Riley Bloom Dreamland (4 page)

“So?” I turned to Buttercup, smiling as he put one tentative paw in front of the other, finally showing his approval in his willing-ness to make himself at home by sniffing every corner.

Then I gazed down at my clothes, seeing I was still wearing the same jeans, ballet flats, and T-shirt I’d had on since I’d returned from the earth plane. An outfit that just a short while before seemed super cute, but not anymore. So I closed my eyes and changed that too—swapping the jeans for skinny cargos, the ballet flats for ankle boots, and the T-shirt for a sparkly tank top and shrunken black blazer. And I was just about to manifest a new, fully loaded iPod with a zebra cover just like the rug, when the front door swung open and my parents both called, “Riley? Buttercup? You home?” I sprang to my feet. Ready to make a mad dash for the door. Eager to see them—to see how they’d react to the makeover—until I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stopped short.

The changes weren’t as great as I’d thought.

They didn’t really go past the surface.

The clothes just sort of hung there. And the boots made my legs look bony and ridiculous.

Replacing the old stuff with newly manifested stuff was the easy part.

The kind of real change I longed for lay just outside of my reach.

So even though I was happy to see them—no, scratch that,
overjoyed
would better describe it—instead of greeting them with the giant hug that I’d planned, I took a moment to swap the new clothes back to the old, then I stood by my couch, arms folded before me as I said, “You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”

My dad stopped in the doorway, took a moment to survey the room before he looked at me and said, “Do what?” He smiled, reached toward my nose—an almost exact, albeit smaller, replica of his. Just about to tweak it in the way that always made me laugh—but right before he could, I slipped out of his grasp.

“You don’t have to keep checking in on me like this! You don’t have to pretend that you actually
live
here when I already know that you don’t. I’m
not
a baby!” I cried, sounding, well, pretty babyish—even to my ears.

My mom stood behind him, tucking a lock of blond hair that was nearly the same color as mine back behind her ear. Her pale brow rising in a way that took all of my effort to not give into my feelings, to not let loose with the tears and barrel straight into her arms.

“Baby? Who called you a baby?” my dad asked, slipping his hands into his front pockets and shooting me a serious look.

Then before I could answer, as if on the worst kind of cue, my grandparents appeared. My grandma took one look at me and cooed, “Aw, now there’s my baby girl!” I scowled.

Like, seriously, scowled.

I mean, yeah, I was happy to see them.

Yeah, I’d missed them while I was out usher-ing all those lost souls across the bridge.

Heck, I’d even found myself mentally re-hearsing the stories I’d planned to share with them later. And I fully admit that deep down inside, I even appreciated the fact that they cared enough about me to go through the charade of pretending they lived there.

Problem was, I knew better.

I knew they had other, better places to be.

I’d seen the footage. Watched the whole thing back when I was forced to go through my completely humiliating life review when I first arrived Here.

I’d seen my dad jamming with a group of musicians—rockin’ out to his favorite old tunes.

I’d seen my mom in a paint-splattered smock—creating a masterpiece that back on the earth plane would’ve been good enough for any museum wall.

I’d seen my grandmother caring for the tiny babies that departed the earth plane too early.

I’d seen my grandfather, who’d always seemed so old and serious in all of his pho-tos, whooping and hollering as he surfed a fifty-foot wave.

They were all enjoying their soul work—or at least that’s how the Council explained it.

Everyone had a job to do Here, and as much as I was beginning to enjoy mine, it was also becoming uncomfortably clear that it was all that I had.

If I wasn’t out catching lost souls, I had no idea what to do with myself.

My grandmother sprang toward me, ruffled my hair in that way that she had.

Wasting no time in leaving a pink-colored lipstick stain right smack on my cheek.

And when she started to go on about my being her “baby girl” yet again, my dad was quick to jump in and say, “Riley’s no baby.

Hasn’t been for a very long time now, right, kiddo?”

Um, yeah.

Whatever
.

