Riley Bloom Dreamland (10 page)

Maybe he had been the same age as me for a very long time.

Maybe there was no way to grow and mature.

Maybe Bodhi had lied about all that in an attempt to get me to shut up and stop complaining about being eternally twelve.

Maybe we really were stuck.

Maybe I’d live Here for infinity and nothing about me would change!

“I was his number-one intern,” Satchel said, invading my thoughts, but I was happy to let him, they were putting me into a serious mental tailspin. “I was the best assistant director Dreamland ever saw …”

“And then?” I gulped, eager to hear what came next.

He shrugged, patted his hair, a gesture he’d done twice in the short time I’d known him, and I wondered if it was his own personal nervous
tell.

“And then …” He paused, tugged at the cuffs on his shirt (another tell?), took way too much time inspecting his sleeve, pretending to remove a nonexistent piece of lint.

“And then, we had a disagreement.” He shrugged. “A sort of …
falling out,
if you will.

And

now

Balthazar

does

what

he

does—
dream jumps
—and I do what I do—
dreamweaving.
Trust me, Riley, my way is better. You’re lucky you found your way here. Balthazar has talent, there’s no doubt about that. But what he lacks is
vision.
And whether you’re directing a dream, or a movie, or even a play you put on for you parents and your dog in your garage …” He looked right at me, and I wondered how he could possibly know about that, how he could possibly know about Ever’s and my Rainy Day Productions—that’s what we called our theater company, we even made brochures to go with it. But then he just smiled again, and I began to relax, figuring lots of kids did stuff like that. It was an easy guess on his part.

“Anyway,” he continued, reclaiming my attention. “No matter what sort of production you’re directing, vision is
everything.
” I looked at him, remembering how Balthazar had claimed that
the imprint
was everything, and that
the landing
came a close second. Clearly they worked from two very different perspectives.

“What Balthazar does is nice, don’t get me wrong,” Satchel continued. “And it definitely serves a purpose, there’s no doubt. But, as you’re about to see, there’s just no comparis-on. His stuff … well, it’s a little
schmaltzy
. A little …
sappy
. Too many rainbows and smiling puppies for sure. His stuff is dripping with sugar, and spice, and everything nice.

Overly sentimental in the most obvious way.” He grimaced, making clear his disapproval, his distaste. “It’s not near as important as the work I do here. The same work you’ll soon be doing here too. What I do changes lives, Riley. After one of my dreamweaves … well, let’s just say that the dreamer’s life is never quite the same. They begin to see their place in the world in a whole new way.” I looked at him, wondering if Balthazar knew he was here, wondering if anyone knew he was here.

“So, what do you say we get started?” he said, not allowing me enough time to reply before he added, “Oh, and just so you know, there is no dream jumping here. There’s no need for it. What I do covers everything.”

“So, how do you do it?” I asked, more intrigued than anything. Following the curve of his arm, all the way down to the tip of his slim, pale finger as he pointed toward a dark, empty stage with the stained screen right behind it.

“For starters, you need to head over there.

Stand right on your mark. You’ll see it when you get there. And then I’ll start the projector, and you just sort of … go with it. Remember how you did with the dream jump? Well, that part’s the same. You just keep on acting no matter what. You stay in character until I tell you to stop. Deal?” He looked at me, looked directly into my eyes, and all I could do was nod in reply.

That was the second time he’d used the word “deal.” And while I liked it even less than the first time, for some reason, I didn’t hesitate to do what he said. It’s as though his gaze alone was compelling me forward. Like I no longer controlled my own will. But what was even stranger is that I didn’t seem to care. I only wanted to please him, to get a good review.

“Like this?” I asked, my voice too high, my smile too bright. “Is this the right spot?” Knowing it was. The X was clearly marked.

And yet, I couldn’t help but seek his approval, even if it took a little begging on my part.

