Dreamscape

The wide, grassy field was warm and cheerful and strangely familiar.

Like daisies.

Why daisies I had no idea, but I could almost see them in my mind. As if I remembered them. There, all across the field, white, green and yellow. Infinite daisies.

I collapsed back onto the sweet, spring-smelling grass with my knees in the air. The overhead sun was blindingly bright and the sky almost too blue with just a few pillowy clouds. A perfect cloud-watching kind of day. Like when I was little. My dad and I had loved that game, tracing familiar shapes in the sky – painting cloud pictures, he’d called it – and inventing stories to fit our scenes.

I realized I was wearing my favorite sundress from back then. The one I’d worn night and day for an entire summer the year I was seven: white-smocked with pink, purple, and blue-patterned hearts and ribbons that tied at the shoulders. I’d cried the day my mom had decided it was too small and donated it. Yet there I was, nine years later, wearing it. Strangely it seemed to fit.

Abruptly a shadow crossed above me, blocking my sun.

Not a shadow – a pair of legs. I blinked, a little startled, and another piece of the memory clicked into place.

Calvin.

My Caly. Of course. This field, the daisies, the dress, and Calvin. I remembered it all.

Except the person towering over me now was not Calvin. Definitely not.

Hi there, he said.

Hi, I said, then stopped. Stared. Blushed. Because not only was I lying in some all-but-forgotten field, contemplating clouds, daisies and Calvin, but I was wearing my favorite sundress from when I was seven – not my best, most current look – and he was just . . . wow.

Dark hair. Eyes that were somehow blue and green at the same time. Mischievous smile. Almost a smirk, but a nice one. The kind of smile that said, I might tease you a little, but never too much. I liked that most of all.

I sat up and tried to brush the grass from my hair. Completely ineffectively, which made him laugh.

I’m Zak, he said and sat down beside me. Like this was a completely normal thing to do.

I swallowed. Chloe. Yes. That was my name. I hoped.

The bow at my right shoulder had come undone, and I fumbled with the multicolored ribbons, trying to retie it. Apparently my fingers had turned to jelly. Why was I so spastic all at once? Zak pretended not to notice, but I could see him hiding the smirk.

So, Chloe, first time here? he asked. It could have been a pickup line, the opposite of Come here often? But the way he said it, it wasn’t. He sounded friendly and legitimately interested in knowing. He also sounded like the answer was pretty obvious.

Actually, I told him a little proudly, like the truth was some sort of achievement, I’ve been here before. I had, I was positive. It had been years. I’d almost forgotten. I had forgotten, but I knew for certain it was true. The dress, the daisies, the field, and Calvin.

Really? he said with just enough smirk to make me want to prove it to him.

So I did. Even though it sounded completely insane.

It isn’t every guy who right off the bat can convince a girl to spill about her childhood imaginary friend, a stuffed-animal-tiger-turned-real, and especially not an intimidatingly cute guy with crazy beautiful blue-green eyes, but this one, Zak, had that effect.

I told him all about it:

***

Caly – Calvin – was a birth gift from my father. After I was born my dad went down to the hospital gift shop to buy me my first Teddy Bear. Instead, he came back with an oversized stuffed-animal-tiger. Because clearly I would grow to be strong and ferocious like a tiger, he said. Clearly.

Some of my earliest memories involved Calvin: me, combing his fur with my mother’s hairbrush. Me, bringing him to the beach. (Calvin in the ocean? Mistake.) Me, sleeping with him tucked under my arm every night.

And this was the insane part . . . because, by day Calvin was your average stuffed-animal-tiger – an excellent pillow and a poor swimming companion. But at night he became something more. He would wait for me in a fantastical Dreamworld where he was very much alive. Real. Together we would pick daisies in grassy fields, chase butterflies across brooks, track deer or dragons or dinosaurs depending on the day and our mood – or set up house in a tree and have tea. Afterward, I would curl up beside him and he would tell me stories until I drifted back to sleep. In the morning I’d be back in bed, and he was always a stuffed animal again.

That was how it went almost every night until I turned seven when he moved to the bookshelf beside my desk.

But the really insane part? The field with the daisies? I was pretty sure Zak and I were sitting in it.

