Dream Student (Dream Series book 1) by J.J. DiBenedetto
“Well,” I say when I finally settle down. “She’s married and she’s got two kids. And she’s ten years older than you. Of course your Mom would have a problem if you brought her home.” That sets Brian off, which gets me giggling again, and neither of us can stop until we’ve gotten to the Inn and parked the car.
The Blue Duck Inn used to be a farmhouse, years ago, but it’s been a restaurant since at least before I was born. Dad’s been taking Mom here for their anniversary every other year or so. From the outside, it doesn’t look like the fanciest restaurant for a hundred miles. The moment we walk in the front door, though, it’s like stepping into another world.
The lighting is dim, but somehow warm at the same time. The waiters are all in tuxedos, the waitresses in long black dresses. There are paintings along the walls–landscapes, mostly, in muted colors. And the smells–there are a dozen aromas that seem like they shouldn’t go together, but they somehow do. I realize that I’m salivating.
We step up to the Maitre’d. He takes one look at us. “Miss Barnes?” I nod. “Please give my regards to your father,” he says as he leads to our table.
“You remember him?”
The Maitre’d looks scandalized that I asked. “I remember every patron who honors us with his custom. Especially those who do us the honor of doing so regularly” he says. I guess for a place like this, a visit every two years or so probably does count as “regular.”
He pulls out my chair, and I sit. Brian waits until I do to sit down, and the Maitre’d hands him the wine list. There are no menus at the Blue Duck Inn–I’m glad I told Brian what to expect on the way here. It’s very simple–you eat whatever the chef has decided to serve.
Brian hands the wine list over to me, but I don’t need it; I wouldn’t know the first thing to look for anyway. Dad told me what wine to order. I assume that when he called to change the reservation, he must have spoken to the–whatever they call the wine expert. I know there’s a fancy word for it, but I don’t have any idea what it is.
I look around, but it’s difficult to really see any of the other tables very clearly. I don’t know how, but they’ve done some real tricks with the lighting and the acoustics. You can see and hear everyone at your own table perfectly, but you can barely see or hear anything else. It’s easy to imagine that Brian and I are the only ones in the whole place.
For a while we just stare at each other. He’s overwhelmed, and I can’t really blame him. After a while, I order the wine, exactly what Dad told me, and then the first course arrives: vanilla sorbet with mint. “To properly clear the palate,” the waiter explains as he sets it down.
We clear our palates and then the wine comes, brought not by the waiter but by–if I remember right–the wine steward. He opens it very efficiently, and sets the cork down atop a napkin on the table. Brian and I both look at it and then at each other–neither of us know if we’re supposed to do anything with it, so we just sit there and wait for the steward to do something. He comes over to my side of the table. “Would the lady prefer to sample the bottle?”
Yes, the lady would.
He holds the bottle to me so I can see the label. It looks like what I ordered, and I nod. He pours just a swallow into my glass, and–even though I feel ridiculous–I do what I’ve seen a hundred times in movies and on TV. I swirl the wine around in the glass, sniff it, and only then take a tiny sip.
And now I know what a $120 bottle of wine tastes like. It’s very good. I don’t have the vocabulary to describe it any better than that. The steward asks, “Shall I?”
I answer, “Yes, please,” and he fills my glass and then Brian’s. He then pours the remainder of the bottle into a crystal decanter and leaves it for us.
I raise my glass. “Here’s to dreams coming true,” and in the instant before he clinks his glass to mine, I add, “the good ones, anyway.”
We both sip our wine. I don’t have too much to compare it to, but it really is excellent. Brian’s smiling at me. “If you’re going to be making the big doctor money, you’ll have to get used to this,” he says.
“It’s like your mother said on Christmas Eve,” I say. “It’ll be nine or ten years before I’m making any kind of doctor money at all, and that’s if everything goes perfectly from now until then,” I answer. He gives me a blank look; he doesn’t recall that part of the conversation. I can’t blame him; there was a lot going on that day!
“It’s not just med school. That’s four years, is that what you’re thinking?” He nods. “There’s residency after that. Usually it’s in a hospital. You get to work eighty hours a week, maybe more, for not much money. That’s three more years, maybe four depending on if I want to go into a specialty. It’s a long road.”
Wow. I didn’t really give it much thought when Brian’s mother talked about it, but it feels so much more real hearing the words come out of my own mouth.
The last few weeks I’ve been thinking one night at a time, just trying to get through finals and cope with the nightmares. But even before that I’ve always thought one step at a time: finish this paper, meet that deadline. I haven’t been looking at the big picture. “It’s kind of a lot to think about, when I put it that way, isn’t it?”
Brian agrees. “I guess we better enjoy tonight, then.” Fair enough. I’m all for that!
Our first course arrives. It’s caviar, which I’ve never had before. I have to admit that I close my eyes as I take the first bite, but it’s–well, surprisingly good.
That’s followed by a whole succession of things I never imagined I’d eat, or never heard of before, period. There are oysters, there are truffles, there are more kinds of mushrooms than I knew existed, and that’s the less exotic portion of the meal.
