, his red ponytail slapping his back — I still remember the first few moments of that morning: the sun blushing over the hills as the sparrows trilled the day’s first song, their notes soaring through the air like streamers.

I couldn’t believe we’d done it — that one of the most beloved boys in our class had kissed my cheeks and chin and eyelashes until the red dots that Hannah had so painstakingly applied (bent over our art history textbook, lip liner in hand) smeared my whole face blurry. If Gabe was a pit bull, I had the pert, close features of a dachshund: quick brown eyes, small pursed mouth. A snub of nose, a dash of freckles. It was a utilitarian face: focused, unobtrusive, fine to look at but nothing that would make most people look twice. I was as lean and agile as Rodney, even at sixteen; I kept my chestnut hair in a taut little ponytail, my widow’s peak a dark point. Sometimes I envied girls with voluptuous features — plump lips, lush movie-star hair — but just as often I was grateful for my inconspicuousness. There’s nothing more dangerous than a teenager who looks like a librarian, because we can get away with anything. On the day of the Halloween party, a group of us snuck out to the closest corner store that sold alcohol, and I was the one who purchased it. I was never ID’d; I looked so plain, so earnest, that the paunched owner gave me the benefit of the doubt. That Gabe wanted me was just as thrilling as buying a bottle of whiskey at the age of eighteen: both meant, somehow, that I had passed.

Gabe and I began to sit together in class, scribbling notes on old homework assignments whenever the teacher turned to the board. He saved a chair for me at lunch, his beaten-down black JanSport marking my spot. I still remember how it felt to walk into the dining hall and see it there. My stomach rose, as if pulled by strings; I moved not by foot but by hovercraft. Most surprising was how little I resisted. Some of my friends had boyfriends, and I’d always scoffed at how distracted they became, how easily they relinquished their former selves — and here I was, vaulting away, leaving behind the tidy rows of my independence.

It took us weeks to figure out how to sneak into each other’s rooms at night without the resident advisers catching on. The trick was to go between hall checks, walking nonchalantly past the monitor’s station as though you were just going to pee, then taking the fire escape to ground level. The boys’ dorm was separated from the girls’ by a thin path, but if you snuck around the back of the buildings, James Bond style, you could avoid the Cyclops gaze of the security camera. Those first few nights were deliciously illicit; we clung to each other even more fiercely for having made the trip successfully. But one morning, I woke to find that Gabe was gone. That time, I chalked it up to the discomfort of fitting two people in one pancake-mattressed twin bunk. But when it happened a second time, and then a third, I was hurt.

“Different people like it different ways,” said Hannah, who was not bothered by Gabe’s presence at night. She slept so deeply that our friends had started to call her Hannah Van Winkle; the only thing that woke her up was our CD alarm clock, blasting Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” at full volume. “Could be he’s trying to send you a subliminal message, say he doesn’t really want to have sleepovers after all.”

Hannah was the baby in a bright lineup of sisters — sisters who knew how to braid hair, who flattened cardboard boxes and slid down the hills that surrounded their father’s farm, and who handed down to Hannah a complicated mythology about boys in addition to old sweaters and winter jackets and bicycles. But Gabe didn’t seem the type for subliminal messages. His face was open and readable as a dog’s. When we talked, I could tell if I’d offended or pleased him just by the tightness of his mouth.

One Tuesday in November, I saw him leaving Mr. Keller’s garden. I had woken up at four thirty and hadn’t been able to fall back asleep, so I pulled my pillow over to the window that overlooked the grounds and began to read with a flashlight. Soon I caught some motion in the corner of my eye, and when I looked outside, I saw it was Gabe. My dorm faced the front of Keller’s house, but Gabe appeared to be coming from the back, where the garden was.

My first thought was that he was still stuck on Mr. Keller’s flowers, and a wad of dread gathered in my chest. Neither one of us had mentioned the doubled flower since the night of the eclipse. I was embarrassed for him — his interest in it, his suspicions about the school as a whole, made him seem paranoid. So when I saw him in the dining hall that morning, I meant to bring it up. But his skin was pale and his eyes were sunken, the lower lids rimmed by sallow half-moons. It frightened me — I wondered if something much worse was going on. I made him a plate of food, and we ate together by the windows that overlooked Observatory Hill, where we had watched the eclipse almost one year before. By the end of the meal he seemed to perk up, the color of his cheeks becoming more beige than white, and for the moment, that satisfied me.

Six years later, as Gabe and I drove a U-Haul from Fort Bragg, California, to Madison, Wisconsin, I found myself sorting obsessively through my memories of Mills and the years after I left. There was plenty of time on our drive, and more space: first the California redwoods, then the sliced-open rock of the Sierra Nevada and Utah’s red hills. In Colorado we saw rivers so glassy and clear they mirrored the land above them, so that the river ceased to be a river at all and instead became a double of the sky.

We looked at all this without talking; we felt as though it belonged not to us but to the natives and travelers who hiked those canyons by day and slept with the sun. We had forfeited our right to day by accepting a different offer. And though I had accepted it, I had always been the harder sell, and there were still moments when insurgencies would spark unexpectedly inside me. It was as though there were thousands of little soldiers in my gut, most of whom were aligned with the cause but some who wrestled free and fired at it. It was one thing to say we would participate in Keller’s work; it was another to make it our lives. Or perhaps I clung to that skepticism because it suggested that choice had not been lost — or at least, irreversibly muddied — at the very start.