The City of Dreams -- Part 7

[Having a timer to push my word count is extremely invigorating.  Also, knowing that I can turn out two-thousand words in an hour gives a great feeling of power.  RAWR!  (That was me feeling powerful.)  So here's the next section of the story, bringing today's word count to over 4,600.  This book might actually get finished!  Then I can start writing my 'Lord of the Mansion' story.  Or the second 'Pete and The Dog.'  Or 'The Babylon Cycle.'  Or 'Night Kingdom.']



The drama room wasn't a long walk from the choir room.  It was, however, a trip across at least two different social circles.  I had to make my way past the band geeks--not a rude term; that's what they called themselves--and the orchestra people--which, really, is not a very original way to describe yourself--and enter into drama territory.  Honestly, I didn't know what they called themselves, but they were a distinct group.
Brie wasn't in the hallway, so I tentatively opened the door into the drama room.  It was a new experience.  I'd seen glimpses of the room from outside the windows, but that was as far as I'd ever gone.  Now I was stepping inside.  The room was disappointingly normal.  There was a small, raised stage on one side, but the desks, random tables, and TV on the wall made it just about like any other classroom in the school.
There were a few clusters of people eating lunch, mostly on the loud side, which I'd expected.  What I didn't expect was the fact that I couldn't see Brie in any of them.
That left me with a dilemma.  I could turn around and walk away.  I mean, it wasn't like the world would end if I didn't apologize to Brie for a few more hours.  At least, I didn't think it would, though I suppose I wasn't an expert on the ending of this world or any other.  Maybe it was like the butterfly-flapping-its-wings thing, where a butterfly in Brazil makes Chicago snow over.  Maybe if I didn't apologize to Brie, the world actually would end, and it would be my fault.  For some reason that didn't seem too far fetched at the time.
But if I walked away, Sook would be on my case.  I like Sook.  She's funny, and she hardly ever messes up her 'r's and 'l's anymore, which is pretty amazing for a Korean.  I used to think it was charming how she couldn't say them, and then I tried to learn Korean.  Turns out they have a letter that's somewhere between 'r' and 'l.'  I had a really hard time saying it.  Then I swore I would never make fun of people learning English again.
Like I said, Sook would be on my case, and while I was certain I could mess things up with Brie to the point that she would never talk with me again, I knew Sook wouldn't go away that easily.  First, I didn't want to lose Mike's friendship, and he was pretty attached to her.  Second, Sook had this way of tackling problems head-on.  And she was a pesterer.  If Mike or I did something stupid, she'd pester us until we fixed it.  It was annoying, mostly because she was usually right about what we'd done wrong, and apologizing stinks.
So if I left the drama room without at least trying to find Brie I knew Sook would be on my case.  I was too tired to have her on my case.  It was a far better option to suck it up and talk with someone.  Someone I didn't know, because I didn't see anyone in the room that I knew well.  I may have mentioned that sometime in the last year I stopped remembering names.  There was a reason for that: I didn't like meeting people anymore.
It was unavoidable, though.  I took a deep breath, picked a small cluster of girls at random, and walked over.
"Hi," I said.
A girl in dark clothing with straight, dark hair falling over her face looked up at me.
"Hi, Perry," she said.
Dang it.  She knew my name.  That left me two options: admit I had no idea who she was, or bluff my way through.  I chose the option that might require more explanation in the long run but less right now.
"Have you seen Brie?" I asked.
"Which Brie?"
Dang it again.  I had no idea what her last name was.
"The one with brown, curly hair, moved here recently."
"Brie Mitchell, right.  She's not here."
"Was she here for lunch?"
The friends looked at each other, shaking their heads.  "Don't think so.  Though she usually is."
I breathed in and out.  "Thanks," I said.
"You want me to tell her your looking for her?"
"No, that's okay.  Thanks again."
