Dreamland Page 10

  And the next thing he knew he was lifted—carried up—up—up—high into the sky.

  Higher than he’d ever been.

  Higher than he ever thought possible.

  Higher than his parents would ever allow.

  But instead of feeling scared, instead of feeling shadowed by imminent danger, he felt exhilarated.

  Free.

  And for the first time in his life, he gazed down upon the earth, not seeing it as dangerous at all, but instead, as host to the most wonderful possibilities.

  His parents were down there somewhere, most likely searching for him. But for the moment, it didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He refused to think about them. Preferred to concentrate on soaring, the thrill of riding tandem with the clouds. His gaze held fast to the bottom of the red car above him, knowing that Mary Angel soared right along with him.

  He dreaded each trip toward the ground, that’s where reality lived—and looked forward to each arc into the sky where everything was peaceful and good.

  Or at least until Jimmy Mac started rocking his car—rocking it in a way that made Mary Angel let out a shriek, though it wasn’t long before that shriek turned into a giggle, and then the giggle into a laugh that went on and on.

  Longing to hear that beautiful, soft, lilting laugh directed at him, or rather at something he did, Satchel decided to rock his car as well. Grabbing hold of the sides, he shook it as hard as he could. But instead of laughing, Mary Angel glanced over the side, shooting him a worried, cautious look, while Jimmy Mac cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Hey, Blaise—didn’t know you had it in you!” Followed by a few more phrases I missed, but that sent Jimmy Mac into hysterics over his own wit.

  But Jimmy Mac hadn’t seen anything yet. Satchel had just taken his first bite of freedom and was infatuated with the rush that it gave him. Loved it so much, he craved a steady supply of it.

  Thirteen years of being sheltered, and woefully overprotected—thirteen years of cowering from the world—had resulted in thirteen years of pent-up exuberance that longed to get out.

  He shook the car again.

  Harder.

  And then harder still.

  Causing Jimmy Mac to hoot and holler, egging him on, as Mary Angel gazed down at him with an increasingly worried frown.

  It was an expression that enraged him. Satchel had been raised on worried frowns—had already suffered a lifetime’s worth.

  He wanted Mary Angel to smile.

  He wanted her to laugh in the same way she had for Jimmy Mac.

  He shook the car again, much harder than before, causing Mary Angel to scream—yelling something about the security rail.

  But Satchel wouldn’t listen. Even when she pointed, begged for him to stop, the sight of her anxious face only spurred him on.

  Why was it okay for Jimmy Mac to shake the car, but not him?

  Did she agree with all the other kids that he was nothing more than a creepy weirdo wimp?

  Did she think he didn’t know how to have any fun—how to enjoy a little risk?

  Well, he’d show her.

  He’d get her to smile no matter what.

  He continued to rock the car, ignoring its squeak of protest.

  But no matter how hard he shook—the smile never came.

  His fingers slipped from the sides.

  His car got away from him.

  Swinging around, swinging upside down, until the rail came loose and dumped him right out.

  The fall from one hundred feet went so much quicker than I ever would’ve imagined. And I watched as Satchel tumbled from his seat, arms flailing, legs kicking, head crashing and bumping its way from car to car until it finally smashed straight into the ground, where everything stopped.

  Everything but the sound of Mary Angel’s high-pitched scream.

  A soundtrack that continued to play long after the projector halted, the computer flipped off, and Satchel stood before me, head caved in on all sides, but worse at the top. His collarbone jutting right out of his skin, right through the big, gaping hole in his blood-soaked white shirt—his clothing battered, clotted with brain matter—just like they’d found him.

  His one good eye burning into mine when he said, “So tell me, Riley, is that what you wanted to see?”

  20

  I had to say something.

  He wanted me to say something.

  I could tell by the way he’d removed the staples from my mouth and waited for me to speak.

  Problem was, I wasn’t sure where to start, so I went for the obvious. “Satchel, I’m really sorry about what happened to you, but you must know, it was an accident.”