I’d gone from
baby
to
kiddo
in just a handful of seconds. And while I guess it was progress, it really wasn’t the kind of progress I was after.

All I wanted, all I ever, truly wanted, was to be thirteen.
That’s. It.

And the only way I could think to achieve that was to excel at my job. To catch so many wayward ghosts that I’d end up glowing so bright the Council would have no choice but to bump up my age—along with the
physical
changes that go along with it.

And while I wasn’t exactly sure that this was how it worked, it really did seem to make the most sense.

Bodhi had told me there were many levels to this place. That my pale green glow clearly marked me as a member of the level 1.5

team.

He also said that each new color got you to a new level, and that each new level was better than the one that went before. If I kept up the good work, he assured me I’d be transcending that level and color in no time.

And there was no doubt I was transcend-ing. Since my time in the Caribbean, my glow had grown even deeper.

But now, thanks to the Council, I had no immediate ghosts to cross over.

No way to glow myself into being a teenager.

This forced vacation was holding me back.

“You know, I think you’re right!” my grandma said, exchanging a quick look with my dad—one they’d convinced themselves that I’d missed. “Riley’s no baby at all! And would you look at that glow!”

She was placating me. There was no getting around it. But she also loved me, wanted the best for me. There was no getting around that either.

So I folded. Heaved a big, loud sigh and sank right down onto my turquoise-colored couch, where I leaned back against the cush-ions and clutched a purple satin pillow flat against my (completely flat) chest. Watching as my mom, my dad, my grandpa, and grandma busied themselves with admiring all the changes I’d made in my room.

They examined the color of the walls, tested the bounce and firmness of my bed, ran their hands over my silk headboard, my dressing table, the silver picture frames that punctuated the walls—all the while exclaiming how grown-up and sophisticated it looked. Correctly assuming those were the buzzwords, they were quick to repeat them again and again.

I watched them in action. Watched with a big, solid lump lodged right in my throat.

And when my grandma sat beside me and placed her hand on my knee, when my grandpa sat cross-legged on the floor with Buttercup right at his feet, when my mom and dad both perched on the edge of my bed—I continued to watch. Taking in the varying shades of pale skin, blond hair, and blue eyes they all shared, and realizing it was like looking at old, and really old versions of myself.

We were family.

Alive, dead, it didn’t make the least bit of difference. Wherever we might go from here, wherever we might end up, there was no doubt we’d always hold traces of each other.

I was never as alone as I’d thought.

They looked at me, eyes expectant, my grandpa taking the lead and speaking for all of them when he said, “So, tell us where you’ve been, already! Tell us how you got that glow of yours!”

And because I loved them—because I knew they loved me—I did.

5

M
y grandpa taught me to surf. My mom helped me to paint a somewhat decent landscape. My grandma showed me how to swaddle a newborn in its blanket, while my dad showed great patience when he let me sing lead in his band. And as much fun as I had, after a while, there was no doubt it was time to move on.

While none of them actually said as much, it was clear I couldn’t carry on like that forever. It was time to strike out on my own.

Build some kind of life outside of Soul Catching and family. Maybe even make a few friends.

So I set out to do just that, with Buttercup right there beside me. My direction clear, my intentions pure, everything looking so bright and upbeat, so full of promise—or at least that’s how I felt right up until the moment I saw them.

Even though I have a history of spying on everyone from my sister, Ever, back when I was alive—to A-list celebrities after I was dead—to the former teachers, neighbors, and friends I sometimes checked in on from the Viewing Room—on that particular day, spying was the furthest thing from my mind.

On that particular day, I was really and truly just minding my own business as though all thoughts of Bodhi and Jasmine had been erased from my brain.

But the second I stumbled upon them—the second I saw the way they acted when they thought no one was looking—well, even though I knew I should’ve moved on, I found that I no longer could.

My legs went all clumsy and heavy. My limbs froze in place. And all I could do was just stand there and gape, knowing I should go before one of them saw me.

