Dreamland by Sarah Dessen

Stewart’s arms shot straight up, and they both had their eyes closed. Beyond the huge windows on the other side of the room I could see Rina and Eliza sitting by the fountain outside, smoking, tapping their ash into the water behind them.
    I went back to the punch area, where my mother was handing out cups and cookies.
    â€œHi, honey,” she said to me. Her face was flushed and she was smiling. My mother liked nothing more than a nice project to lose herself in. She’d been baking cookies and brownies all week for Senior Days, as well as coordinating thirty other Junior Leaguers for everything from decorations to scheduling. “Do me a favor?” she asked me.
    â€œSure,” I said, as an elderly woman with a walker bumped me out of the way to grab a cookie.
    â€œGo back in the kitchen and bring out another tray of these, would you? We’ve got some kids helping out back there. They can show you where they are.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œWonderful,” she said, already having moved on to a group of older men who were struggling to open a container of juice. “Let me get that for you ... here you go! And help yourself to a cookie. We’ve got chocolate chip, lemon drop, pecan ...”
    As I walked through the open kitchen door, I saw the room was empty, save for a guy stacking cookies onto a big platter on the far countertop. The room was very bright, with fluorescent lights and clean, white floors and walls, and I found myself squinting as I crossed over to where he was standing. Outside, in the main room, I could still hear Wade talking; he was saying something about freedom of movement.
    â€œExcuse me,” I said, and I remember thinking there was something about this person that was familiar, even before he turned around, “I’m supposed to—”
    It was Rogerson. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, his hair pulled back at his neck, and seeing him in such bright light was startling, and made him suddenly real. He didn’t seem surprised to see me at all, just leveling me with a look and smiling slightly.
    Outside, Wade was directing everyone to breathe and do a personal movement, something spontaneous. “You just might surprise yourself,” he said.
    Rogerson put a cookie on the tray. “Supposed to what?” he said, and there was that look again, half mocking me, and I felt woozy under all those lights, like I might fall down.
    â€œGet those,” I said, pointing to the tray, which he picked up and handed to me. I turned around and started for the door, feeling him watching me as I walked away.
    â€œRemember to breathe,” Wade was saying from the stage, his voice low and soothing.
    I turned around and Rogerson was still there. He raised his eyebrows.
    â€œSo,” I said, “were you, like, not even going to call me?”
    He looked surprised. “I didn’t know your last name.”
    â€œYou know where I live,” I said.
    â€œYeah,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. He ducked his head and a few dreadlocks slipped and fell over his forehead. Then he looked up and said, “I was working on that.”
    â€œReally.”
    â€œYep,” he said, leaning back against the counter. There was something about the way he moved, slowly and deliberately, that drove me crazy. “Really.”
    I just shook my head and walked back out to the punch table, where my mother, exasperated, yanked the tray out of my hand, knocking a few pecan cookies to the floor. “Well, it’s about time,” she said as she put it on the table, and hands immediately began grabbing.
    But I was already turning back to the kitchen, walking through to find Rogerson standing just where I’d left him, as if he’d known I’d be back and was waiting for me.
    â€œLet it go,” Wade was saying, and I could still see him in my head, fingers touching, as I walked across that bright kitchen. “Open up your