Dickensen Academy

by Christine Grabowski

  “How?” Grace asked.

  “Perhaps it’s a memorable trip, a visit with a relative, or an encounter with a fairy tale figure. There’s no limit to what you can create, only your imagination and skill.”

  I thought back to my dream about racing in a steeplechase. I could still recall the wind whipping through my hair, the sound of pounding hooves, the smell of sweat, the jolts as my horse jumped each obstacle. And of course, the silly grin I wore through it all.

  “But what if I told you those hours of sleep could be used productively? This is where you as Dickensen students have a tremendous advantage over your peers in traditional high schools. Your teachers are all dream-makers, and they will use dreams to produce unforgettable lessons. What if your science teacher could send you back in time to view dinosaurs while you were studying fossils? Or what if you could watch a volcano erupt?” Mr. Robbins’ voice grew louder, and the prance in his step reminded me of Principal Locke. “Or you could go into space and view the planets up close rather than memorizing them from a textbook. Or perhaps in history, you could watch a Civil War battle unfold or participate in the first Thanksgiving. Even in language arts, you could immerse yourself into the life of a literary character.

  “Tim, what would you think of living a day in the life of Huckleberry Finn or Holden Caulfield?”

  “I guess it could be kind of fun.” Tim shrugged. “I don’t know much about them.”

  “Or maybe Ms. Jenson will up the excitement level and teach something that has made its way to the big screen. Hannah, what would you think of experiencing the 1920s by attending one of Jay Gatsby’s extravagant parties as Daisy Buchanan?”

  Hannah grinned. “I’m all in.”

  “The possibilities are endless. Being engaged in an accurate dream created by one of your teachers is simply another method they have at their disposals to make the content of their courses more authentic and to bolster your memory recall.” He smiled. “And it’s infinitely more fun than traditional learning. By receiving these dreams throughout the next four years, you’ll also retain your dream reception ability.”

  As Mr. Robbins continued on, my fears lessened. I wasn’t sure how it all worked. But using dreams to teach seemed safe. Maybe even beneficial if I could actually learn from them.

  A flurry of hands began waving the moment our teacher opened it up for questions.

  “How often will we receive these dreams?” Ben asked.

  Mr. Robbins considered his question. “It’ll depend on your instructors. Some may only give you a few dreams throughout the year. Others may give them more frequently.”

  “How does a teacher give us a dream?” Jacob asked.

  “Your question deals with dream conveyance. I’ll introduce the topic in detail in another month or two. But to answer your question in simplistic terms, your teachers will create dreams based on content from their curriculums and then focus on their students to convey the dreams. Learning how to convey to a group of students is a high-level skill, which takes years to learn.”

  “Do all these dreams have the students travel outside the fence?” I asked. “Like the one Principal Locke sent us.”

  Mr. Robbins chuckled. “Many do. But not all. Guessing you’ve heard the term outside the fence. The phrase has become code around campus for experiencing a Dickensen dream.”

  I glanced over at Ben. He mouthed, “Good question.”

  With less than fifteen minutes left of class, Mr. Robbins said, “I’ll take one last question.” He pointed at a student in the back. “Caitlyn?”

  “Will we learn to create nightmares too?”

  The room went silent. What? We’d been discussing academic dreams. Talk about a change in direction.

  Mr. Robbins didn’t answer at first. Instead he stared at a watermark on the ceiling as if he needed time to prepare an answer. “It’s not something I teach. In fact, any of you caught attempting to create a nightmare will be expelled or severely punished. At Dickensen Academy, our mandate is to make the world a better place. That’s why we were so careful in the recruitment process to select students who not only have the aptitude, but also the wisdom and moral fiber to use good judgment.”

  As Mr. Robbins explained, Caitlyn stared at him with a strange smile, as if she enjoyed watching him squirm. I glanced to my left at Hannah, who looked mortified. Why did one of the nicest girls in our grade get stuck with Caitlyn as a roommate?