Only they didn’t see me.

They were too busy looking at each other.

Bodhi sprawled across the grass, his back propped against a thick tree trunk, his legs thrust out before him, while Jasmine curled up beside him, her head on his knees.

He read from a big book of poetry, em-ploying long, thoughtful pauses to allow the words to sink in. One hand grasping the book, the other smoothing her long, dark braids, causing the glass beads to chime and swish in a soft, lilting melody—causing her lips to curve, her face to glow, and her eyes to grow all sparkly and dreamy.

Like a scene from a movie—the kind Ever and her friends used to watch.

The kind that just a few years before would’ve made me go:
blech!
and:
gag!
And make an entire soundtrack of gross-out sounds to go with it.

But not anymore.

Watching them together like that … well, it gave me that weird, hollow feeling again.

It made me feel so quiet and wistful—I suddenly knew what it meant to feel melancholy.

And when Bodhi lifted his hand, flattened his palm, and manifested a beautiful flower he then tucked behind her ear—a jasmine for Jasmine—well, I couldn’t stop watching—even when the sight of it made my insides start to swirl.

This was not the Bodhi I knew.

This was not the straw-munching, semi-pro skater dude who really liked to argue—or at least he really liked to argue with me.

Things were different with Jasmine.

It was the exact opposite of the way he acted with me. It was the exact opposite of the way anyone would
ever
act with me as long as I was stuck as a shrimpy, skinny, flat-chested twelve-year-old kid.

As long as I remained in that state, no boy would ever read me poetry.

No boy would ever tuck a flower into my hair.

And suddenly a thought that I wouldn’t have even cared about just six months before had me so freaked my whole body trembled, causing Buttercup to tune in to my mood, toss back his head, and let out a long, mournful howl.

“Buttercup—shush!” I’d whispered, but it was too late. Jasmine had already spotted me, and it wasn’t long before Bodhi looked up and saw me as well—shouting my name with a voice that rang of shock and surprise, with more than a hint of anger tossed in.

But instead of responding, I ran—dragging a reluctant Buttercup along with me.

We ran from the clearing.

Ran past streams that turned into rivers, and rivers that turned into lakes. We ran right out of the forest of trees and wide-open spaces, and into a city filled with tall crystal buildings.

We ran until we both grew too pooped to continue. We ran until we remembered it was so much easier to fly. I soared as high as I could, and then higher still. Buttercup glid-ing alongside me, his ears flapping like crazy, his mouth stretched and curled as though he was grinning. But while my dog was enjoying the flight—my only goal was to flee. My head was spinning, my insides thrumming, and I wanted nothing more than to erase what I’d seen.

Wanted nothing more than to rid myself of the horrible, desperate feeling it had stirred up inside me.

And even though I wasn’t supposed to do it, even though I’d been told it was strictly forbidden, even though I’d already gotten in trouble for it on more than one occasion, that wasn’t enough to keep me from stopping by the Viewing Room.

I needed to see my sister, Ever. Needed to find a way to be with her, communicate with her. Thinking that doing so might make me feel better.

Remembering what the Council had told me:

Take some time off.

Spend time with family. Visit with friends.

Using it as just the excuse that I needed to stop before the door, and push my way in.

6

T
he second I saw that purple-and-orange Hawaiian shirt (the exact same one he was wearing the last time I saw him, but who was I to judge?) along with the plaid Bermuda shorts, the black dress socks, and the shiny black shoes—well, I knew for sure it was fate.

Destiny.

There was no doubt in my mind it was kismet.

Meant to be.

Why else would Mort, the guy who started all this, the guy who first told me about the place where all the dreams happen—why else would I find him standing right in front of me?

For the second time in a row, even?

And just when I was wondering if he’d recognize me, he turned and smiled and said,

“Heya, newbie!”

Newbie?

I squinted. Not quite sure how to take that.

Thinking at first he was taking a swipe at my age, but it wasn’t long before I realized he was referring to my glow.