Brian is very game; he follows my lead and eats everything put in front of him. He honestly seems to be enjoying it, too. As the escargot is cleared away, I finally tell him what happened the morning of Christmas Eve. “You saved her life,” he says in an awed voice. “You really did.” And he takes my hand and stares at me with wonder in his eyes for the longest time. A girl could get used to that.
Dessert comes and goes so quickly I almost don’t notice it. The waiter is still clearing it away–a honey and apple tart with handmade cinnamon-ginger ice cream–when the lights brighten, and suddenly we’re surrounded by twenty other tables.
The Maitre’d wheels out a cart with a small TV set on it, turns it on, and the voice of Dick Clark counting down the final minutes of 1989 fills the room. I had no idea it was almost midnight. Another waiter deposits two tall, fluted glasses on our table, and whispers, “The Governor’s wife was very insistent,” nodding towards the TV. Over across the room, I can see–it definitely is the Governor!
At two minutes to midnight, our glasses are filled with champagne, and I get up, walk over to Brian’s side of the table. He stands as well. Dick Clark counts the seconds, and we join the toast with everyone in the room as the New Year arrives. And then, finally, I do what I’ve wanted to do, needed to do, since Christmas Eve. I throw my arms around Brian’s neck, and in front of God and the Governor and everyone, I kiss him for all I’m worth.
***
Brian has to be home on time, under pain of–he’s not sure exactly what, but he doesn’t want to find out. So, very reluctantly, we request the check and we’re back in the car by twenty minutes after midnight. As we drive away from the Inn, I have a brilliant idea. The McGuires live about halfway between my house and Brian’s. My parents and Bob will almost certainly still be there, so I can go home with them. And Brian and I get an extra half hour together.
We enjoy our extra half hour, although not as much as we might have done if the car’s windows were tinted. At just after one o’clock, we very reluctantly make our goodbyes. Brian walks me to the door, which is unlocked, and sees me inside. I kiss him one more time, and then I stand in the
I stand there a few minutes more, completely lost in thought. “Hello in there!” my Dad’s voice says from behind me. “I wondered if you might have him drop you here. Come on, I want to show my beautiful daughter off,” he says, and he leads me into the still-hopping party.
“Juliet, look who decided to join us!” Dad says to Mrs. McGuire, a very tall, dark-haired woman whose actual age I can’t begin to guess. Considering her oldest daughter is thirty, she’s got to be at least fifty herself, but she definitely doesn’t look it. She gives me a good once-over.
“I don’t think I’ve met her before. I thought you only had the one daughter, Howard?” Well, I didn’t really recognize myself in the mirror earlier tonight, did I? And to be fair, she’s had more than a few drinks. Dad, though, doesn’t want to play fair. He catches my eye, and he’s got a playful look in his.
“Oh, no. But we don’t usually like to talk about Gretchen,” he says, giving me a quick wink. I almost lose it on the spot. Gretchen? If he’s going to pass me off as my nonexistent older sister, at least Dad could have come up with a better name than Gretchen! But I play along for a few minutes until Dad finally takes pity on Mrs. McGuire and tells her the truth.
It is a compliment, I guess, to be mistaken for someone older and more mature than I really am. Right?
***
It’s noon on New Year’s Day, and I’m the only one in the house who’s awake. Bob was just tired out, but both Mom and Dad are suffering the effects of the McGuire family’s liquor cabinet. I don’t expect to see them until dinnertime.
I call Brian and we talk for half an hour about nothing in particular; just hearing his voice makes me happy. Then I call Beth, in hopes that she’s home from her ski trip. She isn’t. Her mother tells me that she won’t be back until Friday. I tell her mother to tell her that I’ll try to call back over the weekend, and that I’ve got plenty of news for her.
I’m bursting to tell her about last night, about my necklace, about what happened with Jackie. There are moments when I want to just start shouting about everything that’s going on, everything I’m feeling, to whoever will listen. I can honestly say that’s something I’ve never felt before.
I’m right; it’s dinnertime when Mom and Dad make their first appearance of the day. I took the initiative and ordered pizza, and they’re very grateful. Dad thanks me for the brilliant idea of going over to the McGuires last night, and for driving everyone home safely. Mom thanks me for the foresight to order food. Bob doesn’t thank me for anything, but he gives me a quick look that I interpret as thanks, whether or not it really is.
I go to bed early, around ten o’clock. I’m out almost the instant my head hits the pillow…
***
…Sara is standing in a dining room; she recognizes it immediately. She was here only a few days ago. Christmas Eve.
She recognizes the three people at the table: Brian, and his parents. Their faces are all red; they’ve been arguing for a while already. Sara needs no special knowledge to guess what the argument is about. “You were going to buy a car this summer!” his mother shouts, pounding the table with her fist.
“I’d rather see her face like it was on Christmas Eve than have some stupid used car!” Brian shouts right back, and Sara feels her heart skip several beats…
…she’s no longer in the dining room, but in the back seat of a very familiar car. The driver, too, is familiar. Sara recognizes the neighborhood outside the windows; it’s on the edge of campus, near the swimming pool. The bus stop on East 107th street looms up and then is past in a moment, and there’s no one waiting there. Again and again the car makes the block, and again and again the bus stop is deserted…
***
I wake up with a feeling of–is it relief? Definitely. Jackie really did listen to me, didn’t she? She hasn’t been at the bus stop. She’s safe. I got it right, I did exactly what I was–supposed to do? Meant to do, maybe?
