Dreamland (Riley Bloom #3)(15)

“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

While 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.