***

It was a lot of information to give a strange boy all at once and probably more than a little embarrassing. Especially the part where I freely admitted that my childhood stuffed-animal-tiger turned real while I slept. But Zak didn’t seem to find it odd at all. Even odder, neither did I. It felt perfectly normal. Natural. Like having in-depth conversations about former imaginary friends and Dreamworlds with strange too-attractive boys in fields was something I did every day instead of never.

That’s when I realized I was dreaming.

Chapter 2

The Drawings

"Hey – when did you do these?" Tee asked me. She’d gotten hold of my sketchbook again. Without my permission, again.

Tegan did not do privacy. Forget the rights of the individual. My personal business/cutest red top/Pre-Calc problem set/etc. was her personal business/borrowed red top/Pre-Calc problem set/etc., no question. Like total communism plus Big Brother rolled into a single teenage girl, currently sporting a mod-style mini-dress over leggings tucked into boots and her usual square-framed glasses, her dark hair rolled into a haphazard bun. That was today’s look; tomorrow’s could be completely different. Tee liked to mix it up. We’d been best friends since freshman year. Love at first sight? Scoff-worthy. But best-friendship-at-first-sight had worked for us.

We were sandwiched into our usual back corner of the cafeteria, trying desperately to hold our ground against the general chaos that was junior/senior lunch. Twice already Tee had had to physically drape herself across the stool we were saving for Chase, the third member of our little trio. Tee was more effective at this than I was; if I’d tried I probably would’ve ended up sat on. Meanwhile, Chase was taking an inordinately long time to say goodbye to his sophomore girlfriend, in what was sure to be a passionate and PDA-filled display spanning the upstairs hallway. His current sophomore girlfriend, Tee reminded me. This was a new one. Emily. At least I thought that was her name.

I didn’t have to check my sketchbook to know which pages she meant. A few nights ago. I shrugged, casual. I had this kind of crazy dream. And afterward I couldn’t get back to sleep. So, I drew.

You drew a lot, she corrected me.

It was true, I had. I’d wanted to capture every detail: the endless grassy field, the spindly trees in the distance. A small crop of wildflowers, all pinks and violets. The two pale crescent moons that sat low on the afternoon horizon. I could see it all so clearly in my mind even now, several days later. Foreign yet also familiar.

And who is this? she asked in a different tone as she turned the page.

Oh. I started to blush.

I’d wanted to capture every detail. Including the cute boy. Okay, especially the cute boy. I’d sketched Zak from memory, but glancing at the page I could see I hadn’t done him justice.

After much prodding I told Teagan about my dream. I felt a little silly admitting how much of an impression it had left. Okay, Zak had left. Only it was more than just Zak. Everything about the dream had felt . . . different somehow. Still, it was only a dream. I knew that.

It was just really vivid, I said, like that justified half a night of frenzied sketching and two days of daydreaming over smirky smiles and blue-green eyes.

I can never really remember my dreams, Tee sounded envious. Or if I do it’s just something bizarre – like that one where I was loading Chase’s girlfriend into the dishwasher and running the ‘heavy rinse’ cycle.

I had to laugh. I think that one is pretty self-explanatory, I told her.

It really was.

She ignored me. That’s a great idea, she said instead. We should analyze yours!

Analyze Chloe’s what? Chase asked, sliding into his seat. He’d only missed half of lunch by that point.

***

I’d known Chase Winslow practically since birth. We’d been in the Tiny Tots playgroup together at Sunny Times Daycare. We’d had adjoining cubbies in kindergarten. We’d shared a desk in Mrs. Wysnowski’s overcrowded fourth grade homeroom.

Of course by the time we hit high school he was this soccer jock with a pile of tousled blondish hair, a lopsided grin, and a growing circle of too-popular upperclassmen friends and I was . . . myself: un-athletic, average appearance, quiet in group settings. I thought for sure we’d go our separate ways then, and for a while we did.

That was before Chase traded organized sports for photography classes and Studio Art. Still, even now, Chase stood independent from the arty clique I supposed I belonged to, by default at least, and that Tee definitely belonged to even if she could barely manage stick figures. If you asked him he’d say that sort of thing – cliques, clubs, high school social politics – was a waste of time and sort of dumb. Didn’t we think?

