Dreamland (Riley Bloom 3)

Balthazar frowned.

“Well, as it turns out, I’ve never been to a school dance. I mean, I’ve seen them on TV shows and movies and stuff. Even read about them in books. But I’ve never experienced one for myself. We didn’t have any of those at my old school. I guess they figured we weren’t mature enough to handle it.” I rolled my eyes, shook my head, but then quickly moved on, got back to the point. “They saved that sort of thing for the teens in junior high. And, as luck would have it, I died right before I could get there. Which is why I wasn’t sure how to act, or how to blend in. That’s why I froze like I did. Like … like a snowman.”

Balthazar considered, grumbled a few foreign phrases I couldn’t comprehend, then he shoved the notebook back in his pocket, adjusted his scarf, and said, “You think Russell Crowe was really a gladiator?”

He stared at me, awaiting my reply, but I had no idea what to say. No idea who he was talking about, much less what he was getting at.

“You think Marlon Brando was a member of the mob?” He scoffed, eyes narrowing to slits as he shook his round head. “You think Elizabeth Taylor was the true queen of the Nile? You think she was the real Cleopatra?”

I just stood there, feeling dumber by the second, as Balthazar grumbled some more foreign phrases, before he looked at me and said, “You think, how do you say … ?” He squinted, rubbed his chin. “You think that this … this … Daniel Radcliffe—you think he rides a broom in real life?”

I cringed, shoulders slumping so badly I practically shrank to half my actual size. Suddenly understanding what he meant by all that, but before I could find a reply, he shouted, “None of those people were none of those things before they shot the scene! But, once they found themselves there, they felt their way through it. They determined what was necessary—what was called for—what to do! This is called acting, Riley! And if you want to dream jump, then you must act too. You must adjust to the scene you find yourself in, you must quickly observe all the action around you, and then you must do whatever it takes to fit in … to … to blend … to become one with the scene! That is what I require of you!”

I straightened my shoulders, and lifted my head. I got it. I really, truly got it. Finally, it all made sense. It pretty much mimicked what I’d thought earlier—if I could act it, I could be it. And so I was determined to handle it, I was pretty dang sure that I could. All I needed was another chance, though a little direction wouldn’t hurt.

My gaze leveling on his in a dead-on stare when I said, “While I agree that’s all true, it’s also true that another thing all of those people had in common was a good director.” I paused, waited for my words to sink in. “Every one of those actors had a good director who helped to guide them—to steer them—who helped them find their way.”

Balthazar studied me, considered my words, choosing to let me try once again when he shouted, “Fine, now we move on. Scene six, take one—action!”

13

It took me a total of nine jumps to nail it.

Nine whole jumps to finally perfect the landing.

But even though I’d succeeded, even though I was feeling pretty dang proud of myself, even though we’d just moved on to the most amazing back lot—the kind with faux cityscapes and street scenes—the kind they use in all the best movies—according to Balthazar, my success came too late.

Closing time had arrived.

Or, as Balthazar put it: “Cut! That’s a wrap!”

Those four simple words were all it took for everything to come to a quick and grinding halt.

I stood there, Buttercup beside me, watching a stream of people all heading in the same direction—toward the exit. And yet, despite the evidence before me, I still refused to believe it was over. Refused to believe my big opportunity had ended so easily.

It wasn’t my fault it took me so long—I’d gotten a late start! I mean, seriously? Quitting time? How could there even be such a thing—it just didn’t make any sense.

But before I could even lodge a complaint, Balthazar was already waving good-bye, already walking away.

Acting as though the time he’d spent coaching me was over in more ways than one.

Acting as though he’d forgotten all about me, and my dog, not to mention my backstory.

He didn’t even say good-bye. He just turned on his heel and moved on to whatever came next.

Treating my dream jump like it was just some dumb TV infomercial.

Some low-budget movie headed straight for DVD.

Some crummy YouTube video that wouldn’t get a single comment or view.

Some amateur project he’d been forced to waste his great talent on.

Treating Buttercup and me as though we were disposable.

And when a guy walked toward us with the same style scarf and goatee as Balthazar wore, like it was some kind of Dreamland director’s uniform, I grabbed hold of his sleeve and yanked hard as I said, “I was hoping you could help me. I was just about to make my dream jump when everything started shutting down for the day.”

He squinted, shook his head, and pointed toward the gate a whole swarm of people continued to pour through.