Dream Factory (14 page)

He shakes his head, tugs at his sock. “We have maybe seventy-five things left. That’s like
nothing
.”

“Yeah, that’s like ten minutes for you guys.”

He succeeds with his sock and sits there holding it. “Except there’s all this crap, like five things, and we worked on those, and
nothing
. No thing.”

“Like what?”

“Like a garden hose. Oh, and like PVC pipe? What is that, anyway?”

“Plastic pipe,” I tell him.

“Oh,” he says, and nods. “We can’t find it. I mean, we looked everywhere.”

Utilidors
, I think. Both those things are underground, in the tunnels. But how can Mark, the reincarnation of Walt Disney,
not
know about the tunnels?

Mark leans back on his bed, still wearing one sock. “Do you think, Luke, that maybe they’re talking about some kind of
magic
garden hose? I mean, you think?” And there is my answer—Mark doesn’t know about the tunnels, because he doesn’t
want
to know about the tunnels. He is the truest of the True Believers. Cassie, on the other hand, just doesn’t know.

“Yes, Mark, that’s what I think. And if you keep looking and, most of all, keep believing, one day you will find that magic garden hose.”

He is quiet.

“And listen,” I say, “what do you mean she kissed you? Like a little kiss because you are almost done, a celebration?” I think back to earlier, our plans for Dalebration. Maybe Cass is planning her own celebration. I think that, try to see it, and my stomach knots up once—a small, hard knot of jealousy—but just as quickly unravels itself. Mark, having heard from me the story of the magic garden hose, is fast asleep.

 

Maybe an hour later, in the middle of a deep sleep, I feel someone pushing my shoulder, and right away I know it’s Mark, about to get sick after his first-ever bout of drinking. But it turns out I’m wrong.

It’s Ella.

“Get your butt up,” she says, “and follow me.”

I grab a pair of shorts to slip on over my boxers, plus a T-shirt and sneakers, unlaced, and before I can manage any of it, she is walking out the door and down the steps in her Red Sox sweatshirt and sushi pajama pants. When I make it outside, finally, I find her at the usual spot, sitting on our old bench, where we haven’t sat since the night I watched her walk off into the dark.

“Okay, listen, you,” she says.

“Hey, your boyfriend just came in drunk. And I think we can win this contest.”

She hugs her knees up to herself. “Do we care?”

I sit beside her. “About which?”

She shrugs. “Either?”

“I guess not.”

“Well, then,” she says, and turns to face me. “I have a question for you.”

“Okay,” I say, and nod, holding my breath, thinking in half my brain how pretty she is, her hair pulled back, her cheeks dusted with freckles.

“What is your middle name?” She slightly twists her fingers together, nervous, breathless, waiting for me to answer. And instead of thinking about why she might be asking, I just open my mouth and tell her.

“Skywalker,” I say.

She blinks. “Your name is Luke Skywalker?”

“No. My name is Luke Skywalker Krause.”

She half laughs, and for some reason her eyes rim up with tears. She seems really, genuinely happy. “You just, like,
told
me,” she says.

“Well, you asked.” I smile at her.

“Okay, Luke.
Everybody
asks.”

I nod. “Let me try that again.” I clear my throat. “Well,
you
asked.”

She puts her hand on my arm. “Wait, wait—you have a brother, Ben . . .”

“Kenobi. Yep,” I say, and she laughs again.

“I don’t know where to start. How about this? You know, it’s an . . . unusual name, but it’s not creepy or anything, so why do you keep it a secret?”

I think about this one for a few, not really looking at her, not really knowing where to look. I watch her hand, which is still resting on my arm.

“I don’t know. See, my parents named me that, named Ben that, because back in the day they were like these total
Star Wars
freaks.” I look up at her. “They went to all the conventions, and right now, stuck away in a shoe box, are autographs from Mark Hamill and Carrie Fisher. They had this
Star Wars
wedding at one of the conventions, and my dad was dressed like Han Solo; my mother, like Princess Leia. The best man was a Wookiee.”

She laughs. “Then he was just best Wookiee, right?”

“I guess.”

“Why does it make you sad?”