Of course in his case it helped that the entire female population of the sophomore class (not to mention half our junior class and at least a few of the seniors) thought the artist/photographer thing was dead sexy and that he hadn’t quit the soccer team for lack of ability. The lesson here? Basically, when you’re athletic and talented and have any number of bitsy blonde sophomores throwing themselves at you, there isn’t any point in bothering with high school social politics. They don’t apply to you.

But there was no point in explaining this to Chase.

***

Analyze Chloe’s dream, Tee said. Here, check out her new boyfriend. ‘Dreamy,’ right? She held out my sketchbook for him to see.

He is not my boyfriend, I protested, doubly embarrassed because I could feel myself starting to blush. Again. You do realize we’re talking about a dream?

Chase lifted an eyebrow suggestively. Ms. Wilder, he said with mock-severity. What sort of dream are we talking about?

Not that sort of dream, I said, trying unsuccessfully to reclaim my sketchbook. My face had gone scarlet.

Tee told him all about my dream. It never occurred to her there were some things I wouldn’t want to share with Chase or anyone. Like I said, zero sense of privacy. And this particular dream felt sort of . . . private. Even if it wasn’t that sort of dream.

Guys, I tried. Can we talk about something else?

They ignored me. It probably said something a little sad about my real life that my two best friends were more interested in my dreams. Of course they loved any excuse to give me a hard time.

"You know, I think I still have this Decoding Your Dreams book someone gave me in the seventh grade," Tee offered.

You don’t really believe that crap, Chase said.

Why not? she countered.

Oh, come on. Decoding your dreams? he rolled his eyes. It’s like – crystal balls and Tarot readings. Or Zodiac signs. Just a bunch of bull.

You’re such a Virgo, Tee said straight-faced. Like the Zodiac was something she knew anything about. It wasn’t.

I’m an Aries.

Whatever.

I’m a Virgo, I volunteered.

Not the point, Clo, Tee said. In any case, dream analysis is a useful psychological tool, she continued authoritatively, in unconscious imitation of her mother. The psychologist.

Whatever. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, Chase quoted. I wasn’t sure I knew what he meant by that. Although I wasn’t sure he knew either.

Fortunately, the bell rang then and I gathered my sketchbook and the remnants of my lunch and hurried off to Art History.

Chapter 3

The Borderlands

"You’re back," Zak smiled at me.

He’d been there in our field (was it wrong that I thought of it as our field already?) almost exactly as I’d left him. Almost as though he’d never left, except he’d changed his clothes. I hadn’t really noticed his clothes in detail before, but they looked sort of homemade. A little old-fashioned. Or maybe more like local organic: all-cotton shirts in muted shades, plain dark trousers?

The dream had changed too. For one, I knew it was a dream from the beginning. I felt less disoriented, more in control. I’d found the field straight away – almost before I realized I was looking for it.

Not only the field, apparently.

You remember me, I said stupidly. Obviously he did.

You remember me, he countered, smirking a little.

Yes, well— I snuck a glance down at my own outfit and saw with relief that I was wearing my regular clothes. Old fitted jeans. Canvas sneakers. One of my cuter tops. Much better. You’re the only one I know here.

Besides Calvin, he said with the hint of a smile.

Calvin. Right. So he not only remembered me, he remembered the in-depth story I’d told him about my stuffed-animal-tiger/childhood-imaginary-friend-turned-real. Even for the Dreamworld it must have sounded ridiculous. And he was teasing me about it. I tried to decide if this was a good sign – the teasing – or not so much.

Ha. Ha, I said.

He had a piece of dried grass stuck in his hair. Almost as though he’d been cloud-watching. I wanted to tell him about it. Okay, I wanted to reach across and pull it out, but that didn’t seem like totally appropriate behavior. Instead I just stared (also not totally appropriate behavior) until he got self-conscious and found it for himself.

So, you really like this field, huh? he asked, surveying the view.

No. I mean yes. I do like it. A lot. When the daisies are out especially, I shrugged. I just don’t really know anywhere else to go . . . here . . . It sounded so lame: here. Where was here?

Zak looked interested. You’ve never been anywhere else?

