Dreamland

  It took me a while to get the hang of it. It was way, way harder than it might seem. And as soon as I’d graduated from that, Balthazar had me jumping for real.

  We moved to a soundstage—one that was smaller than the one where Buttercup had made his debut—one that was used strictly for training—a place where, basically, I did all the same things I’d just done.

  I’d watch a dream in progress, but instead of yelling, “Jump!” I’d just nod, and the next thing I knew I was somehow propelled from my seat and projected right into the scene. Dropped right in the middle of whatever it was that was happening, and then, without alerting the dreamer, without startling them, scaring them, or, worst of all, waking them, I had to find a way to blend in, to not stand out in any way.

  It seemed like it should be a cinch. The kind of thing that should be impossible to fail. Easy-peasy in every sense of the word.

  But, as it turned out, it was pretty much the opposite of the way it first seemed.

  On my first three attempts, all of the dreamers woke up.

  On the fourth, the dreamer marched right up to me and demanded to know who I was and just how I got there.

  And on the fifth—well, that’s when I froze. I had no idea what to do.

  “Cut!” Balthazar shouted, the sound of his voice yanking me out, propelling me back in my seat, where I cowered beside him. “What have you done? Why you just stand there like that? Like a … like a … like a snowman!”

  I bit down on my lip, pretty sure he meant to say statue and not snowman, but I was so completely ashamed of myself, I was in no position to correct him.

  “I’m so sorry.” I shook my head, looked away. “I guess … I guess I just froze. It felt like I was caught in a nightmare.”

  He looked at me, brows slanting together as his eyes bulged beneath them. “Nightmare? Nightmare! You think I make nightmare? You think I allow that sort of dark dream?”

  He was angry.

  No, actually it was far worse than that. He’d gone from testy and red-faced to absolutely furious in just a handful of seconds. And I was so desperate for him to understand, so desperate for him to get what I meant, that I said, “No! I didn’t mean it was a nightmare for the dreamer—I meant that it was a nightmare for me!”

  He stopped. Squinted. Yanked his notepad from his back pocket and flipped through the scribbled-up pages, studying them carefully before leveling his gaze back on me.

  “That girl—the dreamer—she was at a school dance, right?”

  Balthazar frowned.

  “Well, as it turns out, I’ve never been to a school dance. I mean, I’ve seen them on TV shows and movies and stuff. Even read about them in books. But I’ve never experienced one for myself. We didn’t have any of those at my old school. I guess they figured we weren’t mature enough to handle it.” I rolled my eyes, shook my head, but then quickly moved on, got back to the point. “They saved that sort of thing for the teens in junior high. And, as luck would have it, I died right before I could get there. Which is why I wasn’t sure how to act, or how to blend in. That’s why I froze like I did. Like … like a snowman.”

  Balthazar considered, grumbled a few foreign phrases I couldn’t comprehend, then he shoved the notebook back in his pocket, adjusted his scarf, and said, “You think Russell Crowe was really a gladiator?”

  He stared at me, awaiting my reply, but I had no idea what to say. No idea who he was talking about, much less what he was getting at.

  “You think Marlon Brando was a member of the mob?” He scoffed, eyes narrowing to slits as he shook his round head. “You think Elizabeth Taylor was the true queen of the Nile? You think she was the real Cleopatra?”

  I just stood there, feeling dumber by the second, as Balthazar grumbled some more foreign phrases, before he looked at me and said, “You think, how do you say … ?” He squinted, rubbed his chin. “You think that this … this … Daniel Radcliffe—you think he rides a broom in real life?”

  I cringed, shoulders slumping so badly I practically shrank to half my actual size. Suddenly understanding what he meant by all that, but before I could find a reply, he shouted, “None of those people were none of those things before they shot the scene! But, once they found themselves there, they felt their way through it. They determined what was necessary—what was called for—what to do! This is called acting, Riley! And if you want to dream jump, then you must act too. You must adjust to the scene you find yourself in, you must quickly observe all the action around you, and then you must do whatever it takes to fit in … to … to blend … to become one with the scene! That is what I require of you!”

  I straightened my shoulders, and lifted my head. I got it. I really, truly got it. Finally, it all made sense. It pretty much mimicked what I’d thought earlier—if I could act it, I could be it. And so I was determined to handle it, I was pretty dang sure that I could. All I needed was another chance, though a little direction wouldn’t hurt.

  My gaze leveling on his in a dead-on stare when I said, “While I agree that’s all true, it’s also true that another thing all of those people had in common was a good director.” I paused, waited for my words to sink in. “Every one of those actors had a good director who helped to guide them—to steer them—who helped them find their way.”

  Balthazar studied me, considered my words, choosing to let me try once again when he shouted, “Fine, now we move on. Scene six, take one—action!”

  13

  It took me a total of nine jumps to nail it.

  Nine whole jumps to finally perfect the landing.

  But even though I’d succeeded, even though I was feeling pretty dang proud of myself, even though we’d just moved on to the most amazing back lot—the kind with faux cityscapes and street scenes—the kind they use in all the best movies—according to Balthazar, my success came too late.