He nodded, face squinched in deep concentration as he peered between the view-finder and me, saying, “Now remember, it’s like Balthazar taught you. Just go with the scene you find yourself in. Adapt and blend in, no matter what I put before you, no matter what the situation. Just do whatever it takes to make sure the dreamer stays in the scene too. The last thing we want is for them to wake up before the dream is complete.

There’s a very important message attached, I don’t just make this stuff up for my own entertainment, you know. But, it’s imperative they experience the
whole, entire
dream. It’s imperative that they don’t wake prematurely.

Otherwise, the message will be lost.” I nodded, staring at my feet, making sure they didn’t stray from the mark. Then my eyes flicked toward the screen and I focused as hard as I could. Body on edge, senses on high alert, waiting for an image to appear, waiting for my cue to begin.

The first thing I heard was the odd click and whir as the film reel circled. Then the screen went pitch-black, but only for a second before it lit up again, bearing an image of an old Indian wearing a headdress perched above a series of circles containing a bunch of seemingly random numbers. I squinted, trying to think of where I’d last seen that, and then I remembered, it was an old TV test pattern. Back on the earth plane, my friend Emily’s brother had a T-shirt with the exact same picture on it.

And then, just like
that,
the next thing I knew the screen lit up with the most spectacular thunder and lightning show, and I stood there in awe, happy to watch, and feeling pretty thankful it remained on the screen, that it wasn’t actually raining on me.

Though unfortunately, the thought came too soon, and the next thing I knew it was raining for real. Like taking a ride through the car wash in a convertible with the top left down, a torrential downpour completely drenched me.

When the lights up above started to sizzle and crack, their bulbs popping and flaring as though they might electrocute me, I took to the ground and ducked my head low. Doing what I could to shield myself with my hands by grasping them tightly over my head, silently reciting the facts as I knew them: The Here & Now didn’t run on electricity—it was just some kind of special effect—part of the dream Satchel was weaving—there was no way any of it could harm me.

I peered toward him, knowing better than to look at the camera, much less at the director, while in the middle of shooting a scene, unless, of course, you were directed to. But still I glanced his way, squinting through steady ribbons of water raining down all around me, hoping for a little direction, a little approval—looking for some in-dication of where this scene might be heading, and just how long I’d be required to put up with this—but not getting much of anything.

Satchel was absorbed. Having moved away from the projector, he’d perched himself behind a big, old-timey computer where he punched furiously on its keyboard. No longer taking notice of me—his lack of attention left me feeling really sad and empty.

I wanted him to notice, to approve of my acting, to applaud my hard work. I wanted him to cast me in all of his future produc-tions, give me the starring role. I really, really, really wanted him to be proud of me.

Though, I had no idea why.

My mind began to ponder, wondering why some weird kid’s approval was worth getting drenched over. And just as I began to grab hold of myself, questioning why I was stay-ing, if I might not be better off leaving, I heard panting.

Heavy, frantic, grunting and panting.

Then a second later I realized it came from the girl running toward me.

The girl running toward me with the filthy, ripped-up clothes, stringy, wet hair, and terrified face.

I started to shout. Decided I’d play the part of a Good Samaritan—or a hero even. I started to tell her not to worry, that I was there to help. But the second I opened my mouth, the words all backed up in my throat.

Sticking.

Clogging.

Like a drain all jammed up with gunk.

My toes were sinking. The shoes I once wore were no more. Everything had changed.

Every. Single. Thing.

I was no longer standing on a stage. The black painted wood that had, just a moment before, been supporting me, had turned into something very different—something I once saw in a really old movie.

Sandy, soggy, and swampy—I immediately recognized it as quicksand. And I knew if I didn’t move fast, in no time at all it would swallow me whole.

With the scream still lodged in my throat, I did my best to run. But every step forward was a useless endeavor. The sand was too quick, too deep. It was dragging me down—sucking me in, forcing its way up to my nose and into my mouth.

But if I thought I had it bad, well, that was nothing compared to the girl. Not only was she sinking up to her neck, but a whole team of alligators had appeared out of nowhere.