The thing was, I had once upon a time. I had those vague half-memories of woodlands, streams and an imaginary stuffed-animal-tiger-turned-real. Beyond that . . . I didn’t know. I shrugged again.

Let’s go somewhere, I suggested.

Anywhere in particular? he asked.

But I had no idea. How could I?

All right, he said, understanding. I’ll think of somewhere.

With that we set off across the fields.

Abruptly, just as the fields began to thin, turning instead to manicured lawn, he stopped. You said you like daisies, right? he asked, starting to smirk.

Yes, I said, a little confused. I mean, I did like daisies, and I had said so, but why was he asking like that?

His smile widened as he pointed to the familiar yellow-centered, white-petaled flower: a rogue daisy there at the field’s edge. He turned back to me, eyebrows raised like he’d asked another question.

Except he hadn’t. Asked.

And I didn’t know the answer.

I’m glad there’s one at least, I said, thinking wistfully of the daisy-filled field in my memory.

Here, he said, and would have picked it for me if I’d let him.

Wait! I said, pulling his hand back. We should leave it. It’s the only one I’ve seen.

He shot me a half-doubtful look, like he wasn’t sure he believed me. Or maybe he wondered why I was kicking such a fuss over a flower. Why was I kicking such a fuss?

Couldn’t you just— he broke off. Find another one?

I wasn’t sure I understood what he meant by that. Possibly I was imagining things, but it seemed like he’d started to say something else. Also I was still holding onto his hand. I let go.

I just – like that it’s there, okay? I tried to explain.

Zak just shook his head at me, but indulgently. He smiled. Come on, he said. I’ve thought of a place.

***

He took me to the library.

As soon as he offered I knew it was exactly where I wanted to go. How could I not be curious to see a Dreamworld library? In my head there were books, books, books floor to ceiling, leather-bound first editions, infinite sequels to all my favorite series, innumerable hidden nooks and window-seats and secret passageways . . .

But as soon as I saw the library itself I decided the books would have to wait. I’d never seen anything remotely like it. Not in all my imaginary adventures with Calvin. Not in my wildest dreams to date. It was an architectural impossibility – or should have been – like an M.C. Escher print. It was a monstrosity. Grotesque. Beautiful. Mainly it was fascinating, an amazing, impossible amalgamation of every kind of library all at once.

In the central-most structure were hints of once traditional origins: a spacious, bluestone columned building. But it looked strangely swollen, as if it had gorged itself on literature. The sides bulged near bursting. Incongruously, turrets rose from one side. I pictured a reading room in the high tower, long tables with low green lamps and leather wingback chairs with nail-head trim. On the opposite side was a modern-looking wing, all stainless steel and glass. An enclosed pedestrian walkway wound around the upper stories, connecting a turret on one side with a concrete balcony on the other.

It reminded me of a short story we’d read in English 9: Jorge Borges’ The Library of Babel. This was how the Library of Babel would look.

I needed to sketch it immediately.

Zak laughed when I said so. I was going to show you the Botanicals section, but it can wait.

The Botanicals section? I asked, momentarily distracted. Why? There’s a Botanicals section?

Your daisy obsession, he reminded me. And there’s a section for everything. Wait here. He bounded up the wide stone steps and disappeared inside.

He was back a minute later with a thin wooden board, several sheets of surprisingly decent paper and a charcoal pencil. He presented them to me with a flourish.

How did you do that? I asked, a little awestruck. Was the library magic to boot? Was Zak?

Well, I reminded myself, this is the Dreamworld after all.

Zak grinned like he knew what I was thinking. I just asked the librarian, he told me.

So maybe he wasn’t magic, but apparently he could read my mind.

I felt more than a little self-conscious as I settled in at the base of the library steps with my makeshift sketchbook and pencil, mainly because I knew Zak was perched one step above me, peeking over my shoulder. But I settled in, focusing instead on the strange lines and impossible curves that defined the library’s external structure. It was completely engrossing.

I stopped, abruptly aware that Zak was no longer sneaking the occasional peek. He was flat-out unabashedly staring now.

Are you this good in your world? he asked with such obvious admiration that I blushed automatically.

I frowned. Why would I be better here?

He just shrugged like this answered his question.

Wait. I realized what he’d said. You know about – my world?

