Ms. Lee brightened again. “Do you mean that?”
Catching crumbs in her hand, Sophie nodded. It actually was good.
Beaming, Ms. Lee spun to face Mom. “Gabriela, do you think they’ll sell? The best bakeries have dozens of recipes. If I can perfect a few more, we can expand . . . but I’m getting ahead of myself.”
Mom clasped her hands. “I think you’ll sell hundreds, Jia. You’re a fantastic baker. Look at all you’ve achieved already! You need to believe in yourself. Believe in your dreams!”
Sophie tried not to react to that phrase, even though she knew Mom meant daydreams, not sleeping dreams. Sophie wondered if Ms. Lee dreamed about cupcakes, or maybe singing cupcakes and dancing measuring spoons. The two women hugged, and Ms. Lee left, nearly skipping out the door. Sophie swallowed the wad of cupcake in her mouth as her mom asked, “How was school today, sweetie? Did you have the history test?”
Sophie wiped the frosting off her mouth with the back of her hand. “Mom, that buyer—”
“Use a napkin. Here, let me.” Reaching over the counter, Mom dabbed Sophie’s face with a stray napkin.
“Mom!”
“I know I baby you, but you’re still my baby-waby.” Mom curled her lips into a fishy face and made kissing noises at Sophie. She then turned to the cupcake display to add the new savory cupcakes. Every morning, she or Dad artfully arranged them in a pyramid inside a glass dome. Sophie had helped with pictures of leaves and flowers on the calligraphied sign (Gourmet Cupcakes $3.00). “Ms. Lee wants us to add a few tables and chairs. Serve some iced tea in the summer with the cupcakes . . .”
“Mom, he stole my used dreamcatchers and left a note.”
Cupcake in hand, Mom froze. Her eyes widened. The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment, like a cartoon coyote about to fall off a cliff. Sophie exhaled. At last she’d gotten Mom’s attention. “Who?” Mom asked, her voice calm. She placed the last cupcake on the pyramid and closed the glass dome.
Sophie dug into her backpack and handed her the note with the black cat and balloons.
Mom read it and frowned. “I don’t see—”
“I told the buyer this morning that my name’s Betty.”
The color drained out of Mom’s cheeks. She strode over to the bookshop door, locked the deadbolt, and flipped the sign to Closed. “Your father is downstairs. Come, and tell us both everything.”
Sophie followed her. “Where’s Monster?”
On top of one of the bookshelves, something sneezed. Dust plumed into the air. Looking up, Sophie saw a shadow launch itself off the top shelf and call, “Catch me!”
Tentacles out, Monster sailed through the air and slammed into Sophie’s chest. She staggered back as Monster wrapped two tentacles around her neck. “Oof! Hi, Monster.”
“You’re upset. Who upset you?” Monster demanded. “Tell me, and I’ll bite him.”
“No biting,” Sophie and Mom said at the same time.
“Little nibbles?”
“No,” they said.
“Ferocious licks?”
“Ew,” Sophie said.
Mom unlocked the basement door with a key they kept hidden in a battered copy of Moby-Dick. They kept the basement door locked at all times—no one wanted a bookstore customer wandering into the Dream Shop by accident.
“I know what will cheer you up! Honey bacon cupcakes. I know that would cheer me up. Honey cheers everyone up. Except bees. But that’s because it takes two million flower visits for a bee to make one pound of honey, and they’re tired. It’s a scientific fact.” Listening to Monster prattle on made Sophie feel safer. She hugged his furry body as she carried him downstairs. He patted her cheek with the soft pad of a tentacle. “You still look worried. Please don’t worry. Monster is here.”
Downstairs, Dad was at the distiller. His forehead was crinkled as he concentrated on hitting the correct levers. The dream dripped fast from tube to tube, and Dad raced ahead of it, adjusting the valves and choosing levers as it sluiced through the turns and twists. He moved like a bird, his elbows flapping and fingers flying. Each choice he made would shape the depth and duration of the dream. He could even cut or blur details, if he wanted.
