The Girl Who Could Not Dream (13 page)

Sophie flipped the sign in the bookshop window from
Open
to
Closed,
turned off the lights, and locked the door while Monster squeezed himself into her backpack again. Scooping him up, she headed through the stacks to the back door. Ethan followed her.

The bikes were in the shed behind the house. She didn't ride much, so hers had cobwebs. Dusting it off, she wheeled the bike outside and hoped she didn't break an arm on top of everything else. Ethan picked her dad's bike and found helmets on a shelf next to a garden hose. He handed her one, and she strapped it on. It was pink with butterflies on it, and it barely fit. His was rust-colored and looked a decade old. It occurred to her that she'd never been on a bike ride with a friend, and that's exactly what this would look like to anyone who saw them. She hoped no one saw them. “You have that map ready?” Sophie asked.

“Consider me navigation guy,” he said.

“Good.” She pictured her parents waiting for her, trapped in a stranger's house. Her heart was thumping hard. She wondered if this was what it felt like to be stuck in a nightmare. “What did you dream about last night?”

He jammed his helmet on his head and didn't meet her eyes. “Nothing.”

“Nothing as in no dream, or nothing as in the Nothingness that destroys Everything?”

Foot on the bike pedal, he froze. “How did you know that?”

Sophie shrugged. She'd seen it plenty of times before. It was always creepy. Dad filed those dreams under “existential dread.” They didn't sell well, unless the terror was acute enough. Given Ethan's reaction, she guessed his was acute. She wondered why.

He pushed off the ground and rode forward. Backpack balanced on her back, she pedaled after him. They skirted the side of the house. She caught up with him as they rode out onto the sidewalk. “I've had that dream before,” he admitted. “And worse. Sometimes I dream I can't scream, no matter how much I want to. Or that I can scream, but no one hears me. Or I dream that I'm alone in the middle of the ocean.”

“Sharks?” She veered around a parking meter. Concentrating, she tried to keep her balance. Last time she rode her bike, she'd crashed into a mailbox. She wouldn't be able to help her parents if she hurt herself.

“No sharks. No birds. No raft. No nothing. And the ocean goes down for miles underneath me. The dreamcatcher last night . . . That was the first time in days that I didn't wake up terrified. And I'm only saying the word
terrified
because I'm trusting you not to tell my team. But seriously, the dreamcatcher helped. I still remember the dream, but it's more like the way I remember something I watched on TV or read. It's not as intense. It doesn't feel like I lived it.”

“You're welcome.” She wanted to ask why someone with so many friends would have such classic loneliness dreams. But before she could figure out how to ask, Ethan sped up and crossed the street at a break in the traffic.

Sophie braked as a truck rattled past. Two more cars zoomed by in its wake. She looked up and down the street, then up and down again.
Don't be a chicken,
she told herself.
Mom and Dad need you.
Her head down, she pushed off the curb and biked across the street. Ahead, Ethan was turning onto one of the side streets. Speeding up, she followed him.

Monster bounced on her back. “Ow, ow, ow.”

“Sorry!” She tried to steer around the potholes, but she couldn't help hitting patches of dirt and cracks in the road. On the side street, the houses looked as if they were waking up—people were out walking their dogs, coming home from work, kids were playing in the driveways. She'd been down these streets before, but they looked different from a bike than they did on a bus. She noticed every tiny incline.

As they rode farther from the center of town, the houses were more spaced out, and the sidewalks disappeared. When they were side by side again, Ethan asked, “Would you really have sold my dream?”

She was panting, but he looked as if he'd just hopped on the bike. She reminded herself this was her idea. It wasn't her fault she was out of shape. Well, technically, it was. “Weren't you happy it was dulled?” she puffed.

“Yeah.”

“Then why does it matter what happens to it afterward?”

“Because it's
mine.
”

“But you didn't want it,” Sophie pointed out. “We're just recycling your trash. Really, it's not so different from the people who ride around in pickup trucks on trash day and rescue things from people's trash to sell at scrap yards or at flea markets.”

“But people don't know dreams
can
be sold.”