Zak smiled a little smugly. Sure, he said. In the Borderlands you see everything.

The Borderlands? I repeated doubtfully.

He laughed. Where we are now. Your field. The library. All of this— he opened his arms wide, then shrugged. Wherever the barriers are thinnest.

Barriers?

Between worlds, he answered my unspoken question. Mine. Yours.

So, you’re not from here, then? I said, trying to wrap my mind around his words.

No one is from the Borderlands. It’s – a place of possibility. But I’m here a lot.

I frowned. But you’re not dreaming like me? It was the first time I’d said it out loud to him. That I was dreaming. That this was a dream.

Just a dream.

No, he said, but he didn’t seem the least bit shocked by my big announcement. Or remotely concerned by its implications vis-à-vis . . . him.

You knew? I didn’t mean to sound so accusing.

I could see he was making an effort not to roll his eyes at me. Yes, he said, then shrugged again. Lots of dreamers come to the Borderlands. Still totally unfazed.

So – just so we’re clear, I said slowly, thinking it through. I’m dreaming. You’re awake. These are the Borderlands. We agree?

We do.

And you don’t think this is at all a little strange? I tried.

I think you’re acting a little strange, he said, but his eyes were amused.

You’re no help, I told him.

Think about it this way, he said like he was humoring me. If this is only a dream – and not real . . .

It was only a dream. And therefore not real.

Then what does it matter? And if it’s something else . . . he trailed off.

Something else. For a second my stomach tightened. If it was something else . . . what did he mean by that? And why did I feel like I might already know?

Well? I pressed.

But he just smiled and shook his head. I like that option. He glanced at the sky, the sun’s position. Checking the time, I realized. Like he knew I needed to go soon.

I wasn’t even sure how I knew that? How could he possibly?

So, see you tomorrow? He smirked at me.

The problem was I knew I would.

The bigger problem was I couldn’t wait.

Chapter 4

The Analysis

"Guh?"

It was Saturday morning, 9:00 AM. At least two hours until I could contact Teagan and expect coherence, even if she did sleep with her iPhone in one hand. I called anyway.

I saw him again, I announced.

There was a pause. Chloe? I could practically see her fumbling for her glasses, checking her phone. Who did you see?

Zak, I said, like duh. Belatedly I realized this was maybe only obvious to me.

Another pause. Groggily, The dream guy? Another pause. What time is it?

I’m coming over. I hung up before she could forbid it.

***

Twenty minutes later I climbed into Tee’s gargantuan four-poster canopied bed with my sketchbook and a paper bag with two Boston Cream donuts, both for her. Bribery. Tee was cocooned in the blankets with her pillow preemptively pulled over her head.

Tee! I said, prodding her shoulder with the corner of my sketchbook. I need you.

She smacked me over the head with her copy of Decoding Your Dreams. The book fell to the blankets as she stretched and yawned theatrically before helping herself to a Boston Cream donut.

Okay, she said, mouth full. Spill.

I’d debated not telling her. I’d been back and forth about it since 6:00 AM when I officially gave up on ever getting back to sleep and started sketching instead. If I told her, she’d inevitably tell Chase. They’d tease me about it. Much more, since it was apparently a recurring thing. Poor obsessed Chloe with her sad, delusional dream life. But in the end I decided to tell her. Because if I didn’t that would mean I believed Zak after all . . . if this is something else . . . And that would be ridiculous. I mean, I knew that.

Didn’t I?

Mainly, though, I wanted to tell her. I was dying to tell her. I couldn’t help myself.

It was like he was there waiting for me, I began. I could hear my own disbelief.

Tee licked the chocolate icing from her fingers. Maybe he was.

Well, isn’t that kind of . . . weird?

Chloe Jane Wilder, are you telling me you don’t think you’re worth waiting for? Teagan sounded scarily like her psychologist mother.

I pointed this out.

She responded with a prompt, expressive hand gesture that was in no way like her psychologist mother.

Point taken. Sorry, sorry, I said, laughing.

Mollified, she pulled out the second Boston Cream donut. I just don’t get why you think it’s so impossible that some guy could actually like you. It seems pretty obvious to me.

What seemed obvious to me was that I’d somehow developed a slight obsession with a figment of my own imagination and wasn’t that just a little narcissistic?