As the dream picked up speed, it glowed brighter and began to sparkle with purple flecks. Reaching across Dad, Mom twisted a dial and pressed another lever, sending the liquid shooting to the left. At last, it poured into the final tube. As Dad worked the levers, Mom plucked a bottle off a shelf and held it under the spigot. Drop by drop, the essence of the dream filled the bottle.
Watching her parents distill a dream was one of Sophie’s favorite things to do. They were artists. Dreams that they distilled were crisp and bright. They prided themselves on that. People who bought their dreams were purchasing a special experience—a story in a bottle, as her dad liked to say, to enrich their lives from the inside out.
Seeing her parents at work, doing what they loved, calmed her. Her parents would figure out what the card meant. Probably it wasn’t a big deal, just a man with a warped sense of humor. Or maybe he was trying to be nice, surprising her with a happy birthday wish when no one else did . . . except that he’d also taken the dreamcatchers. She couldn’t forget that.
After the final drop, Mom eased the bottle out and capped it. Dad smiled at her. “Excellent timing, my dear, per usual,” he said.
“You should have waited for me.” The distiller could be worked solo, but their finest dreams were made when they worked together. “But that’s not why I came down. Sophie had a little scare at school. She’s okay, though. Safe and sound.” Mom was smiling as she said it, but it seemed like a painted-on smile. Dad took the card from her.
“I found it in my locker,” Sophie supplied. “The buyer from this morning thinks my name is Betty. It has to be from him.”
Dad read the note, and then looked at Mom. He swallowed, hard enough for Sophie to see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Don’t let it worry you, Sophie.”
She wanted to quit worrying, but . . . “I also had two full dreamcatchers in my backpack, and they were gone. And Lucy said she saw a ‘nightmare man.’”
“Did you see him?” Mom asked. “Did he talk to you?”
More softly, Dad asked, “Did he hurt you?”
Mom shot him a look.
“Not that he would,” Dad said quickly. “But if he did . . .”
“Tell us everything, sweetie,” Mom said.
Monster growled. “If he hurt you, I will do more than bite him.” He wrapped his tentacles tighter around Sophie, squeezing her waist. It felt like he was superglued to her.
Sophie shook her head. “Just the card. I didn’t see him.”
Mom sank into a chair. It wobbled under her. She rubbed her forehead as if her head suddenly hurt. “I shouldn’t have unlocked the shop door. But buyers don’t like to wait outside; it’s too conspicuous. If I’d known Sophie was up . . .”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Dad said.
“Blame me,” Monster said, ducking his head against Sophie’s neck. His voice was muffled as he talked into her shirt. “I failed my responsibility. I am deeply ashamed.”
“One accident in six years is not terrible,” Dad said. “We all should have been more vigilant. It’s as much our fault. We didn’t remind Sophie.”
And she should have checked the calendar and been more careful in the first place, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered now was figuring out what the card meant. Cutting off the conversation, Sophie asked, “Who is he? What does he want?”
“He knows you’re our daughter,” Mom said. “And he saw Monster. If he put two and two together and reported it to the Night Watchmen . . .”
“But he didn’t,” Sophie said. “He just left a card.”
All of them brightened. Monster lifted his head, and his tentacles loosened. “Sophie’s right,” he said. “If the Watchmen knew about Sophie, they’d come for her. And they haven’t.”
The Night Watchmen thought drinki
ng another’s dream was immoral instead of amazing. If they had any idea that Sophie could bring dreams to life, they’d take her away—and who knew if she’d ever come back? Sophie’s parents had drilled it into her: the Watchmen were her enemy. The fact that they hadn’t come was a very, very good sign.
Dad nodded. “We’re jumping to conclusions and imagining the worst-case scenario. He couldn’t have realized where Monster came from.”
“I did tell him the mutant housecat story.” Mom hopped to her feet and began to pace. There wasn’t much room for pacing in the shop—she took six steps to the somnium, then had to pivot and walk six steps back to the distiller. Her heels clicked on the wooden floor.
Still holding Sophie with four tentacles, Monster waved two in the air. “I don’t like that story. I am not a cat. Or a mutant. Frankly, I’m not sure which is more insulting. Can’t we say I’m the result of a science experiment that was supposed to result in superintelligent beings?”
“Hush, or we’ll say you’re a feral wombat,” Mom said. “This is serious.”