I headed back to the door and left the drama room to the sound of laughter behind me.  My brain told me they weren't laughing at me--and I'm sure they weren't--but my gut said otherwise.  A guy never likes to leave a room to the sound of laughter, at least not unless he said something really funny.  Or was making a dramatic exit.  Asking about a girl and leaving to the sound of laughter was not a good combination.


The rest of school passed in a blur.  Sook let me off the hook--'for now'--but the message was clear: find Brie and apologize.  Something that I could even do over the phone now, she pointed out, since I knew Brie's last name.  Mitchell.  I remembered it.  It stuck in my brain the same way that her first name had stuck there, which proved to me that I cared.
I wasn't sure I wanted to care.  Everything was hard.  I did my biology homework instead of paying attention to the lecture, sang all the words in choir without really remembering any of them, and stared at the window all during world history.  It was not a good day.
By the time I got home I was done.  I wanted the world to stop.  Pull the global emergency brake and shoot myself off into space at a vector and velocity that I could probably calculate now, considering what we'd been learning in calculus.  It was an appealing image, the thought of floating out into space, empty, calm and did I mention empty?  Also, I would be alone.  I wanted to be alone.
Fortunately that was very possible.  Mom and Dad were out, Cindy was running cross country, and Tamara was off to her part-time job selling trendy clothes to people who were seldom as trendy as what they wore.  I'd never really bothered with a job since Mom and Dad were happy to pay for my dates--enthusiastic, even, every time I'd gone on one, which was a little disconcerting--and I didn't spend much money other than that.  I borrowed any manga, anime, or movies from Mike, and otherwise I was content with the local library and its extensive audio-visual selection.
That afternoon I didn't even have to raid my library shelf.  Some station was having a Batman marathon, running back-to-back-to-back episodes of the really old Batman TV shows.  Not the animated show, but the live action episodes with the barrel-chested Batman, the death traps at the end of every other episode, and the 'POW!', 'PAFF!', and 'BIFF!' flying out of the screen at you whenever someone threw a punch.  I popped a bag of kettle corn, made lemonade from one of those buckets of powder, and sat down to try to figure out why the villains always put Batman in a fiendishly devised death device...and then left.  They always left.  They never stayed around to make sure he was dead, and never just shot him.  Maybe there was a villains' code, something that said they could not, under any circumstances, be there when the hero was killed.  If they did, their villain's license would be revoked, and no villain wants his license revoked.  Then you’d just be a two-bit crook, and that's pathetic.  I wouldn't want to be a two-bit crook.
That was where Dad found me, on the couch.
"What's up, Perry?"
"Batman's fighting the Archer," I said, "which means that even the 'pow's and 'whap's have bad English accents.  'Poweth!'"
"I remember this episode," said Dad, sitting next to me.  "Isn't this the one where he gets put in a death trap, and then the Archer leaves, and he gets out with something on his utility belt?  'Bat utility rope,' or something like that?"
"All the episodes are like that, Dad."
"Oh," he said.  "It's been a while."
"In the movie," I said, "he even has 'Bat shark repellant.'  Which, if you think about it, is something we all should keep with us at all times."
"Are there sharks in the lake that I didn't know about?" asked Dad.
"You can never be too careful," I said, taking another handful from my second bag of kettle corn.
We watched for a while as Batman and Robin did their coordinated fight moves then walked up the side of a building.  Batman and Robin did the walking.  Dad and I just watched.
"How was school?" asked Dad.
I shrugged.  "Nobody stole my lunch money."
"Do we give you lunch money?"
"No."
"I guess that makes it extra good that nobody stole it."
I smiled.  "Exactly."
"Make any new friends?" he asked.
"Dad, this isn't kindergarten.  We don't make new friends in high school.  We're locked into fixed social circles that we'll rigidly cling to until we graduate, and in ten years when we come back to the reunion, we'll hang out with exactly the same people again."
"So no new friends."
"Kind of," I said.