You do remember we’re talking about a dream? I reminded her.

Irrelevant, Tee said firmly.

Let’s just see what the book says, I said.

***

Decoding Your Dreams by P.J. Elias and Maryanne Evans-McNamara, Ph.D. opened with a brief introduction on the intrinsic importance and real-world relevance of dreams.

Welcome to the world of dreams where the rules of reality do not apply.

Glancing at the Bios page, I saw that Dr. Evans-McNamara had her Ph.D. (honorary) in Dreamology and that P.J. Elias was a self-described dream enthusiast. It occurred to me then that Decoding Your Dreams might not be my most legitimate resource. But it was there, and I was curious. So we skipped ahead to the dream dictionary and set to work.

Here we go, Teagan said, flipping the pages. You said both dreams started in a field?

I peered over her shoulder:

Field: A field symbolizes freedom, happiness, and possibility. It may also suggest personal growth.

Possibility! Personal growth! Tee said, jamming her index finger into the words. There you go! She said this like it proved her point about me – like it proved all her points about me.

It says it ‘may’ suggest personal growth, I countered, unconvinced.

Fine. Well, what about the insane library, then? Tee flipped to the L’s. She read aloud:

"Library: The library represents your quest for truth and knowledge as well as your need to seek new meanings from life. You should study and evaluate your situation before taking action. A disorganized library suggests too much information is coming at you too fast. You are having difficulty making sense of it all."

I don’t think it fits, I said, skeptical.

Teagan rolled her eyes. "Of course it fits. It’s basically telling you to spend more time with your boyfriend.

"Study and evaluate your situation before taking action . . . to find new meanings in life. She raised an eyebrow. Add that to the field and the possibilities for personal growth are endless. What more do you want?"

This seemed like a major stretch to me. If you look at it like that you can make anything work, I protested. It’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Also, not my boyfriend. Why was this a point I needed to keep making?

Whatever, Clo. If you want to argue against the obvious . . .

I just shook my head. On a whim and a little bit to change the subject, I asked, Can you look up ‘daisy?’

"Daisy: The daisy symbolizes the purity of love, innocence, simplicity, and friendliness. To walk in a field of daisies signifies good fortune. Someone will be there to offer you a helping hand and guidance for your problems."

I blinked, thoughtful. It didn’t exactly remind me of Zak, but it did remind me of a different dream. An older memory. My childhood imagination run wild. Calvin. It was exactly Calvin. Whatever that meant.

So are you going to see him again? Zak? Tee asked, finally.

I mean it’s a dream— I started to say. When her eyes widened in exasperation, I amended it to, He says ‘yes.’

Which, at least, was true.

That seemed to satisfy her. Which meant I didn’t need to share my real answer: I hoped so.

Chapter 5

The Library

I stepped into my usual field and the blindingly bright afternoon sunlight. Another perfect Dreamworld day. Were there imperfect days in the Dreamworld? I glanced around me, and for a second I thought – yes. Yes. There were absolutely imperfect days in the Dreamworld. Because the field was deserted. I was alone.

The wave of utter and total disappointment that swept over me was slightly pathetic. Okay, utterly and totally pathetic. I’d thought . . . I’d assumed . . .

Over here, Zak called from behind me.

I whirled around, startled. He was sitting cross-legged in the grass maybe ten feet from my position. How had I missed him before?

I could feel myself grinning like an idiot now. Utterly and totally relieved. (I know. Utterly and totally pathetic for real.)

Hello, he said, starting to stand.

Were you waiting for me? I asked him, feeling ridiculously bold. Teagan would be proud, I thought.

He smiled innocently. Maybe. He smirked. Were you looking for me?

I felt my face flush. So much for boldness. Teagan would so not be proud. Maybe.

***

We went back to the library – inside it this time. It was officially the most amazingly insane place I’d ever seen. Dizzying spiral staircases wound up the center. There were elegant reading rooms with overstuffed chairs and fantastical multi-colored glass Tiffany lamps. There were wooden study carrels with carved-up desks, hearts and initials and so-and-so was here immortalized. Secret passageways seemed entirely likely. And the books!