“But nothing to worry about,” Dad said quickly. “As you pointed out, we have no proof that he means any harm, or that he would involve the Night Watchmen.”
Stopping, Mom reached over Monster and put her hands on Sophie’s shoulders. “Absolutely. You don’t need to worry. We’ll take care of it.” She was trying to radiate confidence, but Sophie could read the concern in her eyes as easily as she could read the label on Dad’s newly bottled dream.
“But why did he do it?” Sophie asked. “Was he trying to scare me?”
“It’s probably nothing. Just a man trying to show he’s clever.” Mom hugged Sophie, squishing Monster between them. Monster squeaked. “Why don’t you do your homework while Dad and I talk about how to fix this?”
“I’d rather talk with you.”
“I’d rather not be squished,” Monster said, wriggling.
Stepping back, Mom released them, and Monster sucked in air melodramatically, expanding his chest as if he were a balloon.
“You can’t send me away when you’re going to talk about important things that have to do with me,” Sophie protested.
“Sure we can,” Dad said. “That’s what parents do all the time.”
Mom patted her shoulder. “We were just more subtle about it when you were younger. Now we expect you to be mature enough to understand. Your father and I need to talk about you behind your back and then decide what to do.”
Glaring at them, Sophie plopped on the floor with so much force that the bottles on the shelves rattled. She wasn’t leaving. They’d need to drag her upstairs, which would be uncomfortable for everyone. “You can’t send me to Aunt Abril’s. You said you wouldn’t.”
“You did say that,” Monster put in.
“We’re not sending you away.” Dad knelt next to her. “But we don’t know how serious this is. He approached you. Scared you. That’s not acceptable. We may be overreacting, but it’s only because we love you more than any other being in the universe.”
“Maybe it was a friendly note,” Sophie said. “Maybe he took the dreamcatchers by accident. He could be trying to be polite.”
“You don’t accidentally follow a child to school, then break into her locker and steal her things to be polite,” Mom said. “No, this was to send a message to us.”
“What kind of message?” Sophie asked.
Mom and Dad looked at each other. Neither of them answered. So Monster did. “That they have a weakness. You. If he threatens you, they’ll do drastic things to protect you. Like send you to a farm.”
“Why would he want me on a farm? Does he like chickens?” Sophie tried to make it sound like a joke, but her voice was shaking too much.
“Maybe he likes sheep,” Monster suggested. “And I’m told that many farms keep llamas, to comfort the sheep if they’re lonely. Sheep like flocks. They’re herd animals. Like dogs. Except you say ‘packs’ for dogs, not flocks. And ‘gaggle’ for geese. Pride of lions. Crash of rhinos.”
“‘Crash of rhinos’?” Sophie repeated, grateful for a chance to make her voice sound calm again. “You made that up.”
“Did not. Look it up. There are many interesting names for groups of animals. A quiver of cobras. A charm of finches. A parliament of owls.”
Dad smiled broadly. “Hey, you know, hate to interrupt, but I think I forgot to eat lunch.” He put his hands over his stomach, and it growled as if on command as loudly as Monster’s snore.
“How can you eat—” Mom began, then suddenly stopped. “You’re right!” she said brightly. “We’ll eat. Leftovers. Upstairs, all of you.” She shooed Sophie, Monster, and Dad up the stairs to the bookstore and up again to the kitchen.
“What do you call a group of monsters?” Sophie asked Monster as they climbed.
“Awesome,” Monster said.
Upstairs on the second floor, Mom raided the refrigerator for leftovers: a hamburger and two chicken enchiladas (Mom’s best recipe), a few bagels, and a hunk of cheese for Monster. She tossed the cheese at him, and he caught it in his teeth. Taking it out of his mouth with a tentacle, he nibbled at it. Mom shoved the enchiladas in the microwave and the bagels in the toaster. Sophie set the table at the same time, and Dad fluttered from window to window, looking out and then shutting the shades.
They’re trying to distract me, Sophie thought. It was Dad’s favorite trick: distract with food. Mom had tried to send her away to do homework, and now it was Dad’s turn. She bet they planned to talk after Sophie went to bed. “What did you mean, he was ‘sending you a message’? The card was for me. What makes you think it was a message to you? And what kind of message?”
