Dreamology by Lucy Keating

assigned one at the end of their sophomore year.”
    â€œOne?” I say. “You have more than one college counselor?”
    Dean Hammer nods solemnly again. “Another Bennett benefit ,” he says like he’s advertising car insurance he doesn’t believe in. “We actually have four. Most of them are at capacity, but not to worry, I found just the one for you. She had a little space.”
    As I approach Delilah Weatherbee’s office, I can tell immediately that, like me, she does not belong. For one thing, her office isn’t even in the administrative wing. It’s in the attic of the creative arts center, and I have to push past fashion mannequins and forgotten sculptures and broken easels to even knock. Also, it smells like incense, and the sound of New Age flute music is whistling from beneath the door.
    Delilah opens it almost instantly. “Alice,” is all she says, her face glowing and rosy and tilted to one side, her arms stretched wide. I understand almost too late that I am supposed toembrace her. Which I do, and she smells like patchouli. She pushes me away but, still gripping my shoulders, whispers, “Welcome.”
    Delilah ushers me in, all effortless beach waves and bare feet, her long linen skirt trailing on the floor. “Have a seat,” she says, nodding to the corner as she pours some tea. I look over, but there are no chairs. Then I notice the floor pillows.
    â€œSo,” Delilah says when we are seated cross-legged, facing each other, each clutching a small mug of fragrant green tea. “Who is Alice Rowe?”
    â€œI don’t think I understand the question,” I say.
    â€œExactly,” Delilah says, which only confuses me more. “I know you met with Dean Hammer and discussed your academics. Good work, by the way.” She gives my knee a squeeze. “But now I want to ask you: What else?”
    â€œWhat else what?” I ask.
    â€œWhat else is there to Alice? What are your interests? What clubs have you joined? Who have you been hanging out with? You see, Bennett is a great school, but in order to make you a good candidate for college, we really need to cultivate a sense of self. I like to encourage my students to practice a certain kind of mindfulness . Taking time, paying attention to your likes and dislikes, your behavioral tendencies, to help you figure out who you are.”
    I don’t think she really wants to hear my answer to who I am hanging out with, because currently it’s Oliver, the school’sbiggest troublemaker; my father, a middle-aged neuroscientist; Jerry, a geriatric bulldog; and golden boy Max Wolfe, but only in an subconscious state. It also strikes me as amusing that she and Dean Hammer could be so very different and yet very much the same. This is not far from asking me what I want on my tombstone.
    â€œUm, I think I must have missed the signup deadline for clubs?” I try. “I hadn’t really thought about it . . .”
    Delilah studies me, her head nodding over and over. Her stare makes me uncomfortable, so I glance out the window, and that’s when I see Sergio and Brunilda, watching me from a tree outside. Sergio lifts a wing, salutes me, and they both fly off.
    What in the — ? Am I asleep? I blink a few times.
    â€œWell, what did you do at your old school?” Delilah is asking.
    Explored. Visited the museums. Played chess with some old guys in Central Park. Tried to keep Jerry from eating the ducks in the pond, at which I had only a ninety-eight percent success rate.
    â€œI spent a lot of time outside,” I say. And then instantly realize it sounds like I do a lot of drugs.
    â€œThat’s helpful!” Delilah says. “What about the orienteering society? They organize weekly camping trips, hikes up local mountains . . .”
    My eyes go wide with horror. “Not that kind of outside. I grew up in New York City.”
    Delilah raises her eyebrows.