  He rolled his one good eye, shook his battered head. A mouthful of cracked-up teeth spewing from his lips when he said, “Ya think?”

  I pushed my bangs off my face and fought to stay calm, doing my best to get past his gruesome appearance, not to mention his uncalled-for sarcasm.

  “What I meant was, it’s unfortunate, yeah, but it’s no excuse to do what you do. It’s no excuse to terrorize people.”

  “What? Are you kidding? Did you miss something? I mean, look at me, Riley! I ignored my parents’ warnings, I lied, and look at the result!” He ran his mangled fingers up and down his body like a game show model displaying the prize.

  The sight was miles past grisly, truly the stuff that nightmares are made of. But I couldn’t afford to focus on that. I had to use whatever time I had left before he decided to dreamweave a whole new wave of terrors on my behalf. I had to find a way to get through to him.

  Not wanting to waste another second, I yelled, “Stuff happens, Satchel! Really horrible, regrettable stuff. And while I’m sorry about what happened to you, and I really, truly am, I also have to be honest and tell you that I’m way more sorry about the way you lived your life before that. I’m sorry that you had no friends. I’m sorry that you didn’t fit in. I’m sorry you never had a single moment of fun. But most of all, I’m sorry for the way your parents made you fear every single thing. I’m sorry they urged you to hide from the world. I’m sorry for all of that—far, far more than the sorry I feel for what happened to you at the fair.”

  My words silenced him. Caused him to stand before me, patting the caved-in mess where his hair used to be, oblivious to the small avalanche of flaky, dried blood that trickled down to his feet.

  “I get that they loved you, I really, truly do. I get that you meant everything to them, and because of that, they were terrified of losing you. I get that they had your best interests at heart—only wanted to keep you out of danger. But by doing that, they made you a prisoner! Not being able to run, ride a bike, play sports with the other kids at school …” I shook my head, determined to not get too carried away. It was imperative to keep the message clean, clear, free of emotion—no matter how much his parents enraged me. “You had no friends, never experienced a single moment of real and true fun. And though it wasn’t their intention, they turned you into a freak with no life. Heck, they wouldn’t even let you have a pet—‘animals are too dangerous,’ they said—sheesh!” I paused, replaying my words and relating them to my own life.

  Practically all I’d done since I’d died was complain about how short my life had been. Complained about what a bum deal I’d gotten when I found myself dead at twelve.

  Until I met Satchel, it never even occurred to me to celebrate just how much living I’d done in such a short amount of time.

  I’d had friends—lots and lots of friends.

  I’d played sports—even though I wasn’t very good.

  I’d ridden my bike in the rain—laughing when the water splashed up from the back tire and drenched my sister, Ever.

  I’d had a pet—in fact, I still do.

  I’d had all the wonderful, normal life pleasures that Satchel has never once known. His parents had robbed him of them.

  And I was suddenly so overcome with gratitude for all that I’d had—I could no longer mourn what I once thought I’d lo
st.

  My life may have been ridiculously short—but the short time I’d lived had been pretty dang good.

  “There are only two emotions,” I said, returning to Satchel, unaware of what those two emotions might be until I actually stated them. “Love and fear. Love and fear is all there is—everything else is just an offshoot, motivated by those two.”

  I paused, wanting him to hear it, to get it, to completely understand what I was just beginning to understand for myself. Not really sure of where the knowledge was coming from and wondering if it might be the result of a thoughtwave of some kind, but trusting it was true all the same.

