Riley Bloom Dreamland (8 page)

“Mort is not my concern. Nor is he yours. We have only a short time before closing time comes. If you want a successful dream jump, you must do the work.”

I nodded, just about to ask how he could possibly know it was almost closing time in a place where there was no time to speak of, when he looked at me and said, “Enough with your questions. Answers cannot help you when the work is intuitive. So, tell me, are you ready to make your first jump?” I nodded, part of me excited and eager, the other part quaking with nerves. Unsure if I was up for the challenge when I’d never been all that great at jumping rope, or doing the high jump, or the long jump, or any other activity having to do with
jumping
—and surprised to find that it wasn’t really a jump at all. Balthazar was right, the work was intuitive—the jump was way more mental than physical.

Basically I had to observe a whole slew of dreams. Other people’s dreams—complete strangers’ dreams—not one of whom was even the least bit familiar to me. Balthazar and I sat side by side, watching a random assortment of images play out on the screen, and it was my job to find just the right moment to pop in and send a message. And, since it was only the first step in my training session, since I wasn’t actually jumping into the scene, I just shouted, “Jump!” whenever the time seemed just right.

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

I
t 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 just 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 dev-astated. 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 sweat-shirt 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 devi-ous 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

W
hile 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.