Dreamland by Sarah Dessen Page A

was hardly moving, my feet and head heavy and thick. “What can I get you to drink?”
    â€œUm,” I said. My tongue was sticking to my lips but I wasn’t ready to risk having to do anything with my hands, so I said, “I’m fine.”
    â€œWell,” she said, lowering her voice as if speaking to me confidentially, “ I need another.” She walked to a counter, bypassing two caterers arguing over clam strips, and picked up a bottle of wine, pouring herself a big glass. “Ingrid, sweetheart, what’s happening with the phyllo?”
    â€œIt’s coming, ma’am,” a short woman in jeans, by the oven, said, twisting a dishtowel in her hand. “Just a minute or two.”
    â€œMarvelous,” Mrs. Biscoe said dryly, taking a sip of her drink. “It’s to die for, that phyllo,” she said to me. Under the bright lights of the kitchen I could see the tiny imperfections of her face: small lines by her eyes, the uneven slope of her nose. These things were fascinating, and I found myself completely unable to stop staring at them. “Costs an arm and a leg, but what are you going to do?”
    I nodded, having lost track of the conversation. Where was Rogerson? He’d dumped me, stoned, with, of all people, his mother. This had to be some kind of cruel test. He was probably already long gone, laughing hysterically about me with his real friends while I tried somehow to find my way home.
    â€œSo,” Mrs. Biscoe said, fluffing that same piece of hair again as she jerked me out of this paranoid reverie, “how did you meet our Rogerson?”
    There was a sudden crash in the corner of the kitchen as something was dropped, and someone cursed. Mrs. Biscoe turned around, looked over as if mildly interested, and shook her head.
    â€œAt a party,” I stammered. “We met at a party.”
    â€œOh, yes,” she said absently, as if she wasn’t really listening, still looking at something over my head. “He likes those.”
    The door opened behind me, letting out two caterers and in Rogerson, finally, who looked across the room at me and smiled. I had this wild thought that he was the only one in all this chaos who was just like me, and that was comforting and profound all at once.
    â€œHey,” he said as he came closer, reaching to grab something off a passing tray and pop it in his mouth. “Doing okay?”
    â€œRogerson, darling,” Mrs. Biscoe said, reaching over to smooth her hand over his hair. “Did you apologize to your father?”
    â€œYep,” he said, still chewing. “Man, those triangle things are good, Mom.”
    She looked at me. “Phyllo,” she explained, as if proving a point, before letting her hand drop onto his shoulder.
    â€œOh,” I said. “Right.”
    â€œWe’re gonna go out back, okay?” Rogerson said, as his mother took another sip of wine, distracted. The kitchen was so noisy, full of voices and clanging, oven doors slamming shut, but she didn’t seem to hear any of it.
    â€œYes, okay,” she said, snapping to and standing up straighter to fluff that one bit of her bangs again. “But stay close. Right?”
    â€œRight,” Rogerson said, reaching for my hand and winding his tightly around it before leading me through a group of caterers to a door across the room. When I looked back I could see Mrs. Biscoe standing in front of the swinging kitchen door, framed for a second against the movement and color of the party. The door swung out behind her and for a moment it was like everything froze and she was just there, suspended. Then the door started to swing back and she stepped through, disappearing like a dove in a magician’s handkerchief.
    Â 
    Rogerson took me back to the pool house, where he lived. His room was probably the neatest I’d ever seen in my life. It looked like you could run a white-gloved fingertip over any surface