  “Only, in your family, love and fear got so confused they began to resemble each other. Fear got mixed up with love, until it began to look like love, to seem like love, to feel like love—when, the truth is, they couldn’t be more opposite. I mean, think about it,” I said, desperate for him to follow, to really listen. “Your whole, entire life, all thirteen years of it, the only time you truly felt alive was when you were riding that Ferris wheel, wasn’t it? That’s the only time you truly felt free—that’s when you began to realize all of life’s glorious possibilities. Though unfortunately, as we both know, you got a little carried away, and, as a result, things ended tragically. But I’m willing to bet that if you ever gazed down on the earth plane after you left, well, I bet you left one heck of a cautionary tale behind. I bet Jimmy Mac never shook a car on a Ferris wheel again. I bet he thought twice before he taunted someone he thought was beneath him. I bet Mary Angel never stopped feeling guilty about urging you to ride in the first place, which is pretty sad when you consider that the ultimate decision was yours, not hers—not to mention how she begged you to stop and you wouldn’t listen. And I bet your parents really, really missed you. I bet they also held themselves responsible since you played right into their very worst fears. Do you ever check in on them? Do you ever …” I gulped at the thought but forced myself to continue, “Do you ever … make dreamweaves for them?”

  He patted his head again, and I looked away. I really wished he’d stop doing that.

  “Never! No! Sheesh!” he said.

  I waited for a moment, hoping he’d say something more, but when he didn’t, I took another leap, hoping it might work. “The thing is, Satchel, all of that happened a really long time ago, which means some of them are probably Here now. Have you ever considered venturing out, out of this room, to see if they are?”

  He looked at me, well, one eye did. The other was reduced to a black pit with long strings of cruddy bits streaming out.

  “Are you kidding? I can’t go out there looking like this!” His voice was tinged with hysteria, fear. “My parents will kill me! They must be furious with me for what I’ve done!”

  I could hardly believe it. After all those years spent scaring an untold number of dreamers across the globe, after all those years of reigning supreme over their very worst nightmares, Satchel was still afraid of how his parents might punish him for his death.

  “First of all,” I said, trying to stick to the obvious, keep to the facts. “No one can kill you. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re already dead. And second—don’t you think it’s time you guys had a talk? I mean, I could be wrong, but I’m pretty willing to bet they’ll be overjoyed to see you again. And third—” My eyes fixed on his mangled hand that was in transit, just about to pat at the grotesque crevice in his head, turning in a way that made his jutting collarbone scrape a big chunk of skin right off his chin. The bloodied, battered bit hanging by a long string of ick, that swung up and down, back and forth, causing me to say, “You have got to stop doing that. Seriously, not only does the sight of it make me want to hurl, but there’s really no need for you to look like this anymore. It’s time for you to leave your past behind and head toward your future, don’t you think?”

  While I felt I’d made a pretty good case, he wasn’t entirely convinced. He listened, considered, I could see it in his one, semi-good eye, but he was definitely teetering. He needed more proof.

  Satchel had grown so used to his views, the fearful ideas his parents had drilled into him, that it was hard, if not impossible, for him to see another way. And there’s no doubt that having felt so powerless in life, he’d come to enjoy the power he wielded over all those unsuspecting dreamers. As far as he was concerned, it was a lot to give up.

  Dreamweaving was his life. Er, make that his afterlife. Without it, he had no idea what to do with himself.

  Kind of like how I was with Soul Catching.

  But if it was time for me to make a new start, then it was definitely time for him too.

  We locked eyes, and I knew if I didn’t say something quick, something positive, upbeat, and encouraging—something that would give him the final push that he needed—well then I’d lose him completely.

  And while I had no idea what I might say, I decided to trust that the right words would find me—just like they often did when I was in the middle of a Soul Catch.

  But this was no Soul Catch—or at least not officially anyway. Once again, I’d barged in where I didn’t belong. I’d taken on a case without the Council’s consent.

  Which means the second I opened my mouth, the only sound that came out was a horrible croak.

  A horrible croak that was soon followed by a high-pitched gasp when Balthazar stepped out of the shadows and made for the stage.

  He strode toward me, dressed in the exact same uniform he’d worn earlier—the buttons on his shiny blue shirt still threatening to pop, his knee-high boots tapping hard against the floor, and I couldn’t help but wonder just how long I’d been there. Had Dreamland officially opened for business again—or had Balthazar sensed some sort of trouble and come straight from his bed?