I float through the day, and the next. I have another dream, just sitting in the car circling endlessly, on Thursday night, and the feeling of relief from that takes me straight through the weekend. The only complaint I have is that I haven’t been able to talk to Beth yet. It turns out that she was only home for an hour on Friday before she left again. She went to visit her sister Maggie, who just had a baby in October. I give up on the prospect of talking to her before we get back to campus next week.
On Sunday, Brian comes over for a couple of hours. We take Lumpy out for what’s probably the longest walk of his life. Of course Lumpy loves Brian; he jumps on him the minute he steps out of the car. I knew he would.
We walk all around the neighborhood, neither of us feeling the cold. I tell him about my dreams. I ask him if what I saw was true, that he took the money he was saving up for a car of his own to buy my necklace.
“Yes,” he answers simply. I kiss him in the middle of the street and I don’t let him go until Lumpy nearly pulls me off my feet chasing after something that almost certainly isn’t a squirrel.
“You know you’re going to have to top that for Valentine’s Day,” I say with a laugh when he catches up with me and Lumpy. I can see from his expression he knows I’m joking, but I don’t want to just leave it at that.
What he did was extravagant, and I love it, but I don’t want him feeling like he has to do that at every occasion. “Seriously,” I say, “I don’t expect anything for Valentine’s, or my birthday, or next Christmas either. You’re set until 1991, OK?”
The look he’s giving me right now–he’s stunned. I don’t know why–oh.
Oh.
I realize what I said, and how I said it. So casually. I said it without thinking, like I just assumed we’ll be together not just a month from now, but a year from now. Which–well, I do. I did the same thing Christmas Eve; he didn’t hear it then, but he certainly did now. I’m glad he did, too
***
Sunday is the last time I see Brian over break; I’ve got to spend Monday and Tuesday getting ready to fly back to Cleveland, back to school. Wednesday morning isn’t very far away. And anyway, according to Brian, he pushed his luck about as far as it would go just borrowing the car to come see me for part of the afternoon.
I have another one of the car dreams Sunday night, but nothing else remarkable happens over break. I fight with Bob most of the day on Monday. My grades arrive in the mail Tuesday morning, and they’re pretty much what I expect–straight A’s, except for a B in Physics, which I’m thrilled about. I get overly emotional with Mom and Dad at dinner that night when it hits me that it’ll be the last dinner I’ll have with them until May. Wednesday morning Mom drives me to the airport and sees me off.
As I settle into my window seat on the plane, I think it’s been, hands down, the best Christmas and the best New Year’s I’ve ever had. I can’t wait to see what comes next…
Twelve: Back to School
(January 10-13, 1990)
It’s two o’clock when I walk into my dorm room. I think I might be the only person on the whole floor right now. Beth is coming back tonight, though, and I recall a few of my floormates talking about coming back from break today as well, so I won’t be alone for long.
I leave the door open so I can hear any signs of life down the hall, and I unpack my suitcase and shove it in the back of the closet. Then I lie down on the bed and stare at my necklace. The whole flight back I was thinking about it, and I came to the conclusion that I needed to do something more to properly thank Brian for it. He comes back Friday, and I’ve got a little plan to surprise him when he does.
It’s going to involve a quick shopping trip downtown tomorrow, and it’s also going to require some help. And down the hall I can hear the voices of the two people who can provide it.
I walk all the way around the floor, over to room 220, and I poke my head in to see
***
After a surprisingly small amount of teasing Jessica teaches me how to do it, using only a credit card. She watches me practice a couple times until I’ve got it down. It’s disturbingly easy. She wishes me luck using my newfound skill. Jane warns me that if I ever decide to use it to play a joke on them, I can expect “massive retaliation.”
They don’t need to worry. I’m not the practical joking type. Besides, I’ve seen their idea of retaliation–they were responsible for all of Mark Bainbridge’s possessions ending up on the roof of the dorm last spring. I’m not messing with them.
I take a walk over to the bookstore and pick up some of the textbooks for this semester, but other than that it’s a very quiet afternoon. I’m just sitting on my bed, flipping through the text for Vertebrate Biology when Beth arrives. She drops her luggage on the floor and announces to me that she’s starving, she’s buying me dinner at Brandywine’s and we’re leaving right now.
It takes Beth barely ten minutes to hit all the highlights of her holiday; she’s done by the time we sit down to eat. She leaves a lot out; she’s clearly burning to hear my news, almost as much as I’m burning to tell it.
It takes me the entire meal and two bottles of wine to get through everything. She’s blown away by my necklace. “I have to admit it, that first night after you two met, I was dead wrong,” she tells me. When I mention what my Dad said about saving up for my wedding, she nearly spits out a mouthful of wine. She laughs at Brian’s mother hating me and she demands to see photos of me from New Year’s Eve.