My Dream Boy

Alexa Julian

As a child, I used to imagine that my dream boy was always watching me. Like an omnipresent god, he was hiding behind my closet door when I changed into my ratty pajamas, sleepy-eyed and serene. Remembering he could see, I was suddenly awake, scolding myself for not wearing something more pleasing for his peeking eyes. He’s watching! Get yourself together.

When I bathed, my skin slick and lathered in soap, I would remind myself that he could see beyond the suds. Suck in your stomach. Fix your posture.

Left home alone, I sang cheesy ballads until there was no air left in my lungs, my voice shrill and hoarse. I wanted to be a pop star, but I doubted my dream boy enjoyed my performance. You’re out of tune. This is embarrassing. Stop.

At school, he followed me down the hallways. On my way from Language Arts to Social Studies I made sure to walk with confidence—but not too much—smiling at passersby to show my dream boy that I was kind and friendly and had nice teeth and people liked me and he should like me, too. Still, I felt his attention shift to the other girls we passed, their ponytails bouncing and laughing with each step. They don’t even have to try. Do you really think your little performance can compete?

My dream boy boarded the school bus and followed me home where he watched me do homework and watch TV and eat dinner and sing and shower and brush my teeth and change into my pajamas and try to go to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. I replayed my day through his eyes and scrutinized every pattern. I promised his lurking eyes that I would do better tomorrow. I would be better for him. If he sees you as you are, he will never want you. He is everywhere and you are nothing.

As I finally fell asleep, I dreamed that I was sitting crisscross applesauce in my closet, tears spilling over my eyes. My dream boy was there, too, and I could finally see his full form—perfect and otherworldly and fully present. Still, for some reason I could not stop crying, my tears falling to flood the room. He watched me sob—watched the room fill with my tears—and did nothing. Somewhere, swimming deep within the flood, I could hear a submerged voice begin to whisper. He is not your dream boy. This is a nightmare. Wake up.