But Satchel remained unimpressed. Refused to see things my way.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” he said. “All I know for sure is that the dreams I weave wake people up. My dreamweaves help people realize just how small, vulnerable, and fragile they really are. They make people cautious. They make them think twice. And despite what you think, none of those kids are innocent. That girl that got eaten by the alligators?” He looked at me. “She does things near that swamp with her boyfriend that she knows she shouldn’t be doing. Bad things. Dangerous things. Things her parents have warned her about. But now, after my dreamweave, she’ll think twice about her actions. She won’t be doing that kind of thing again.” He flashed a self-satisfied smirk and continued, “And those kids in the park? They hang out there almost every night, drinking, smoking, and getting in fights. I sent that dream to the whole group of them, and I one-hundred-percent guarantee you that once they get talking about it—once they exchange notes and realize they all saw the same thing—they’ll be so scared, and rightfully so, that they’ll stop all the nonsense, stop abusing their bodies, stop wrecking it for everyone else, and live a better life. And if not, well then I’ll just keep chasing them down. I’ll just keep dreamweaving exclusively for them, until they finally get it, or they end up Here prematurely, whichever comes first. And the same goes for everyone else.”
He paused, allowing me a chance to react, but I just held my tongue.
“I’m doing good work here, Riley—work that I should be rewarded for. But some people are just too shortsighted to see the value in that. You’re lucky you met me, you know. You may already be dead, so there’s no sparing you that, but you’re reckless. You think you’re way smarter than you are. You think you know more than anyone else. And, well, think of it like this, maybe I’m here to save you from yourself.” He laughed, though the sound was so icky, so greasy, I couldn’t help but cringe. “I mean, think about it. Think about everything I just said. Isn’t that how you got here? Isn’t that what convinced you to sneak back into Dreamland despite that it was closing time—despite what you’d been told?”
He paused.
I shrugged.
Clearly we’d reached an impasse.
Until he said, “So tell me, Riley, tell me the truth. I’m curious, after everything you’ve experienced here, do you still think fear is for sissies?”
His eyes focused on mine, focused in the way they had before: piercing, mesmerizing, willing me to seek his approval, to do whatever it took to please him, to do his bidding.
And though that no longer worked, when I tried to flee, well, that’s when I realized the nightmare hadn’t really ended.
My feet were nailed to the stage, and my lips were stapled shut.
18
“How does it feel to know no one will come for you?”
Satchel smiled. Having joined me onstage, he proceeded to circle me slowly, to better observe me.
“How does it feel to know you’re trapped here? Does it make you feel, oh, I don’t know, fearful, perhaps?”
With my mouth still stapled shut, it’s not like I could answer. But Satchel wasn’t in it for the answer. He was in it for the taunt.
“You know, I’ve been doing this for a very long time, and I must say that you are one of my most challenging dreamweaves to date.” He stood before me, eyes widening as though I’d finally managed to impress him. Too bad I no longer cared about that.
“Just so you know, I didn’t always deal in nightmares. I used to let people send whatever kind of message they wanted, whether I approved of it or not. I did my job, did what the client and Balthazar wanted. But then one day, I’d had enough of all the softly whispered, sappy encouragements of ‘Live your life to the fullest!’
“And worse: ‘Seize each day as though it’s your last!’”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “What complete and utter nonsense—not to mention damaging too! But Balthazar loved it, and, of course, the Council gave it their golden seal of approval. Only I could see what was really happening. Only I could see the consequence of such a thing. Those supposedly heartwarming dreamweaves were doing more harm than good. They were endangering people, making them believe in a false sense of security. Resulting in a population of delusional people, running around, taking unnecessary risks. And I think we all know that nothing good comes of that!”
There was that voice again. The one I’d heard earlier—the one that sounded like he was reciting someone else’s words.
And though I was making progress with loosening the staples on my mouth, I didn’t let on. I figured I’d stay where I was and let him lead me straight into the good stuff.
“You can send comfort but not prophecy—that’s the Dreamland motto in case you didn’t know. It’s the only real rule we were told to work under. And while it seems to make sense on the surface, while people need to make their own decisions so they can learn and grow, and all that—they also need to make those decisions with a very clear picture of just how dangerous the world is! And since no one else was willing to do that—it was up to me to show them.”
He stormed the stage, finger jabbing the air every time he said something of particular significance. And the longer he lectured, the more his voice changed, until it was no longer his own. It became someone else’s.
He continued to speak, and point, and make all manner of fear-driven statements. His eyes growing so bleary, his expression so foggy, I was pretty sure he was no longer in the present with me, but hung up somewhere in his past.
Not wanting to disturb him or lead him out of his trance, I let the words seep slowly, softly, trailing their way from my head to his, as I thought: So tell me, tell me just exactly what happened to you that made you this way.
I stood rigid, letting the thought find its way to his brain.
And because he was who he was—or at least who he claimed to be: the best assistant director Dreamland had ever seen—he decided not to tell me.
He showed me instead.
19
The projector whirred as he punched fiercely onto his keyboard. And the next thing I knew, we were dropped into a carnival scene—a sort of old-timey fair.