Warehouse-sized expanses held long shelves of floor-to-ceiling books organized by the strangest subcategories: books with happy endings, books with star-crossed lovers, family dramedies, books featuring quirky sidekicks, set in nature, in other worlds, etc., etc. This was not the Dewey Decimal System at work.

A picture-perfect librarian sat behind a counter under the Circulation Desk sign. She was almost too stereotypical to believe: the mousy hair in a neat bun, the little button-down shirt and cardigan, the lady librarian glasses. She was nose-deep in a massive tome and probably wouldn’t have looked up as we passed, but Zak stopped to point out the large pitcher of daisies on the counter beside her.

Nice, I agreed. Maybe we should ask her where they came from. I was halfway kidding, but Zak looked slightly puzzled. I got the feeling I was missing something. Something apparently obvious.

The librarian carefully bookmarked her place and glanced up. Bellis perennis, she announced. Native to northern, western, and central Europe. Common name: daisy. Botanicals section, atrium.

Wh-what? I asked, a little taken aback by the abrupt deluge of information.

The librarian frowned. Encyclopedias Britannica, Americana, World Book, Funk & Wagnalls, General Reference Room. Seventeenth floor.

What? I turned and mouthed the word to Zak.

He laughed. You asked, she answered.

It took me a minute to get it. I’d asked where the daisies had come from and she’d told me (native to northern, western, and central Europe), and I’d asked what and . . . she’d answered that, too.

Literally, I said, shaking my head. "So if I’d asked why we’d be heading toward Philosophy right now?"

Zak smiled. Probably.

I turned back to the librarian. She’d already returned to her book. Um, thank you, I said. For your help. It was nice to meet you.

Emily Post, she said without looking up. "Etiquette. Try How-To’s. Suite 101."

Oh, I didn’t mean—

Small talk, Marian, Zak explained.

The librarian’s name was Marian? Marian-the-librarian? I shook my head. Seriously?

Marian shut her book with a look of resignation. Adjusting her glasses, she gave me a brief once-over. Well, then, she said, with a sharp satisfied nod. Like we’d settled something. She opened her book again.

I guessed Marian-the-librarian didn’t do much small-talking.

She seems very . . . friendly, I whispered doubtfully as we moved away from the counter.

For her that was friendly, Zak said.

***

We found the Botanicals section. It was a large, glass-ceilinged atrium, sort of a hybrid greenhouse reading room: neatly shelved potted-plants juxtaposed with regular books and wrought iron armchairs. The books themselves were a mix of genre, scientific field guides of flora and fauna beside classics like Jack and the Beanstalk, The Giving Tree, and The Secret Garden.

And there in the midst of it all, beneath a sign marked Featured Flora and several copies of Henry James’ Daisy Miller, was the daisy display. Why was I even surprised? Zak went straight to it. We read the plaque, which detailed the characteristics of the species Bellis perennis, and admired the potted specimens: classic white-and-yellow English daisies, bright pink and red Gerber daisies, and, impossibly, a red-and-yellow freckled variety definitely not found in nature – or at least, not in real life.

This is why you wanted to show me the Botanicals section? I guessed.

Actually, Zak said. This is new. But he didn’t exactly seem surprised to see it. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Well, that’s very— I fumbled. Coincidental.

He smirked. You think so?

What did that mean? I did think so. At least I’d thought so. Because otherwise . . .

You didn’t request this or something? I asked, tentatively.

No? Why?

You talk a lot about daisies, I told him.

Me? Now he sounded genuinely surprised.

Um, yes, you, I said. I’m starting to think you’re the one with the daisy obsession.

He just stared at me like he thought I was kidding. No, he said with perfect conviction.

I’m just saying – you seem to see them everywhere.

Yes, but— he hesitated. As though deciding something.

Yes, but . . . ? I prompted.

He shook his head. You started it.

Whatever, I said. Terrible comeback. Really. Awful.

I’ll work on something better, he promised, smiling again. Come on, let’s see the rest.

***

We spent several hours with the old-fashioned card catalogue – rows and rows of drawers jam-packed with printed cards, titles organized by subject or author – pulling books, books, books. I had to wonder about the card catalogue. There didn’t seem to be a lot of advanced technology in the Borderlands, though it was hard to pinpoint an exact era