And so long as the Watchmen are out there, they never will,
Sophie thought. It was sad. There were so many wonderful dreams that could be shared. Her parents sold thrill rides and sweet moments and surreal journeys and experiences that you couldn't find in the awake world. They shouldn't have to do it in secrecy and fear. Her parents, the way they could distill a tangled dream . . . they were artists. It was beautiful, and she wished it didn't have to be hidden. But it did. They didn't dare stop hiding. If the Watchmen found out about the Dream Shop, they'd destroy it, down to the very last bottle. Her parents had heard of it happening before. Even the police hadn't been able to help—all they'd seen was a bunch of broken bottles and two scared people babbling about things that the police believed couldn't be true.

Pausing at a stop sign, Ethan checked the map. “This way.” He pointed toward a street, and she winced. Of course it had to be uphill. “How long have your parents run a dream shop?”

“As long as I can remember,” Sophie said, pedaling again. “My grandparents—my mom's parents—used to have a shop too. They retired to Florida a few years ago. Not near Disney World, though.”

“I don't know why anyone would live in Florida not near Disney.”

She wondered if he was distracting her on purpose, keeping her talking so that she wouldn't panic. He didn't seem to be good with tears, which Sophie understood, since she hated crying. “There's supposed to be a dream shop inside Cinderella's castle, but that could be just a rumor.” She puffed as she pedaled, and then they hit the top of a hill.

Side by side, they coasted down. Trees flickered past on either side of the street. There were fewer houses here. In fact, she realized, she hadn't seen a house in a while. It was mostly swampy woods. She'd never been out this way before.

Ethan led them down another street. They passed a field, a house, then another stretch of dense trees. “How many dream shops are there?”

“I don't know. We're rare. A few, I guess? My parents don't let me meet too many people in the dream business. Anyone, really. I wasn't supposed to meet Mr. Nightmare. It was an accident.” Did that somehow lead to whatever happened with her parents? Was this all her fault? If she hadn't met Mr. Nightmare, he never would have left the birthday card. If she hadn't found that card, Mom and Dad wouldn't have met with him again. The bike wobbled under her, and she concentrated on keeping her balance.

“Just keep talking,” he coached her. “If you think too much about bad stuff, you'll lose control and fall. Take it from a guy who's broken his arm twice. How do people know about your dream shop? I mean, it's not like you have a sign or anything.”

She forced herself to focus on the question. “It's like people who are really into knitting. They know where all the yarn stores are and they tell each other. Dream collectors are the same way. Word of mouth. But more, you know, secret.”

Ethan braked.

She squeezed the hand brakes and jolted forward as the bike jerked to a stop. Ahead, surrounded by marshy woods, was a house with a freshly shorn lawn, pink flowers along the walk, and a mailbox in the shape of a swan. It was all alone, the only house visible in either direction. It looked as if it was all dolled up for a party, just waiting for neighbors to join it. It didn't look like the house of a thief and kidnapper. “That's it?”

“263 Windsor Street. It's not very . . .”

“Ominous?”

“Yeah.”

It wasn't. It was the kind of house where kids would set up a lemonade stand in the front yard while the adults barbecued hamburgers in the backyard. Stepping off her bike, Sophie walked closer. Parked in the driveway was a sleek blue car with a license plate that read:
MISTER N
.
Mr. N,
she thought.
Mr. Nightmare.
At least this was really his house, so that was one question answered. He hadn't lied in the ledger. Of course, that didn't prove he had anything to do with her parents' disappearance . . .

Steering her bike off the road, she knocked the kickstand down and removed her helmet. Ethan parked Dad's bike next to hers. Kneeling, she took off her backpack, lowered it to the ground, and opened it. Monster was curled into a tight ball. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Seasick.” He slunk out of the backpack. Groaning, he flopped on his side under the bushes. “Never, ever want to do that again.”

She winced. “Sorry.”

He waved a tentacle weakly, which could have meant either “I forgive you” or “I surrender.”

“You stay here,” she told him. “We'll check it out.”

Launching himself to his feet, he said, “Oh no, I have to protect you.” His knees wobbled and his eyes widened. His cheeks bulged as if he was trying to keep from being sick.