The kind with clowns, cotton candy, and silly games with cheap prizes that cost only a penny to play.
I gazed down at my clothes, surprised to see myself wearing a flannel skirt with a poodle stitched on it, its hem drooping nearly to the black-and-white saddle shoes on my feet, while on top I wore a snug sweater set with a matching scarf to go with it. Making me look like a character on some 1950s sitcom.
Satchel wore his same white shirt, black pants, shiny belt, and black shoes, and with his spit-slicked hair, and pasty white skin, well, even back then he didn’t fit in. Compared to the other boys with their rolled jeans, tight white tees, and sun-warmed skin, he looked more than a little weird. He stood out, in a strange-pale-funeral-director kind of way.
I stood to the side, balancing a cloud of cotton candy in one hand, as I watched him stride alongside his parents. And I have to say that the second I saw them, well it all became clear.
And when his dad began to speak, I knew exactly where that voice had come from.
I kept to their pace, walking just behind them, careful to blend in, go completely unnoticed, striving to overhear brief snippets of their conversation.
His mother kept quiet, a vague and distant expression stamped on her unhappy face—while his father, his voice hardened, authoritative, explained all of the very good reasons why Satchel was not allowed to go on any of the rides.
I shoved a wad of cotton candy into my mouth, frowning while I let the little crystallized bits melt on my tongue. Wondering why he’d even bother to take his kid to the carnival if he wasn’t allowed to have any fun.
Though it wasn’t long before I realized that Satchel had no one else to go with.
Satchel had no friends.
His life consisted only of his parents, schoolwork, and the family’s thrice weekly visi
ts to church. And if he was good—very, very good—then maybe they’d allow him to go to a child-friendly movie—an outing that he treasured above everything else. Those moments in a darkened theater, watching a story come to life on a screen, were the only small pleasures he was allowed. Which is more than he could say for his parents, whose lives seemed to hold no pleasure at all.
His mother spent long hours at the ironing board, starching the collars and sleeves of the stiff, white shirts Satchel wore to school and his father wore to work. Satchel’s father rose early each day, showered, dressed, and had a quick bite to eat before heading to work. And while Satchel wasn’t exactly sure what he did, he knew it had something to do with numbers.
“Numbers are safe—numbers are low risk,” his father always said. “If you know how to work ’em, then they always add up in the end.”
The carnival was only in town for a week, and all of the kids at school had been talking about it—though of course no one actually mentioned it to him, Satchel had merely overheard them.
He was too weird—too creepy—and he came from a really weird, creepy family—or at least those were the most quoted excuses kids used to avoid him.
But from the moment Satchel glimpsed the tip of the Ferris wheel on a rare trip into town, he wanted nothing more than to see it up close—wanted to see if it was anything like the one in the movie he once saw.
Knowing he wasn’t allowed to go on his own (he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere on his own except school, church, and the occasional movie, and even then, only during the day—anywhere else was deemed far too dangerous for a boy of thirteen), he’d made a deal with his parents. Promising that if they would just accompany him—then he would agree to not go on any rides, not eat anything made of sugar, and not waste any of his father’s hard-earned pennies on games his father claimed were probably rigged anyway.
A promise he had every intention of keeping until he saw her.
Mary Angel O’Conner.
The girl who sat a few rows before him in school—the girl with the glorious mane of long red hair that spilled over the back of her chair like a trail of smoldering embers. Those silken strands gleaming in the slant of noonday sun that crept through the window—appearing so glossy, so inviting, Satchel imagined it would feel like warmed silk in his hand.
Unlike all the other kids, Mary Angel had, on more than one occasion, said a kind word to him. They were moments he’d never forget. Moments he replayed in his head again and again, like a favorite movie.
And there she was, surrounded by a large group of friends, though one glance at Satchel made it clear he saw only her.
I shot a nervous look first at his mom, then at his dad. Hoping they hadn’t noticed what had claimed their son’s attention, knowing they’d view it as a threat, try to make him fear it. I was already feeling really, really sorry for him.
But they didn’t see, they were too busy discussing all the dangers around them, completely unaware of the spark of an idea that just flared in Satchel’s mind—one that would’ve resulted in a hasty stroll toward the exit if they’d had even the slightest inkling of it.
I have to get away from my parents, he thought. I have to do whatever it takes to rid myself of them. I have to get far, far away—if only for a few seconds.
He yanked at the cuffs on his shirt, then patted his hair with his hand, two of his usual nervous tells. Deception did not come easily to him.
Carefully steering his parents in another direction, one that was opposite Mary Angel and her friends, he looked first to his mom, and then to his dad, as he said, “I think I just saw someone from school. May I go say hello, please?”
I stood off to the side, polishing off the last sticky strands of cotton candy, while his parents exchanged a worried look. His mother verging on no, the most overused word in her vocabulary, some might argue the only word. You could see it engraved on her face, the lines permanently stamped in the place where a smile could’ve, should’ve been.
While his father peered closely at Satchel and said, “Who? Who is this person you know from school?”
