Хлоя Бенджамин: The Anatomy of Dreams

“Forget it,” he said, stepping over the fence.

He began to walk rapidly toward the dorms. I hopped the fence and ran to catch up with him. I was almost five feet seven, taller than he was, but I felt like a kid bobbing at his side.

“Was it some kind of joke?” I asked. “Push the Goody Two-shoes, see how far she’ll go? See if you can get her in trouble?”

He made a snorting noise and kept walking. I could tell I’d disappointed him, but some resentment deeper than I was capable of moderating was rising to the surface.

“I really thought you’d be into it,” he said, keeping a step or two ahead of me.

“How could you know what I’d be into?” I asked. “We’ve barely even spoken!”

By then, we had reached the dorms. To the left was the boys’ dorm, and to the right was the girls’. I half expected him to grin at me, confess it had all been in play. But he continued toward the door, as if I was the one who had wronged him.

“I’ll tell people about it!” I said, the words flailing out of me. “I’ll tell the girls in my dorm!”

It was the only thing I could say to disempower him. I had figured out by then that it wasn’t a joke, what he’d found, that it meant something to him and that, for some reason, he had chosen to share it specifically with me.

He turned; his face seemed to hang with resignation. Then he walked through the door to the boys’ dorm, leaving me alone on the path.

I didn’t tell anyone, of course. I already felt guilty for the way I’d snapped at him; or maybe it was something else that held me back, the curled edges of belief. While we washed up in the bathroom, the other girls teased me, asking how it felt to kiss Napoleon. I told them it felt good.

During the rest of that year, I barely spoke to Gabe. The flower incident had ended so badly that we were skittish around each other, prideful and embarrassed. But something uncomfortable and magnetic glowed between us. When we found ourselves inescapably close in proximity—in line at the dining hall, or seated at one of the dreaded two-person desks in Keller’s classroom—our silence was as loaded as any acknowledgment. Finally, one of us would break: “’Scuse me,” I’d say, reaching past him to grab the 2 percent milk; or Gabe would clear his throat and ask, “Pencil?” his body angled the tiniest bit toward mine, until I reached into my zip-up case and wordlessly handed one to him.

If the eclipse brought us together the first time, our next real meeting was equally serendipitous, orchestrated by forces that felt as fated as the phases of the moon. Summer had passed in a close, muggy blur, and now it was late August, the beginning of senior year. My flight from New Jersey had been delayed, and it was nearly midnight in the Arcata/Eureka Airport. The student shuttles ended at nine P.M., so I was slumped at the Delta desk at baggage claim, calling the dorm phone without success. I hung up and dragged my bags—two massive duffels and an overstuffed, twenty-pound backpack—to the nearest bench. Outside, it was cool and dewy. Drops of moisture clung to the parking meters and the slick yellow uniforms of the crossing guards. In ten years or even five, most of the students at Mills would have a credit card or a cell phone, and being stranded at the airport would be easy to fix. Having neither, I felt like a forgotten piece of luggage myself.

“Patterson?”

I turned. Gabe was outside the sliding doors of Baggage Claim 3, wind ruffling his hair as the doors whooshed shut behind him. He stood wide-legged in a pair of too-small flip-flops and worn cargo shorts; he’d slung a bag over each shoulder, making his T-shirt ride up around his waist. A dark fuzz of hair extended down from his belly button, and his skin was sun-browned. He grabbed the bottom of the shirt and tugged it down.

“Lennox,” I said.

“You’re late. Late for senior year.”

“So are you.”

We regarded each other, wary. Then I scooted over on the bench, and he lumbered over, dropping his bags on the sidewalk with an inadvertent, gruntish sigh.

“Well,” he said. “I guess we’re stranded.”

“Shipwrecked.”

“Marooned.”

We grinned at each other, at our senior-year banter, at the strange August night that was as wet as early spring on the East Coast. I looked at Gabe’s shirt. It was holey around the neck and worn thin, with a blown-up image of Darth Vader on the front. Below, it said in block capital letters, WHO’S YOUR DADDY?

“Nice shirt,” I said.

“Ditto.”

I looked down. I’d forgotten I was wearing an old T-shirt of my dad’s, a comfort on plane rides back to school. GET YOUR REAR IN GEAR, it read: 5K WALK FOR COLON CANCER.

“Touché,” I said.

We sat for a few moments in slightly bashful silence, both of us knocked down a peg. Absentmindedly, as if he’d done it a thousand times before, Gabe stuck his thumb through one of the holes at the neck. I’d heard he was on scholarship; there were rumors that his family was broke, that his dad had died penniless, though others held that his dad was just a living asshole who refused to pay child support.

“Where’d you fly in from?” asked Gabe. “Jersey?”

“How’d you know that?”

I was genuinely curious. I had never discussed my family with Gabe. Then again, we’d never discussed his, either, and I still knew that he lived in California with his mother. I knew, too, that she was morbidly obese, a consequence of some medical condition, though no one knew exactly what it was.

Gabe shrugged. “I listen,” he said.

“What about you? Where’d you fly in from?”

“Michigan—I was visiting my gran. She lives on Lake Superior.”

“Was your flight delayed, too?”

“What?” Gabe looked confused, then shook his head. “Oh—nope. I just forgot the shuttles ended at nine.”

“You would,” I said, but it didn’t sound mocking; it came out downright affectionately, much more than I’d intended, and Gabe laughed in surprise. My cheeks warmed, and I fiddled with the zipper on my suitcase. We fell into another silence, but this time, it was relaxed. Maybe it was the late hour or the unusual circumstances; neither one of us knew whether our new amity would last once the clock struck midnight and we arrived at old, familiar Mills, where the social hierarchy was as firmly set as the granite foundation. Right then, though, it didn’t matter very much. We had a delicate understanding, a connection like a spiderweb, and we navigated it with earnest, clumsy excitement. It felt like being outside after curfew: an extra hour tacked onto the day, wondrous and strange.

“So,” said Gabe. “What say you? Are we sleeping here?”

“God, I hope not,” I said, but the truth is I was buzzing with excitement. I pictured us making a nest of sweatshirts, a pillow of old tees, searching the airport for coffee and bloated muffins the next morning. Back at school, we would have an inside joke—a raised eyebrow, a “Remember the night we spent in baggage claim at Arcata/Eureka?” We would groan for effect, making it sound much worse than it really was. So my heart went limp when we saw the wide, maroon-colored Mills student shuttle careen around the corner. It pulled up in front of us and ground to a halt.

The door popped open, and out blundered Sandy, the hulking, enthusiastic grounds manager. His curly red hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and he huffed as though he’d run to the airport instead of driven.

“All right, all right, you’re saved,” he said, grabbing our bags, giving each of us an amiable clap on the shoulder. “Load ’em in and let’s get a move on.”

“How’d you find us?” asked Gabe as we climbed into the carpeted body of the shuttle, which always smelled faintly of Cheetos. Was it possible I detected a strain of disappointment in his voice, the same one I felt?