Their powerful, crunching jaws yawning open and snapping shut as though it was a warm-up, as though they were preparing to devour her.

I freed my hand of the muck and lurched toward her. Urging her to lean toward me, to take hold if she could. I tried to smile, tried to nod in encouragement, to give her a reason to fight, to not give up until we’d ex-hausted every last resource. Watching as she thrust her body toward mine, the alligators charging, snapping, chomping on air, hoping to soon replace it with pieces of her.

And then, just when she was near, just when our fingers met and she’d grabbed ahold of me, a searing hot flame tore through her flesh, giving me no choice but to let go.

I couldn’t help it—it just sort of happened—it was a reflex—it wasn’t my fault! And when I tried to reach her again, it was too late.

She was gone.

The gators had claimed her.

My throat cleared. The scream, finally un-corked, rang out all around until I grew hoarse and it played itself out. And I was just about to renew it, hoping someone would hear me, help me, when I opened my eyes and saw everything had changed once again.

The rain had stopped.

The quicksand was gone.

And I found myself standing on a patch of freshly mown grass, getting ridiculed loudly by a small group of teens for having just screamed my head off.

I shrank back, shrank back into myself, in-to the shadows so they could no longer see me, though I could see them. Taking a quick look around, I did what I could to assess the new situation I found myself in. Remembering what Satchel had said, that no matter what happened, I had to stick with it, it was the only way the message could be sent.

I was in a park. A park after dark, which meant the little kids had already vacated, were already at home, safely tucked into their beds, while a gang of unruly teenagers took over, littering the sandbox with cigar-ette butts, and making rude drawings all over the slide.

The kind of teens I never wanted to be—always did my best to avoid—taking great pains to keep a wide distance between us whenever I’d see them lurking in my old neighborhood on my way home from school.

The kind of teens that made trouble, listened to no one, “flaunted authority,” as my mom would’ve said.

The kind of teens that pretty much wrecked it for all of the others.

And even though I knew it was my job to find a way to fit in, to blend, all I really wanted was to sit this one out.

I cowered in the dark, huddled up next to the bathrooms, hoping that unfortunate scream of mine was enough to scare them off.

For a while anyway, it worked.

Until the big four-wheel-drive with no driver flipped on its brights and tried to mow us all down.

I ran.

We all did.

Though we didn’t get very far. Unlike the last dream, in this one, my feet didn’t so much sink as stick. The freshly mowed grass turning into a goopy, green, superglued mess that held fast to the bottoms of our shoes, refusing to release us, refusing to free us. Even the ones who’d stepped out of their shoes were no better off—they’d merely replaced the soles of their shoes with the soles of their feet.

All I could do, all any of us could do, was stare helplessly into the truck’s headlights as it ran us all down.

At the moment of impact, there was an amazing flash of bright light, and the next thing I knew, I was in Paris, a city I’d always wanted to visit. But instead of sightseeing and riding the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower, I was drowning in the River Seine along with a group of loitering teenagers.

Then, the next thing I knew, I was in Brazil, only instead of spending a nice day baking in the sun, I was being roasted for real—a young girl, two boys, and me going up in flames on a Rio de Janeiro beach.

I suffered through nightmares in all of the most exotic places. Places I’d always wanted to visit. Then just as I began longing for home, my wish was granted. I found myself in school—my old school—standing in front of my old class. And when I gazed down at myself, wondering what they were all pointing and laughing about, well, that’s when I realized I’d forgotten to dress.

I froze, figuring I’d die right there on the spot of complete mortification—but then a second later I found myself wearing a cute purple dress I definitely approved of, while sitting at a desk in that very same class. Concentrating hard on the paper before me—part of a very important, grade-making test—unable to read, much less answer, even one single question, all of the words swimming before me in a big, foggy blur.

I raised my hand, about to ask if I could get a new test, explain that there was something wrong with the one that I had—when I saw that my teacher wore the face of a clown, and the body of a black wid-ow spider. Her eight legs and arms trapping me in her web, gazing upon me as though I was dinner.