Riley Bloom Dreamland (7 page)

Also according to Balthazar, a person didn’t have to be asleep to receive a message.

While it may be the preferred way—mostly because the dream state lowers a person’s defenses, leaving them more receptive to messages from the beyond—it wasn’t entirely necessary. It wasn’t the only way.

Apparently a message could be sent just as easily when a person drifted off in a day-dream (something that I used to do a lot of in my math class) or even, surprisingly enough, while going for a very long drive.

“Driving is meditative,” he said. “A lot of people—how do you say?” He paused, finger placed on his chin, taking a moment to cap-ture the word he was hunting. “A lot of people
zone out
when they drive.” He looked at me, nodding, skunk hair wagging before a pair of darkly twinkling eyes.

I couldn’t help but giggle at the way he’d sounded when he said
zone out. Perfetto
and
magnifico
were two words I’d already grown used to—they were words that suited his strange, quasi-European accent. But hearing that same accent pronounce
zone out
… well, it was just so hilarious I couldn’t resist the laugh that burst out.

“And, if that is not possible,” he added, ignoring the way I bent forward, clutched at my belly. “There is always music.” I looked at him. He had my full attention again.

“Music is one of the highest art forms there is. It can define a life, change a life, or even save a life, in just three short minutes.

It’s got a direct link to the divine. All art forms do, of course, but music …” His gaze went all bleary as he stared off into the distance, searching for a better way to explain it, but then he shook his head, waved his hand before him, and said, “Anyway … so tell me, have you ever heard just the right song at just the right moment?”

I pressed my lips together as I thought long and hard—pretty sure that I had. No, on second thought, I most definitely had. More than once for that matter.

He nodded, having already assumed the answer. “That was someone trying to send you a message.”

My jaw dropped, my tongue went all lumpy and speechless, and I remembered all the times in the past when I’d been either scared, or nervous, or sad, or all three, and how the song my mom always used to play for me when I was baby, a song by James Taylor, the same song her parents played for her, would just magically appear on the ra-dio, or play on TV, or sometimes even a car would go by that had it blasting from its stereo.

My comfort song.

Or at least that’s how I used to think of it.

And yet, every time that happened, on every single one of those occasions, I’d written it off as some sort of crazy coincidence.

But suddenly I knew better.

I finally knew the truth.

Contrary to what most people think, coincidences are few and far between.

“And then, of course, there is also the thoughtwave.” He waved his hand dis-missively and wrinkled his nose, his face displaying such distaste I couldn’t help but wonder why he even chose to mention it in the first place. Then before I could ask for more details, he said, “A thoughtwave can be done by anyone. There is no training required. It is where the sender simply finds a quiet place and concentrates very hard with a particular message that may, or may not, reach the receiver. It is simple. Sometimes effective, sometimes not, depends. But to my taste …” He ran his hand over his chin, tugged lightly on his goatee, his thumb sporting a nail that was twice as long as mine. “Well … let’s just say that it is
not
to my taste. So, to conclude, while there are many ways to send a message, still, whenever possible, dream jumping is the preferred method. When done right, the sender, as well as the receiver, are able to share something that is both special and unique.”

“And when done wrong?” I had no idea why I said it. I guess the words just popped out before I could stop them.

But luckily, Balthazar just laughed. His head shaking, his goatee twitching, when he said, “I would not know about this. We never do it wrong around here. I insist it is done right or it is not done at all. And so, what do you think? Are you ready to begin?”

11

W
hile Mort was prepping for his own dream jump, Buttercup and I were in Balthazar’s office—a small space consisting of a couch, two chairs, and a desk. Its walls covered with posters of some, if not all, the old movies I assumed Balthazar had directed back in his Hollywood days, and believe me, there were a lot of them.

I settled onto a chair as Buttercup sniffed his way around, needing to investigate every corner, sometimes more than once, before he’d settle down. Balthazar slipped on a pair of sparkly red reading glasses, settled back onto his worn leather chair, grabbed a notepad and a pen, and set about the business of grilling me with all kinds of questions about my past—or, as he called it: my
backstory.

Basically, he wanted to know as much as I could (or in my case, as much as I
would
) tell him about my relationship with the receiver.

That’s what he called her, my sister, Ever, the receiver—whereas I was known as the sender.

Or, at least, I hoped to be. He still hadn’t said for sure if he’d let me proceed. Apparently it all depended on the backstory.

If he found my story compelling, my motivation convincing—if he deemed it worthy of everyone’s time, he’d teach me to dream jump.

But if not, well … I preferred not to think about that.

I guess there was a very long list of people waiting for a chance to work with him, but because of Buttercup’s showing up at just the right time and saving the dream jump in progress, he was willing to do me a favor by letting me skip to the front of the line. But whether or not I’d get any further depended on his being intrigued by my backstory.

So, I dove in. Telling him all about me, and my family, how we died in a car accident—including how I stuck around the earth plane long after that so I could continue to visit (or
haunt,
depending on how you chose to look at it) my big sister, Ever. Going into as much detail as I could, taking great care to keep it entertaining, to keep it from getting too fac-tual, too boring. I had a feeling he was the type to bore easily—that while he may have insisted on hearing the motivation, he had no interest in the day-to-day details. Trips to the dentist, the first time I made my own sandwich—those were the sort of things I kept to myself. And every time he started to fool with his goatee, twirling it between his forefinger and thumb, I knew I’d better speed things up, or lose him completely.

But when it came time to reveal just what kind of message I wanted to send … well, that’s when the whole thing fell apart.

I stuttered.

Spluttered.

The words lodged in my throat until I completely stalled out.

Completely embarrassed by how bad I’d flubbed up—and yet, I would’ve been far more embarrassed to admit that my message wasn’t so much to help Ever, as it was to help myself.