I shrug. “Maybe . . . I don’t know. It’s like they gave up. Like they did all that because they really liked it and it was cool, and then suddenly they ‘grew out of it,’ and were all ashamed of it, treating it like everything they’d done had been stupid. It was
their
idea that I just tell everyone my name is Luke S. Krause, not mine.”

“Maybe they did grow out of it. People grow out of things.”

“I get that, but why are they so ashamed of it now? Why can’t your life just be what it’s going to be, instead of what it’s supposed to be?”

“So this is about you right now, not twenty years ago, yes?”

“I don’t want to give my kid a name and then make him hide it. I don’t want to say, Be this, not this. I don’t want to be locked into being someone who locks other people into the same thing.”

“That almost made sense.” She smiles at me. “Listen, if you don’t want to be that, then don’t.”

I look at her and shrug. “It scares me. I think it’s like saying, If you don’t want to have size eleven feet, then don’t. You’re kinda born into it. Or you inherit it. And then . . . whatever you’re handed, you’re stuck with it. Forever. You wake up, and that thing is your life.”

She gets really quiet then, looking away from me, and I suddenly feel stupid, knowing there is a sadness in her that’s way deeper than being stuck with an oddball name. I want her to tell me; I want to ask, but the moment feels as fragile as a soap bubble, and I just sit, letting her touch my arm, afraid to even breathe. Finally, as if there never had been a lull in the conversation, she looks at me, her eyes rimming full.

“God,” she whispers, “I hope that’s not true.”

11

Ella

Someone should make up a list of rules for visiting amusement parks. Every day I see the same mistakes, most of them totally avoidable. For instance:

1. You should never wear any item of clothing that matches an item of clothing that another family member is wearing. That means no couples with matching tracksuits and visors. No small children with identical Mickey Mouse T-shirts, and no families sporting orange T-shirts emblazoned with FIFTH ANNUAL ELLI-SON FAMILY REUNION.

2. You should only visit a theme park with either an overdeveloped sense of irony or none at all. Either way you’ll have fun.

3. Under no circumstances should you ever wear anything resembling a fanny pack. Whoever thought up the idea of wearing a pouch that sits above your bum and holds your money and keys and parking stub should have his or her clothing designer license revoked. These flatter no one.

4. Never allow your travel agent to talk you into the Behind the Scenes Tour. All you end up seeing is exactly that. The servicemen fixing the power panel that controls the Dumbo ride. The vendors carting around juice boxes to all the venues. The sanitation engineers cleaning up after someone barfs on the Magic Carpet Ride.

5. Don’t buy the refillable plastic cup thinking you’re going to save money in the long run. What are you supposed to do with the cup while you’re riding the rides and seeing the shows? Besides, once you’ve carried it around for half the day, resting it on the floor of the Splash Mountain ride, you really don’t want to drink out of it, anyway.

6. The final rule, and this might be the most important one, the one that everyone seems to forget: Don’t put too much pressure on your Disney visit. It’s still you there. You with all of your problems and issues. You and your reality in the midst of all that fantasy. Don’t expect the Magic Kingdom to be, well, magical.

“Give me a bite of your hot dog, you will.” I don’t look at Luke when I say it, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see him smiling at me.

“Okay, Yoda, the Jedi mind trick only works on weak-minded people.”

“You will give me a sip of your Coke,” I say. He laughs and passes the cup to me. We’ve pretty much given up on our list. Instead we’re using the camera to capture what we refer to as Disney Moments. Those little scenes that never make it to the tricolor brochures or onto the official Disney websites. So far today, we have a photo of a man dropping three double-dip cones in the trash when his preschooler threw a fit because he didn’t want mint chocolate chip, but chocolate chip. Luke got a shot of J. Worthington Foulfellow attempting to scratch himself through his fur crotch. I took three pictures, one right after the other, of a little girl barfing into the flowers after the Pirates of the Caribbean ride made her cotton candy go sour.

“Ten bucks says the guy in the purple Chucks starts freaking out.” Luke holds the camera out in front of him, centering the couple in front of us in the viewfinder.