  “Okay, class, enough for now. Let’s get out your oil pastels and continue where we left off yesterday. We don’t have much time left.”

  A few students moaned, but I was content to switch to art. It would help me relax. Perhaps Mr. Robbins knew that after being bombarded with so much information, yet again, we would need some normalcy. Ending on a discussion about concocting nightmares had taken away some of the peace I’d begun to feel.

  “Remember,” he said, “we’ve got to keep up with the art lessons if you’re ever going to create settings for your dreams.”

  I pulled out my crayon-like oil pastels and removed my drawing from my portfolio. I’d sketched a flowered meadow earlier in the week and was now coloring it in. I loved the smooth, velvety feel of the pastels as I drew on the paper. But using my fingertips to blend and shade was still a strange sensation—I’d never been a kid who liked to get dirty. I looked at my drawing from a new perspective, realizing for the first time it wasn’t simply a picture to hang on the wall. It could form a backdrop for a dream I’d create. I shook my head slightly as I worked, still having a tough time believing this was truly happening.

  ****

  As I approached my room after cross country practice, faint, yet familiar, high-pitched buzzing sounds of the sitar filtered from under the door. Aditi often played instrumental Indian music through her speaker dock while she studied—said it helped her focus. But I’m pretty sure she listened to it because it reminded her of home. Maybe she was feeling a little apprehensive too. When I stepped in, she turned down the volume and rolled her chair toward me. “Did you hear the news?”

  “What news?” There’d been so much of it in the past twenty-four hours, I had no idea what she might be referring to.

  “About Quinn.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “I only heard he was called to the office.”

  “Well…” The way she drew out the word told me this was going to be some juicy gossip, so I got comfortable on the bed. “Ryan talked with Quinn this afternoon. He told me Quinn spent hours with Dean Rothchild and Principal Locke. They had a discussion about whether he should remain at Dickensen or not.”

  She stopped mid-story, her eyes wide and her lips smashed together as if she were struggling to keep the words from pouring out.

  I threw a wadded piece of paper at her. “Aditi, I’m dying here!”

  She leaped onto my bed beside me. “So last night Quinn told some other students he didn’t believe anything Principal Locke said and planned to tell his friends at home once the phone lines were fixed. Someone must’ve overheard and told the faculty because last night he had an awful nightmare as punishment—something straight out of The Hunger Games, where people were chasing him through the forest, trying to kill him. His roommate couldn’t even wake him while he thrashed about.”

  My mouth hung open. “Did he get kicked out?”

  She shook her head. “He gets to stay on some type of probation. Supposedly he didn’t think the school was serious about all this dream stuff. But after his nightmare, he knows it’s for real.”

  I swallowed hard. “Are you even supposed to be telling me this?”

  “Get this. Ryan said Dean Rothchild told Quinn to spread the message as a warning.” Aditi blew out a long breath. “It’s gotten to Ryan. He’s totally shaken up. Oh, one more thing. Quinn said don’t even think of posting anything related to Dream Management online. Your account will somehow be shut down before you know it.”

  Chapter: 10

  I shifted positions at the wood desk in my dorm room, tr
ying to focus. I’d spent most of the afternoon in the art studio so hadn’t gotten much else accomplished today.

  I reread page seventy-three of my science text.

  The corkboard, covered in notes and photos, hanging two feet from my face, seemed too close tonight. I attempted a calming breath, but the air was too thick to enter my throat.

  “Aditi, doesn’t the air in here seem a little stale?”

  She glanced around our tiny space and shrugged. “It’s fine to me. Maybe crack the window.”

  I shoved it open and returned to my desk. A minute later, I still couldn’t breathe right. The slight breeze hadn’t made an ounce of difference. Our room simply didn’t hold enough oxygen, and I was slowly suffocating.

  “I’ll be back.”

  Minutes later, I pushed open O’Reilly’s heavy exterior doors. I inhaled deeply for several minutes before my lungs had their fill. Lightheaded, I staggered to a nearby bench. A few tears fell. Using the sleeve of my sweatshirt, I dried my face. I still had fifteen pages of science to read and an algebra worksheet to complete, but I needed a break even though I’d stopped for dinner not long ago.