I mean, yeah, I wanted her to know that I loved her and missed her and all that. I also wanted to share some of my worries about the kind of life she’d found herself in—and my real and valid concerns that I might never get to see her again. Though I wasn’t exactly willing to share any of that with Balthazar, so it just became more information I kept to myself.

Still, if I’m going to be 100 percent honest, then I’ll have to admit that the dream jump was mostly for me.

I needed reassurance.

I needed some good and solid advice.

I needed Ever to tell me how to make friends—how to get teenagers to like me.

How to get boys to take notice of me.

The kinds of things I’d never even thought about, much less worried about, before.

But mostly, I needed her to tell me how to be a teen. It was all I ever really wanted—and yet, I had no idea how to proceed.

If the Council was going to force me to take a break from Soul Catching—the only way I knew how to increase my glow, which in turn might make me grow and mature—then I had no choice but to seek advice from

the

most

amazing

teenager

I

knew—Ever, my sister.

And though I wasn’t actually dumb enough to think one visit with her would make me thirteen—I was pretty convinced that if I could just learn how to
act
it, then someday, hopefully soon, I could
be
it.

But when my eyes met Balthazar’s, well, I knew I couldn’t share any of that—not when I could barely admit it to myself.

So instead, I encouraged him to fill up his notebook with a random, but carefully chosen assortment of somewhat relevant facts. And when it came time for more, well, I just lifted my shoulders, lowered my eyes, and told him that I had no agenda. Told him my only goal was to check in, see how it flowed, and take it from there.

His pen crashed to his desk. He leaned all the way back in his chair and leveled his eyes right on mine. And even though I didn’t have a lot of interview experience to go on, I was pretty sure Balthazar’s body language signaled a fail.

Which is why I couldn’t have been more surprised when he said,
“Perfetto!”
I looked at him. Blinked. Wondered if I’d misunderstood.

“Magnifico!”
He clapped his hands together, once, twice, before he rested them against the outward curve of his belly. “This is so
pure
! So …
honest
!” He swung his chair forward, gripped the sides of his desk. “We will let the story flow … we will keep it natural, organic. This is truly
fantastico
! I cannot wait to get started!” His eyebrows jumped as his goatee twitched back and forth.

Then he leaped from his seat, skirted his desk, and yanked hard on my sleeve, pulling me through a side door I’d failed to notice before. Whisking Buttercup and me along a series of halls, before he stopped, pressed a short, stubby finger to his chin, and said,

“Here is where we begin.”

I followed him inside, amazed to find the kind of space I’d originally envisioned—a small, dark theater with chairs, a projector, and a screen.

Buttercup settled at my feet as Balthazar claimed the seat right beside me. Crossing his legs, he folded his hands onto his knees, his voice low and serious when he said, “We begin as we always begin—in silence. You will close your eyes. You will go very, very quiet—very, very deep. You will remember your sister. You will make a mental picture of her to fill up your head. Then, when the picture is complete, you will tune in to her energy pattern. Like fingerprints, everyone has one. And, also like fingerprints, each one is unique. Then, while you are busy with that, I will take this energy’s … how do you say …” He looked at me, squinted, but I just lifted my shoulders in reply, I had no idea where he was headed. “I will take this energy’s
imprint.
” He nodded. “Yes, that’s it.
Imprint.

The imprint is the most important thing.

Without it, we can do nothing. Understand?” Honestly? I didn’t. I didn’t understand a single thing he’d said. None of it made the least bit of sense. But, the way he looked at me, his eyes wide, head bobbing, I knew I was expected to widen my eyes and bob my head too.

So I did.

And then I closed my eyes and tried to appear as though I was following all the other directions as well. Picturing my sister, zoom-ing in on her image until she filled up my head. Trying to tune in to her energy, her
imprint,
even though I really had no idea what that meant.

Mostly I just sat there and thought about her. Remembering the way she looked—a lot like me with the blond hair and blue eyes—though unlike me in that her nose was
not
semi-stubby—her chest was
not
sadly sunken. Ever was pretty and popular in the way I could only hope to be.

I remembered how she laughed—the sound sort of light, tinkly, and girly. Then I remembered how she laughed a lot less after surviving the accident—and just how hard I had to work to kick-start her laughter again.

I remembered the way her face looked the day she told me it was time to stop haunting the earth plane, time to cross the bridge and move on to where our parents and Buttercup waited—her eyes unnaturally bright, her voice much too tight. She’d tried so hard to play it straight, to be mature, to be tough, to do the right thing—but it was easy to see she was just as broken as I was.

The memory blooming so large in my head, it began to feel real. Began to seem as though it was happening all over again.

And I was so caught up in the moment, so caught up in the grief of saying good-bye, that I nearly missed it when Balthazar cried,

“Got it!
Perfetto!
Now hurry—
vite-vite,
Riley Bloom! Follow me!”

12

L
ike a gymnast rotating toward a mat—like a skydiver hurtling toward a welcoming patch of grass—the key to a successful dream jump is all about nailing the landing.

Or, as Balthazar put it: “After the imprint, the landing is everything. Without the perfect landing, the dreamer will wake, and all is kaput!”

According to Balthazar there were no second chances where dreams were concerned. You had to practice until you got it right. And if you couldn’t get it right, well, then you had to cut your losses, find your way out of Dreamland, go someplace quiet, and try your luck with a thoughtwave.

I was beginning to realize just what a priv-ilege I’d been handed. Up until that moment, I had no idea that others had been forced to apprentice with the assistant directors for long, untold periods of time before Balthazar would even consider working with them.

“How long did it take Mort to learn?” I asked, not to be competitive, but because I needed something to go on, some kind of time frame for how long it should take me to learn what I needed to know.

But Balthazar just scowled, dismissed my question with an impatient wave of his hand.