Dad's eyebrows went up.  "You 'kind of' made a new friend?"
"More like I probably lost a new friend."  The television was spouting a commercial that ended in a logo that I didn't recognize.  "I don't even know what that commercial was for," I said.  “It just showed lots of old people fishing and hiking.”
"Investment company," said Dad.  "You want to talk about it?"
“About what?”
“Losing a new friend.”
"Not really."
"If I ask you later tonight, will you want to talk about it then?"
"Not really."
"Can I have some of that popcorn?"
"Sure."
Dad grabbed a handful, the TV jumped back to the Caped Crusader, and I lost interest.
"I'm done," I said.  "You want to watch the rest?"
Dad shook his head.  "I only sat down because you were here."
I pushed the button on the remote and stood up, picking up stray bits of popcorn from the floor.  "You want the rest?" I asked, holding out the bag.
"Sure," said Dad.  "You positive you don't want to talk about it?"
"I have homework," I said.  "Thanks, though."
"Yeah," said Dad, and I walked out of the room and up the stairs.  I didn't really have homework.  I'd finished it all in class, but when you're a grumpy wad of used chewing gum--which was kind of how I felt--then you don't really want to go sticking to other people.  You might spread the grumpy around.  And used chewing gum is gross.  So I went into my room and pulled out the next novel on my English reading list.  It was a book about a girl who, if my guess was right, was destined to die a meaningless death after years of suffering.  I skipped to the end just to check.
I was right.


When I woke up in the City, I wasn't anyplace that I recognized.  It was a more rundown part of town and the old brownstone buildings next to me looked grumpy.  They were waking up and getting into pushing matches with each other, plaster and molding chipping off as they bumped shoulders.  Two guys were sitting on the hood of a car, and the car was glaring at me.
I suppose I hadn't thought about it, but a city made of dreams would have to have this kind of place as well.  Not all dreams are as nice as hanging out with Brie.
Which I wanted to do.  I was in the city, and I could breathe again, and I missed Brie.  I was an idiot.  I'd completely screwed things up at school and I had to fix it somehow.  Only problem was, I didn't have any idea which way it was to Big Ben's market, and I didn't even know if she'd be there.  In the meantime, the streetlights around me were starting to wake up and they weren't glowing the pleasant kind of yellow that I'd seen in other parts of the city.  In fact, the one above me looked particularly red.  I wasn't sure I wanted to meet a red streetlight.
I glanced around, trying to pick the most likely direction to safer dreams, and saw a church up the block and across the street.  Looked like as good a place as any, so I checked both directions, saw no traffic at all, and headed across.  I jumped when a rough looking scooter barked at me, but other than that made it to the church without incident.
It was an old-style church, with the high roof, gargoyles, and a big stained-glass rose window facing the street.  For all that it looked Gothic and imposing, it felt safe to me.  Warm.  A small door inside the immense front doors opened and pale, yellow light spilled out onto the silver-lit street.
I stepped inside and looked around.  There were a few people in the pews, sitting quietly or praying, and there was organ music swirling in greens, whites, and yellows around the pillars.  The streams of color tickled at my palms as I held out my hands to feel them.  It was powerful music, large and triumphant and majestic.  I took a deep breath and smiled.  A person could do just about anything listening to music like that.
The organ stopped and, after a minute, I heard steps coming down a narrow spiral staircase to my right.  I realized that the organ loft must have been above me, and it wasn't long before the organist made his way down to the ground level.  He was a tall priest, what was left of his white hair carefully combed, organ music in his hands.  His eyes lit up when he saw me.
"Welcome to Saint Michael's, young man.  We don't get many young people in.  Churches aren't what most people dream about anymore, unfortunately.  I'm Father Thomas," he said, holding out his hand.
"Perry Crows," I said.
"It's nice to meet you, Perry."  Father Thomas looked over my shoulder.  "And who is your friend?"
"I'm Not," said Not.