  Closing time had arrived.

  Or, as Balthazar put it: “Cut! That’s a wrap!”

  Those four simple words were all it took for everything to come to a quick and grinding halt.

  I stood there, Buttercup beside me, watching a stream of people all heading in the same direction—toward the exit. And yet, despite the evidence before me, I still refused to believe it was over. Refused to believe my big opportunity had ended so easily.

  It wasn’t my fault it took me so long—I’d gotten a late start! I mean, seriously? Quitting time? How could there even be such a thing—it just didn’t make any sense.

  But before I could even lodge a complaint, Balthazar was already waving good-bye, already walking away.

  Acting as though the time he’d spent coaching me was over in more ways than one.

  Acting as though he’d forgotten all about me, and my dog, not to mention my backstory.

  He didn’t even say good-bye. He just turned on his heel and moved on to whatever came next.

  Treating my dream jump like it was just some dumb TV infomercial.

  Some low-budget movie headed straight for DVD.

  Some crummy YouTube video that wouldn’t get a single comment or view.

  Some amateur project he’d been forced to waste his great talent on.

  Treating Buttercup and me as though we were disposable.

  And when a guy walked toward us with the same style scarf and goatee as Balthazar wore, like it was some kind of Dreamland director’s uniform, I grabbed hold of his sleeve and yanked hard as I said, “I was hoping you could help me. I was just about to make my dream jump when everything started shutting down for the day.”

  He squinted, shook his head, and pointed toward the gate a whole swarm of people continued to pour through.

  But I wasn’t having it. No way would I give up so easily. I’d worked dang hard to perfect my landing, and I was having my dream jump whether they liked it or not.

  “Yeah, well, I get that it’s quitting time and all.” I tried to smile, but it felt pretty fake so I was quick to move on. “I mean, I’d just perfected the landing—I was ju
st about to jump for real, when Balthazar yelled, ‘Cut!’ and everything stopped, and, well, because of that I still haven’t gotten my jump. And the thing is, I’m ready. I know exactly what to do, so this really shouldn’t take all that long. So, with that in mind, I was wondering like, what happens next? Can you squeeze me in real quick? Can I come back tomorrow? And if so, do I get to go first?”

  He looked at me, his voice gruff and hurried when he said, “You can add your name to the waiting list—Balthazar will get to you when he can.” Then he left.

  I called after him. Told him I needed a little more to go on than that. But it was no use. The words never reached him.

  So I did the only thing I could, I motioned for Buttercup to follow as we headed for the gate too. And even though I tried to smile and act happy for Mort’s benefit, the truth was, I felt deflated. More than a little bit devastated. Unwilling to believe my big chance was over—kaput—just like that.

  “So, how’d it go?” Mort leaned down to pet Buttercup, who happily sniffed and licked his fingers. “Did you learn how to jump? What’d you think of it? You talk to your sister?”

  I slunk through the gate, managed to answer his questions as best as I could. Though my heart wasn’t in it. And before we’d gotten too far, well, that’s when a whole new thought appeared.

  It was just a flash, which is all I could really allow since I had no idea how to shield my thoughts from everyone else. But basically I figured since I’d worked so hard to succeed—since I’d done everything that was asked of me—well, I deserved to get what I came for. I had no intention of leaving, no intention of going anywhere, until I got my dream jump. There was no way I’d linger at the bottom of some waiting list—no way at all. That kind of thing wasn’t working for me.

  “I …” I tried not to gulp, fidget, or engage in any other kind of nervous habit that might make Mort and Buttercup suspect a really big lie was in progress. “I … uh, I forgot something. I forgot my …” I almost said I forgot my sweater, but at the last second I remembered how Ever forgot her sky-blue Pinecone Lake Cheerleading Camp sweatshirt at the campsite the day we all died. How my dad turned the car around to go back and get it, and that’s when the deer ran in front of us, the car swerved off the road, and the rest, as they say, is history. So instead I just said, “I forgot my bracelet—my silver charm bracelet. I think it fell off when—”

  “So you manifest another one.” Mort’s voice was a little bit edgy, maybe even testy. Now that his dream jump was over he was ready to catch the train and move on. “You know how to do that, right? You just close your eyes and envision it, and …”

  Buttercup looked at me, head tilted, eyes wide, as though he was tuning in to my devious mind.

  So I shook my head, mumbled something about it being one of a kind, having belonged to my sister, that it couldn’t be replaced quite so easily. Then I told Mort not to worry about me. Told Buttercup not to wait for me. Assured them both I’d be fine, would catch the next train, or perhaps even fly. Either way, I’d find my way back. I had a few ideas of where to start looking. It might take a while, but I was sure I would find it. No reason to wait. I’d catch them both later.

  Then, before they could stop me, I ran.

  Ran as fast as I could.

  Slipping through the gate when the guard had his back turned, and making my way across the concrete, the grass, and over to the asphalt.

  Heading straight for the soundstage without once looking back.