Knowing the truth would only land him in trouble at best, and back home at worst, he gulped, crossed his fingers behind his back in an attempt to lessen the sting of the lie, and said, “It’s just … it’s just one of the teachers. I want to ask her a quick question about Monday’s assignment, that’s all.”
I veered closer as his parents consulted, listened as they discussed the possible merits along with the very real dangers of allowing him to drift off on his own. And just as his mother was about to say no once again, his father overruled her when he nodded and said, “We’ll wait here. Right here. We expect your return in three minutes.” Consulting his pocket watch to mark the time. “If you’re not back by then, we are coming to get you.”
If it’d been me, I would’ve run like the wind to get the heck out of there, afraid of wasting a single second of such a ridiculously short time frame. But Satchel and I are nothing alike. Which means he didn’t run. Didn’t even consider it. Running could lead to falling, and falling was bad—a fact that was repeated to him ever since he’d taken his very first step.
With hammering heart, and sweaty palms, he made his way toward her. Having no idea what he’d say once he got there, and knowing all too well there was a good chance that her friends would all laugh, he still had to go through with it. He couldn’t let the chance slip away. He was at the carnival—just like any other kid—just like any normal kid—and he wanted Mary Angel to see it.
He wanted her to see him the way he saw her.
By the time he caught up, she and her friends had made their way to the front of the line for the Ferris wheel, waiting for their turn to board.
I stood beside him, the two of us gazing up at the car that loomed highest. And while I’d always loved the Ferris wheel, carnivals too for that matter, Satchel made me see it in a whole different light.
Carnivals were dangerous and dirty places—operated by shady carnies with even shadier pasts—and while all of the rides held their own unique dangers, the Ferris wheel was the granddaddy—the most dangerous of them all. His father had assured him of that on the drive over, while his mother had sat right beside him, head nodding in silent agreement.
I shot him a worried look. He was just a few inches shy of Mary Angel, and I braced for what he might do, what he might say. He was in unfamiliar territory to say the least.
Mary Angel turned, smiling in a way that made her face shine with happiness, and though the smile was in no way directed at him, she’d been merely laughing at something a friend said, Satchel was too sheltered, too hopeful, too socially awkward to see the smile for what it really was.
He used it as an excuse to approach her. Stopping just shy when a boy, Jimmy MacIntyre, otherwise known as Jimmy Mac, or sometimes just Mac, placed a possessive hand on her back, threading his fingers through her blaze of red hair while gently pushing her toward the vacant, waiting car.
“Hey, Satchel, you gonna ride too?” Mary Angel called, finally seeing him as she slid onto the seat.
And though he’d sought her attention, though it was the number-one reason, the only reason, for lying to his parents and risking their wrath if the lie should be discovered—now that she was looking at him, he was struck dumb, left completely speechless, breaking out in a sweat that soon worked its way from his forehead all the way down to his feet.
Jimmy Mac answering for him when he said, “You kidding? Satchel? Ride this thing? Please. That kid’s such a wimp he has a permanent note to get out of PE. He’s not allowed to run! Can you believe it? Running is too dangerous!” He shook his head, rolled his auburn eyes. “Craziest thing I’ve ever heard and I swear to gawd it’s true!”
Mary Angel glanced shyly at Satchel, shot him a regretful look, as Jimmy Mac claimed the space right beside her, his shoulder pressing into her angora-covered shoulder in a way that made Satchel’s head swim.
Satchel gulped, gaped, all to
o aware of the seconds marching forward, erasing all that remained of the three minutes he was given. All too aware of the mountain of trouble that awaited him if he was caught standing anywhere near the mouth of the Ferris wheel.
“You riding or not?” the carnie asked, his face a mess of crags and crevices—evidence of a life lived recklessly, his father would say. And though he knew better than to ask, Satchel wondered how his father might go about explaining his mother, who didn’t have much of a life to speak of and yet she bore the same, saddened, used-up look.
“C’mon, get this thing up!” Jimmy Mac yelled. “Satchel Blaise the turd, oops, I mean the third, ain’t goin’ nowhere. Blaise is the biggest chicken the world’s ever seen!”
“Make up yer mind, kid. I don’t got all day!” The carnie narrowed his eyes so much they were swallowed by a mass of sallow, puffy, excess skin—the result of too much sun, too many late nights—obviously no one had warned him.
Satchel was just about to turn, just about to head back, knowing his parents were probably already looking for him, probably already steaming mad, when Mary Angel called, “Don’t listen to him, Satchel. C’mon, take a ride—the Ferris wheel’s fun!”
She wanted him to ride!
Mary Angel—the girl with the fiery red hair and bright shining smile—didn’t see him like all the other kids did.
I watched as Satchel threw all caution aside and moved toward the car. My fingers twisting, clutching at each other in a fit of nerves, willing him forward, egging him on, but wanting him to hurry, to board already, before his parents showed up.
He slid into the car below Mary Angel’s, getting a quick glimpse of her waving hand, her smiling face, her legs kicking above him. His heart hammering so hard against his rib cage he was sure it would leap right out of his chest and land on his lap. His fingers so slick with sweat, they slipped when he tried to grab hold of the rail and lock himself in, but luckily the craggy old carnie swung by to take care of that for him.