  I couldn’t go back to my room. I felt so trapped up there. Taking another deep breath, I leaned back on the bench. The setting sun cast long shadows from the tall evergreen trees. Here I was in a beautiful prison, trapped outside too. The surrounding forest hid an enormous, secure fence. We couldn’t leave campus for months. Our phones and internet were monitored. Visitors weren’t allowed. But now I knew why. No wonder a general sense of unease tugged at me from the corners of my mind. The overwhelming homework certainly didn’t help.

  My initial enthusiasm for Dream Management had waned over the last week and a half because we’d only learned some basic theory and history of the discipline. Mr. Robbins explained that cynicism would interfere with our capacity to receive dreams, so we couldn’t move forward until the entire freshman class accepted the idea of dream telepathy. Or what remained of us.

  Since Quinn’d had his nightmare, nobody else experienced one. However, a pair of roommates mysteriously disappeared within three days of each other. Mr. Robbins only said the boys had chosen to return home. But the less that was said, the more I worried. I was beginning to think these weeks were actually a test. Did the school trust us to keep their knowledge confidential?

  The campus had dimmed with dusk. Where could I go now? The game room? Wasn’t in the mood. I checked my watch. Maybe I could catch the Saturday night movie later. But those weren’t the kind of breaks I needed.

  I wanted to go to the mall with Julia. I wanted to meet Josh’s new girlfriend. I wanted to take Zoey to the park with Drew and his dog. And I wanted to chitchat with Mom while helping her make dinner rather than have another unnatural conversation on the phone. I even missed Dad when he was in his relaxed-weekend mode—not to be confused with his high-pressure-you-can-do-better mode.

  I dragged myself up to the phone room. I needed to hear a familiar voice from my old life. First, I called Julia. Her mother answered, but Julia’s voice sounded in the background. She was with a friend, and they were getting ready to go to the high school football game. She’d call me tomorrow.

  Then I tried Drew. Same story.

  At last, I called home and faked some enthusiasm. Didn’t want Mom’s homesickness detector to go off. Getting her all sad and worried wasn’t going to help. “Hey, Mom. Guess what I did today?”

  “What?”

  “I took this really cool drawing workshop. I’m finally getting 3D shapes down, so they don’t look like an elementary kid’s doodles.”

  “That’s great, honey.”

  “Only problem, it lasted four hours. So now I have all this studying to do.”

  “Well, I’m sure it was worth it. I’d love to hear all about it, but we were about to leave for the football game. Josh is starting, so we want to get there before kickoff. Your father’s already in the car.”

  “Oh…”

  “You okay? I can call back on my cell.”

  “I’m fine.” I made an effort to sound normal. “Just tired.” No way was I going to have a heart-to-heart while Dad listened in. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Cheer on Josh for me.”

  I hung up the phone more miserable than before. The whole world was going to the game except me. It hit me how hard it was to see everyone in Seattle go on with their lives.

  As I trudged back to my room, I passed Mrs. Humphrey’s doorway. Although she was my RA, we’d never had a real conversation. Maybe she could help somehow. I knocked tentatively on her door. What was I going to say? I started to back away, but then footsteps approached. Too late.

  A moment later, we were face to face. I must’ve been a terrible sight with my splotchy skin and puffy face because she ushered me inside. She led me into a cozy room filled with antique furniture. At one end of the space was a kitchen nook. An open doorway revealed a bedroom with its own bathroom. I’d love my own bathroom! Cluttered with pictures and knick-knacks, the apartment reminded me of my grandparents’ home. Not a surprise since Mrs. Humphrey was about the same age.

  She gestured toward the old-fashioned sofa. “Have a seat.” It turned out to be more comfortable than it looked as it enveloped me in its cushiony softness. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  I wasn’t a tea drinker but didn’t want to be rude. “Sure. Thank you.”