  He looked at me, his gaze holding more warmth than I would’ve expected when he said, “The boy is not ready. These things cannot be forced.”

  That’s what you think.

  I turned toward Satchel, eager to prove Balthazar wrong, but all I found was an empty space where Satchel once stood. And no matter how long I stared, it only confirmed what I already knew—Satchel was gone.

  I whirled on Balthazar, furious with him for interfering, for butting in at the most crucial moment. I mean, seriously—if anyone should understand the concept of delicate timing it should be him. Hadn’t he just spent an entire afternoon lecturing me about the importance of timing, of getting the landing just right? And yet, when it came to the scene I was directing, he just stormed right in without a thought.

  “This is your fault!” I yelled, my voice containing a fury that surprised even me. “He was this close to changing!” I thrust my hand toward him, pinching my forefinger and thumb closely together. “I’d almost convinced him—and I would have too—I definitely would have—if you hadn’t barreled right in and wrecked the whole thing!”

  My cheeks grew hot and flushed, my throat grew all lumpy and hoarse, as my eyes stung from the threat of crystalline tears. Hardly able to believe just how close I’d come—only to lose it all in an instant.

  But I didn’t cry. Instead I turned to the side and blinked and blinked until I was ready to face him again.

  “Don’t you get it?” I said, my voice still shaky. “Satchel was my big chance! He was my big opportunity to advance myself straight into being thirteen! And I was so close—I was almost there—until you came along and wrecked everything.” I shook my head, swiped a hand across my eyes. “You just had to butt in, and now … and now I’m right back where I started. Stuck as a scrawny, little twelve-year-old kid!” I stared at my feet, waving my hand before me as though erasing the words. There was no point in continuing, no point in anything. And as far as Balthazar was concerned, well I was really and truly over him. Everything bad could be traced back to him. If he’d just let me have my dream jump like I’d asked from the start, then the whole mess with Satchel never would’ve occurred.

  I’d be back home, safe in my bed, dreaming sweet dreams after having g
otten some good and solid advice from my sister.

  But nooooo! Thanks to Mr. Skunk Hair, I was right back where I started, which was pretty much nowhere at all. Feeling so disgusted with myself and my stupid, level 1.5, barely there glow, I tugged hard on my sleeves, yanking them over my knuckles and down past my fingertips so I wouldn’t be reminded of just how far I had to go.

  Then I unstuck my bolted-down feet and made for the doorway.

  Stopping just shy of it when Balthazar said, “You think I ignore Satchel? You think I did not try to speak with him, to reason with him? You think that you are the only one who has failed with the boy?”

  I stood very still, thinking: Um, yeah, that’s pretty much exactly what I thought. It never even occurred to me that there might be others who knew what Satchel was up to. But it’s not like it made a difference. It was what it was.

  “Dreamland is my creation, and at one time Satchel was my number-one apprentice,” Balthazar said, an unmistakable hint of pride in his voice. “Nothing can happen here that I am not aware of.”

  “Then why haven’t you stopped him?” I turned, but the second my eyes met his, I already knew. Free will, it ruled everything.

  I shook my head and moved for the doorway. Removing the first slat and placing it on the floor when he said, “You know, Riley, you will never turn thirteen this way.” I glanced over my shoulder just in time to catch the concerned look that he shot me.

  “Oh, yeah?” I grumbled, grabbing the next slat and hurling it toward the ground. “Well, that’s just great, Balthazar. Seriously. Thanks for sharing that. Thanks for the really useful, super-duper handy tip.”

  I frowned, blew my limp blond bangs out of my face, and removed the last remaining slat, eager to put some serious distance between us.

  “This is not how you grow older. Winning is not all that you think it to be.”

  “Oh, yeah? So just exactly how is it done then?” I asked, my voice thick with sarcasm, while the rest of me secretly hoped he might tell me.