Dreamland Read Free Page B

family.
    The window in my room faced their back sunporch, an all-glass room where Boo kept most of her plants. She was mad for ferns. Stewart’s studio—he taught art at the university—was just off that room, in what was supposed to be the living room. They kept their bed in the corner, and they didn’t even have any real furniture to speak of; when you were invited over, you sat on big red velvet cushions decorated with sequins that Boo had picked up on a trip to India. This drove my conservative mother crazy, so Boo and Stewart almost always came to our house, where Mom could relax among the safety and comfort of her ottomans and end tables.
    But that was what Cass and I loved most about them: their house, their lives, even their names.
    â€œMr. Connell’s my father, and he lives in California,” Stewart always said. He was a mild and quiet man, quite brilliant, whose hair was always sticking straight up, like a mad scientist’s, and flecked with various colors of paint.
    For most of the nights of my life I could hear Stewart coming home late from his university studio, the brakes of his bike—they had an old VW bus, but it broke down constantly—squeaking all the way from the bridge down the street. He’d glide down the slope of their yard, under the clothesline, to the garage. Sometimes he forgot about the clothesline and almost killed himself, flying backward while the bike went on, unmanned, to crash against the garage door. You’d think they would have moved the clothesline after the second time or so. But they didn’t.
    â€œIt’s not the fault of the clothesline,” Stewart explained to me one day, rubbing the red, burned spot on his neck. He’d broken his glasses again and had them taped together in the middle. “It’s about me respecting it as an obstacle.”
    Now Boo slid their door open and came out to meet me on their patio. She was in a pair of old overalls, a faded red tank top underneath, and her feet were bare. Her long red hair was piled on top of her head, a few chopsticks stuck in here and there to hold it in place. Inside, Stewart was sitting at the table, eating a big peach and reading a book. He looked up and waved at me; he had juice all over his chin.
    â€œSo,” Boo said, putting an arm around my shoulder. “How are things on the home front?”
    â€œAwful,” I said. “Mom won’t stop crying.”
    She sighed, and we stood there for a few minutes, just looking across their yard. Boo had gone through a Japanese garden stage a few years back, which resulted in a footbridge and a fat, rusted iron Buddha sculpture.
    â€œI just can’t believe she didn’t tell me anything,” I said. “I feel like I should have known something was going on.”
    Boo sighed, reaching to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. “I think she probably didn’t want to put you in that position,” she said, squatting down to pull a dandelion at the edge of the patio, lifting it to her face to breathe in the scent. “It was a big secret to keep.”
    â€œI guess.” Someone was mowing their lawn a few yards down, the motor humming. “I just thought everything was perfect for her, like it always was. You know?”
    Boo nodded, standing up and stretching her back. “Well, that’s a lot of pressure. Being perfect. Right?”
    I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
    â€œMe neither,” she said with a smile. “But I think it was harder for Cass than we realized, maybe. It’s so easy to get caught up in what people expect of you. Sometimes, you can just lose yourself.”
    She walked to the edge of the patio, bending down to pull another dandelion. I watched her, then said, “Boo?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œDid she tell you she was going?”
    She stood up slowly. “No,” she said, as the lawnmower droned on down the street. “She