“I’m not taking that bet,” I say, taking a long drink of the Coke. “They’ve been circling each other for ten minutes now.”

“Any second now.” He adjusts the camera a bit, and I hear the whine of the zoom. “Wait for it. Wait for it.”

“Luke, you do know this is sick, right?”

“I’m not doing anything. I’m just documenting events.” We watch as the man starts talking loudly, waving his arms.

“They got married at the castle yesterday. She even dressed up as Cinderella. Talk about setting your sights a little low.” She starts yelling, too, and the surprising thing is no one even looks at them when they pass. Luke puts the camera back on the bench, beside him.

“Did you hear about the strike?” he asks. I shake my head, and he looks at me. I feel the knot in my stomach that grows each time the strike is mentioned. Luke takes a sip of his Coke, pulling on the straw until it makes a loud burbling noise.

“Luke, the strike?”

“They’re stopping talks until after the final night celebration. Management’s decision.”

“How come you’re suddenly in the know?”

“When have I been out of it? I mean, of the know.”

“The dumb is strong in this one,” I say. Luke shoves my knee with his hand, then leaves it there for a moment, his palm burning into my skin.

“Foulfellow told me, and he stanks of the know.”

I squint at him, and he grins. “I guess that’s good news,” I say. “But there’s a window, you know? I want the strike to continue until I need to leave for school, but not beyond that.” As I talk, I can hear my voice getting softer, like I’m trying to hide what I’m about to say next. “I mean, we can’t stay here forever.” Luke stops smiling and looks away from me and toward the entrance to Tomorrowland.

“Do you ever wish you could see way into your future? Like twenty, thirty years from now? See what you’re like?”

“Like if you’re bald or something?” I ask, but it’s the wrong thing, because he won’t look at me. I pull my legs up into my chest, letting the backs of my flip-flops hook onto the seat of the bench.

“Or something,” he says, but so softly, it’s almost drowned out by the newlyweds arguing.

“Luke, I can barely see past today. Barely handle what’s happening right now. I don’t think I want to know what I’m like in twenty or thirty years.” I take the cup and shake some of the ice into my mouth.

“But what if seeing yourself could make you change who you are now? What if making one tiny change now could ripple through the rest of your life, making bigger and bigger circles until everything is different?”

“I don’t know,” I say, looking over at the entrance to Tomorrowland, the city of tomorrow looking suspiciously like old episodes of
The Jetsons
. “If I had to look at every decision like it was going to have major repercussions down the line, I wouldn’t even be able to choose between wheat and white toast for breakfast.”

“Rye.”

“Why what?”

“Not
why
. Rye. Rye toast.”

“
Eww
, you can’t put raspberry jam on rye toast.”

“Rye not?” Luke laughs, pushing my leg again, and again leaving his hand on my knee. “It’s just that my family, my father, has these plans. Plans that have been in place for longer than I can remember.”

“And you’re not sure you want them to be your plans.” Luke just shakes his head. “Well, what do you want to do instead?” He shrugs and looks at me, then at his hand on my knee, then back at my face.

“I don’t know. See, that’s the thing. I don’t have a better idea or even another idea, really.”

“Well, find one.”

“What if it’s the wrong one?” He moves his hand from my leg and reaches for the camera again.

“Then change it.”

“Just like that?”

“Why not?” I can still feel each of his fingers on my leg, feel where it’s almost too cool now without the heat of his hand.

“You can’t just change your plans. You have to set a goal and then work toward that goal.” He lifts the camera. This time aiming it at me.

“Says who?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious with him watching me.

“My father.”

I put the cup over my mouth and breathe loudly into it. “Luke,” I say, making my voice deep, “I am not your father.” I hear the whir of the camera taking a picture and stop mid-breath. “Oh, great. I’m sure that’s a nice one. Here,” I say, reaching for the camera. “Let me see it.” I aim the camera at him, finding his face in the screen. “Okay,” I say. “Do something.”

“Like what?” He tilts his head and looks right at the camera. Right at me.

“Anything,” I say, holding it still.

“Anything,” he says softly. I push the button and the shutter clicks.
Anything.