Maybe there was no way to grow and mature.
Maybe Bodhi had lied about all that in an attempt to get me to shut up and stop complaining about being eternally twelve.
Maybe we really were stuck.
Maybe I’d live Here for infinity and nothing about me would change!
“I was his number-one intern,” Satchel said, invading my thoughts, but I was happy to let him, they were putting me into a serious mental tailspin. “I was the best assistant director Dreamland ever saw …”
“And then?” I gulped, eager to hear what came next.
He shrugged, patted his hair, a gesture he’d done twice in the short time I’d known him, and I wondered if it was his own personal nervous tell.
“And then …” He paused, tugged at the cuffs on his shirt (another tell?), took way too much time inspecting his sleeve, pretending to remove a nonexistent piece of lint. “And then, we had a disagreement.” He shrugged. “A sort of … falling out, if you will. And now Balthazar does what he does—dream jumps—and I do what I do—dreamweaving. Trust me, Riley, my way is better. You’re lucky you found your way here. Balthazar has talent, there’s no doubt about that. But what he lacks is vision. And whether you’re directing a dream, or a movie, or even a play you put on for you parents and your dog in your garage …”
He looked right at me, and I wondered how he could possibly know about that, how he could possibly know about Ever’s and my Rainy Day Productions—that’s what we called our theater company, we even made brochures to go with it. But then he just smiled again, and I began to relax, figuring lots of kids did stuff like that. It was an easy guess on his part.
“Anyway,” he continued, reclaiming my attention. “No matter what sort of production you’re directing, vision is everything.”
I looked at him, remembering how Balthazar had claimed that the imprint was everything, and that the landing came a close second. Clearly they worked from two very different perspectives.
“What Balthazar does is nice, don’t get me wrong,” Satchel continued. “And it definitely serves a purpose, there’s no doubt. But, as you’re about to see, there’s just no comparison. His stuff … well, it’s a little schmaltzy. A little … sappy. Too many rainbows and smiling puppies for sure. His stuff is dripping with sugar, and spice, and everything nice. Overly sentimental in the most obvious way.” He grimaced, making clear his disapproval, his distaste. “It’s not near as important as the work I do here. The same work you’ll soon be doing here too. What I do changes lives, Riley. After one of my dreamweaves … well, let’s just say that the dreamer’s life is never quite the same. They begin to see their place in the world in a whole new way.”
I looked at him, wondering if Balthazar knew he was here, wondering if anyone knew he was here.
“So, what do you say we get started?” he said, not allowing me enough time to reply before he added, “Oh, and just so you know, there is no dream jumping here. There’s no need for it. What I do covers everything.”
“So, how do you do it?” I asked, more intrigued than anything. Following the curve of his arm, all the way down to the tip of his slim, pale finger as he pointed toward a dark, empty stage with the stained screen right behind it.
“For starters, you need to head over there. Stand right on your mark. You’ll see it when you get there. And then I’ll start the projector, and you just sort of … go with it. Remember how you did with the dream jump? Well, that part’s the same. You just keep on acting no matter what. You stay in character until I tell you to stop. Deal?” He looked at me, looked directly into my eyes, and all I could do was nod in reply.
That was the second time he’d used the word “deal.” And while I liked it even less than the first time, for some reason, I didn’t hesitate to do what he said. It’s as though his gaze alone was compelling me forward. Like I no longer controlled my own will. But what was even stranger is that I didn’t seem to care. I only wanted to please him, to get a good review.
“Like this?” I asked, my voice too high, my smile too bright. “Is this the right spot?” Knowing it was. The X was clearly marked. And yet, I couldn’t help but seek his approval, even if it took a little begging on my part.
He nodded, face squinched in deep concentration as he peered between the viewfinder and me, saying, “Now remember, it’s like Balthazar taught you. Just go with the scene you find yourself in. Adapt and blend in, no matter what I put before you, no matter what the situation. Just do whatever it takes to make sure the dreamer stays in the scene too. The last thing we want is for them to wake up before the dream is complete. There’s a very important message attached, I don’t just make this stuff up for my own entertainment, you know. But, it’s imperative they experience the whole, entire dream. It’s imperative that they don’t wake prematurely. Otherwise, the message will be lost.”
I nodded, staring at my feet, making sure they didn’t stray from the mark. Then my eyes flicked toward the screen and I focused as hard as I could. Body on edge, senses on high alert, waiting for an image to appear, waiting for my cue to begin.
The first thing I heard was the odd click and whir as the film reel circled. Then the screen went pitch-black, but only for a second before it lit up again, bearing an image of an old Indian wearing a headdress perched above a series of circles containing a bunch of seemingly random numbers. I squinted, trying to think of where I’d last seen that, and then I remembered, it was an old TV test pattern. Back on the earth plane, my friend Emily’s brother had a T-shirt with the exact same picture on it.
And then, just like that, the next thing I knew the screen lit up with the most spectacular thunder and lightning show, and I stood there in awe, happy to watch, and feeling pretty thankful it remained on the screen, that it wasn’t actually raining on me.
Though unfortunately, the thought came too soon, and the next thing I knew it was raining for real. Like taking a ride through the car wash in a convertible with the top left down, a torrential downpour completely drenched me.
When the lights up above started to sizzle and crack, their bulbs popping and flaring as though they might electrocute me, I took to the ground and ducked my head low. Doing what I could to shield myself with my hands by grasping them tightly over my head, silently reciting the facts as I knew them: The Here & Now didn’t run on electricity—it was just some kind of special effect—part of the dream Satchel was weaving—there was no way any of it could harm me.
I peered toward him, knowing better than to look at the camera, much less at the director, while in the middle of shooting a scene, unless, of course, you were directed to. But still I glanced his way, squinting through steady ribbons of water raining down all around me, hoping for a little direction, a little approval—looking for some indication of where this scene might be heading, and just how long I’d be required to put up with this—but not getting much of anything.
Satchel was absorbed. Having moved away from the projector, he’d perched himself behind a big, old-timey computer where he punched furiously on its keyboard. No longer taking notice of me—his lack of attention left me feeling really sad and empty.
I wanted him to notice, to approve of my acting, to applaud my hard work. I wanted him to cast me in all of his future productions, give me the starring role. I really, really, really wanted him to be proud of me.
Though, I had no idea why.
My mind began to ponder, wondering why some weird kid’s approval was worth getting drenched over. And just as I began to grab hold of myself, questioning why I was staying, if I might not be better off leaving, I heard panting.
Heavy, frantic, grunting and panting.