“We're just going to peek in the windows, right?” Ethan said. “Nothing dangerous.”

Sophie nodded. “We'll be as sneaky as opossums.”

“Are opossums really sneaky?” Ethan asked.

“No idea,” Sophie said.

Monster shook his head. “Coming with you . . .” And then he clapped tentacles over his mouth and sank into the pine needles.

“Stay. I'll scream if I need you.”

“I'm fine. But I'll . . . keep to the bushes.” Slinking underneath the bushes, Monster headed for the house. Sophie and Ethan followed, tromping between the trees.

The mossy ground squished under her feet. Birds chirped from the branches overhead. She spotted squirrels scurrying through the trees. It felt like they were on a nature walk, not a spying mission. Everything about this felt wrong.

The forest ended abruptly at the lawn, as if both the grass and the trees were respecting the border. No weeds sneaked onto the lawn, and no grass ventured into the woods. Sophie squatted in the underbrush and stared at the house.

“You sure you want to do this?” Ethan asked.

“We came all the way here,” Sophie said. “Besides, maybe this is a disguise. Maybe we're supposed to think he's innocent.” Evil people could still mow their lawns.

There were neatly pruned bushes all around the house, framing it in a ring of green. If they could hide in those bushes, they'd be fine. Sophie, Ethan, and Monster darted across the lawn and dived into the bushes.

Keeping low, Sophie crept along the side of the house. Her sneakers sank into the mulch. It smelled fresh and a little bit like manure. Clearly, Mr. Nightmare liked to garden. It didn't match her image of him.

Under the first window, she held a finger to her lips. Standing slowly, she peered through the window: living room. She saw a couch, a TV, a fireplace with a mantel that had a model of an old airplane and a few framed photographs. The table in front of the couch had a couple of books, a remote control, and a half-empty bowl of tortilla chips. It looked very ordinary.

She crouched back down. Ethan looked too. Together, they crept to the next window. “I feel like there should be a spy theme playing,” he whispered.

Rising up, she looked into a dining room. Stacks of mail were piled on one end of the table, and a vase with dried flowers sat in the center. Again, ordinary.

The next room was a kitchen. There were dishes in the sink, ready to be washed, and a box of cookies on the table. A kid's pink and purple backpack sat on the table, next to the cookies. Sophie ducked down. “He's a dad,” she whispered. She tasted disappointment, hot and thick in the back of her throat.

“He could be an evil dad,” Ethan whispered.

“I don't know. It all looks so . . . normal. Maybe I'm wrong.”

Ethan patted her on the shoulder, again awkwardly, as if he didn't have much practice being comforting. She didn't have much practice being comforted, at least not by anyone who wasn't Monster. They stared at each other for a second. “Let's keep looking,” Ethan suggested. “How do we see what's upstairs?”

“I can do it,” Monster whispered.

“Are you sure you feel up to it?” Sophie asked.

“Of course. I'm very heroic,” Monster said. “And I have no moral qualms about vomiting on bad guys.”

“We don't know he's a bad guy,” Sophie said.

“He has a supervillain name,” Ethan said. “But this isn't much of a lair.”

Monster scampered up a drain pipe, using his tentacles to grip as he climbed. Below him, Sophie and Ethan continued to creep around the house. What if she didn't see any clues? What if Mr. Nightmare really hadn't kidnapped her parents? It felt strange and wrong to be hoping for him to have done so, but if he wasn't responsible, then who was?

Sophie peeked around the corner into the backyard and saw an aboveground pool (empty), a fancy barbecue grill (unused), and a garden hose (neatly coiled) next to blue cellar doors. There was no sign of her parents or anything remotely unusual.

This was the home of a nice, normal family, who watched sports together as they ate dinner and their kid did her homework and their dog begged for extra treats or whatever. She thought of the bowl of chips in the living room, the backpack and cookies in the kitchen, the stacks of mail in the dining room. The backpack even looked familiar. She probably knew the kid it belonged to. She—it was a pink and purple backpack, so Sophie was guessing it was a girl—was probably in their school.