  “I hope chamomile is all right. It’s my favorite in the evenings, and my girls seem to like it. Not too strong and no caffeine.” As she clattered about the kitchenette, she added, “They say it has a calming effect, and I have to agree.”

  Beside me was an end table covered in framed photos. One caught my eye. About fifty students posed in front of the school building. Everything appeared the same as now except the ornamental trees in the picture were much shorter and covered in pink blossoms.

  Mrs. Humphrey set two steaming, fragrant cups of tea on the coffee table. “Give it a few minutes to steep. Be careful, it’s hot.” Then she took a seat kitty-corner from me. The tea was in a floral, china teacup—so different from the solid mugs Mom used for coffee. It was like being in another time period. I took a sip. Not too bad, almost like drinking flowers.

  She nudged her chin at the photo. “I was part of the class of 1962, the inaugural class.”

  My jaw dropped. “You were here when it opened?”

  “I was,” she replied wistfully.

  “What was it like back then?”

  “Some of the buildings were still under construction. They hadn’t even broken ground on Rogers Hall. But we were like you, adapting to being on our own and all the hard work…and the secrets.”

  My body began to sweat and I unzipped my hoodie. “Did you have a hard time when you came here?”

  “Are you asking if I ever got homesick?”

  I bowed my head. That was part of it. “Yeah. Kind of.”

  “Of course, dear. Everybody does. I’ve been in this position for over fifteen years, and I assure you most of my girls have experienced homesickness at some point. All those restrictions they put on you in the beginning don’t help. You’ll adjust and make friends. Things will get better soon.” She squeezed my hand and gazed into my eyes. “I promise.”

  A smile spread across my face. “I’ve actually already made some good friends.” Then I went on to explain how in some ways, I felt like I belonged at Dickensen more than at home. There I was often uptight, particularly around Dad. But here, I didn’t have the same pressure and was learning to be myself.

  “So tell me more about your family.”

  As I leaned back into the couch, my words flowed and the tension in my chest loosened. Mrs. Humphrey had a knack for opening me up. Or maybe the herbs in her tea were more potent than I had expected. The more at ease I grew, the more I realized I wanted to talk about everything bothering me. I scooted more upright. “I’m not just homesick.” I wasn’t sure how much to say. But she’d attended school here. She knew what it was like. “
It’s the whole Dream Management thing. It sounds cool. It does, but…”

  Mrs. Humphrey set down her teacup with a faint clink and moved to the couch, settling next to me. “Go on, dear.”

  “Well, two of my classmates disappeared. And this guy Quinn got this terrible nightmare because he planned to tell some of his friends about Dream Management.”

  “Oh yes, Quinn. I heard about him. The poor lad. I assume Principal Locke warned you not to mention anything about Dream Management?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She gave me a sad smile. “It’s always tough after the initial reveal. Teenagers like to talk. But I’d guess one nightmare was enough to convince him and the others to remain quiet.”

  I swallowed hard. “Have you had a Dickensen nightmare?”

  “Heavens no! I had the good sense to know what was expected of me. They’re reserved for people who violate the rules. And I imagine the administration has some other tricks up their sleeves if nightmares don’t work for a particular person.”

  A sudden bout of dizziness forced my head into my hands.

  “Oh, Autumn. Don’t be alarmed. Most people will only experience amazing dreams. As long as you follow the rules, no harm will come. It’s like at any other school; there have to be consequences. We happen to have a unique one at our disposal. Punishments like nightmares and expulsion are rare.”

  After a few deep breaths, I felt a little better. We were warned, and Quinn had flaunted his plan to talk. Harm. Other tricks up their sleeves. No way was I going to utter a word.

  “But what about the students who disappeared?” I asked at last.

  She smiled. “I doubt they truly disappeared.”

  “Okay, well, moved out without any goodbyes.”

  “Dream-making is not for everyone. Each year a few students decide it’s not right for them, so they choose to leave. They were probably too embarrassed to face their peers is all.”