  14

  While all the soundstages I’d visited back on the earth plane were equipped with the latest high-tech security systems (I knew this from all the time I spent hanging out on movie sets, spying on actors and stuff before I crossed the bridge and moved Here), in the Here & Now, there was no need for that kind of thing.

  Everything worked on the honor system.

  For one thing, it’s not like you could actually steal anything when everything there was to be had could be easily manifested again.

  And for another, in case you hadn’t already guessed, the Here & Now really isn’t the kind of place where you find a lot of criminal activity.

  People Here mostly do the right thing. They want to learn and grow and improve.

  They want to glow brighter so they can move up as many levels as possible.

  Which is why it was so easy for me to sneak my way back inside.

  But which is also why I felt so terribly guilty about having done so successfully.

  Still, the guilty feeling didn’t last all that long. I had a dream jump to get to. I had no time for shame.

  I needed to keep moving. I needed to find a way to be thirteen. It couldn’t wait any longer—the need was too great.

  I headed toward the soundstage, figuring I’d reenact everything Balthazar had taught me. I’d go silent, go quiet, tune in to Ever’s energy pattern, her imprint, and take it from there.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have access to all the stunt people and makeup artists, and costumers, and props, and all that—but there was also nothing wrong with keeping it simple.

  Short, sweet, and simple—it would get the job done.

  I’d spend a little time with my sister, get some good tips, then find my way out.

  Easy-peasy.

  I brightened at the idea. It felt good to have a plan. Or at least that’s what I thought up until it went black.

  And I mean black.

  Like, no lights, no glow, no nothing kind of black.

  Even though I hadn’t been in the Here & Now all that long, that was the first time I’d ever experienced something like that.

  I couldn’t remember it ever once getting dark. Everywhere you went there was light to be found. Always sort of radiating with a soft, goldeny, glistening glow. And though I could never spot the source, it was constant, luminous, making it seem as though the entire place was lit from within.

  Unless, of course, you wanted to manifest snow, or rain, or wind, or some other type of foul weather (believe it or not, some people actually missed that kind of thing)—but even then it was relegated to a small, selected area that was easy enough to avoid while it played itself out or the person grew bored of it, whichever came first. And in no time at all, everything returned to that soft, beautiful glow once again.

  But the kind of all-encompassing, opaque, inky dark I found myself in, well it was the sort of thing I hadn’t seen since our family camping trips back on the earth plane. And even then, we still had the moon. We still had the stars to shine down upon us.

  But in Dreamland there was nothing like that. And when I tried to manifest a flashlight, and then a whole armful of flashlights, it barely made a dent in the heavy canopy of black velvet sky.

  I should probably admit right now, that that was pretty much the moment when I started to have second thoughts. I’d never been a fan of the dark—especially the pitch-black kind of dark—the kind of dark that can’t be easily cured.

  I started to leave, was more than willing to cut my losses and vámanos myself right out of there. The night felt so threatening, so ominous, that the idea of lingering on a really long waiting list was starting to look pretty good.

  But just because I was willing to leave doesn’t mean I was able. When I lifted my own hand before me, held it before my eyes and wiggled my fingers, well, I couldn’t even see it. It was as though I’d lost all my digits.

  With no way of knowing whether or not I was headed in the right direction, I resorted to baby steps. Small, timid, baby steps. All the while cursing myself for sending Buttercup off on his own, for telling Mort I could handle it fine. Picking up the pace when the panic started to mount, and regretting the decision the moment I crashed straight into a wall. Crashed so hard I was sure I’d just made my semi-stubby nose even stubbier.

  I stood there, palms pressed to my face, my entire body shaking as I choked back the tears. Stealing a moment to give myself a very stern talking-to, reminding myself that fear was for sissies, panic led to no good, and crying was
an indulgence I could not afford.

  Repeating it again and again until it started to feel real—until I started to believe.

  And that’s when I saw it.

  The tiniest, briefest flicker of light.

  It was quick.

  Fleeting.

  Here and gone in an instant.

  Still, it was enough to convince me to wait patiently, silently—hoping with all of my might that I’d see it again.

  The second time was as brief as the first, but it was enough to get me moving—enough to convince me to take one more baby step toward the source. Stopping each time it went dark, then taking another step forward when that quick beam of light pierced through, then stopping the second it went black once again.

  It felt like forever before I reached it. Though by that point I was just glad to have made it, even though I had no idea where I might be.

  I stood outside the building, ran my hand along the coarse, rough wall, pretty sure it wasn’t one of the ones I’d already visited—overcome with the sinking, dreaded feeling that it just might be the building I’d glimpsed earlier.

  The one that looked old.

  Run-down.

  Forgotten, abandoned, and left to rot in a way that should’ve been condemned.

  And when the light flashed again, I saw where it came from. Saw the way it slipped through the cracks of an old, boarded-up space that probably once held a door.

  I edged toward it, smooshed my cheeks against the splintery slats, and peered in. Startled to find a kid I guessed to be about my age—a boy with hair so blond it was practically white, and skin so pale it blended into the hair. And when he turned, when he looked in my direction and his gaze settled on mine, I saw that his eyes were so deep and blue they reminded me of California swimming pools.