“Who?” Mom asked innocently as she poured apple juice into Sophie’s glass.
Sophie rolled her eyes. They were so transparent. Did they honestly think she’d forget what they were talking about? “The buyer. Mr. Nightmare. What do you think he wants?”
Mom sighed heavily. “We don’t know. We’ll have to find out.”
Dad nodded. “Tomorrow, we’ll meet with him and ask.” He cocked his head at Mom as if that was a question, and she nodded.
The microwave beeped. Mom carried the casserole to the table. Cheese had separated into clumps that clung to the pasta. Certainly not appetizing enough to distract Sophie from the conversation. “What if he’s dangerous?” Sophie asked.
“Oh, I doubt that,” Mom said breezily. “We met him, and he seemed harmless. In fact, he was very polite, though a bit intense.”
“Not someone I’d want to have over for a barbecue,” Dad said, “but no alarm bells.”
Mom nodded. “He said he considers himself a nightmare aficionado, and he’d heard of our work through a colleague. He complimented us for a while, clearly trying to butter us up, and then bought one of our finest nightmares, one that mixed Greek mythology with a cruise ship disaster. And then he said if he liked it, he’d be in touch.”
“He’s most likely trying to bargain with us,” Dad said while he set the table with forks and knives. “Our prices are higher than most, but that’s because our quality is higher.”
Mom nodded. “Probably thinks he’s being clever. We’ll explain that if he ever contacts you again, we won’t do business with him anymore.” The bagels popped up in the toaster, singed around the edges. “By the time you’re home from school, this will all be settled.”
“I’m going to school tomorrow?” Sophie thought of the note in her locker. Mr. Nightmare had been in her school. He could be there again.
“It’s a Tuesday,” Dad said. “You usually go to school on Tuesdays.”
“But this is different!”
“And that’s why Monster will go with you,” Mom said.
Monster hopped onto the table and nodded solemnly. “I will.”
Sophie felt her jaw drop open. “Wait, what? You want Monster to come to school with me? Are you serious? You’re aware he has fur, three rows of teeth, and six tentacles, right? I ca
n’t pass him off as an out-of-state cousin here to visit, and we haven’t had show-and-tell since kindergarten.”
“Monster will hide himself.” Calmly, as if this were an ordinary dinner conversation, Mom served the casserole. She scooped some into a cat dish in front of Monster. He stuck his face in it.
Scooping more, Mom dropped a mound on Sophie’s plate. Sophie didn’t touch it. She couldn’t imagine eating right now. “You know this is Monster we’re talking about, right? There are hundreds of kids in my school. If anyone sees him . . .”
“They won’t,” Dad said quietly, firmly. “They’ve never seen him before.”
Sophie gaped at Monster. “Before? What do you mean, ‘before’? He’s never come to school with me.”
Monster dropped his head as if embarrassed. Face near his food dish, his nostrils flared. He began eating.
Sophie poked him. “Monster?”
“We’ve sent him a few times to check on you,” Mom explained. “Once when you had a bad cough. Another time when you were worried about some kids being mean to you . . .” She trailed off.
“But he never said anything about it.” Sophie couldn’t imagine there were things Monster didn’t tell her. She’d thought they had no secrets. Monster didn’t meet her eyes.
“We asked him not to,” Dad said.
“How often did he follow me? And why?”
“Sometimes we worry,” Dad said. “It’s a parent thing.”
“Sophie, this is not open for discussion.” Mom slammed the casserole down on the table. “You can’t be here when we talk to Mr. Nightmare, and we aren’t letting you out of our sight without knowing you’re watched over by someone we trust.”
Lifting his face out of his dish, Monster purred. Bits of hamburger stuck to his fur. “They trust me, despite this morning,” he said happily.
“Of course we trust you,” Mom said. “You’ve proven yourself time and again.”
Monster mimed wiping an imaginary tear from his cheek. “I have succeeded where all other monsters have failed. I have won myself a true family. I am the happiest monster of all.” He flounced dramatically onto the counter.
The Girl Who Could Not Dream Page 5