They sat silently in the car as the driver prattled on from the front seat, pointing out, not celebrity homes or highlights of the famous city, but various billboards and funny license plates, as they were still stuck in traffic. The family taking up the front seat of the car spoke quietly among themselves occasionally, but mostly the long drive was spent in silence.
Nearly two hours later, the Princess, Lost Boys, and Geppetto climbed out of the van, stiff-legged and starving. They hadn’t eaten since their meal on the plane—and it hadn’t left them with the best impression of Real World food. But there was no choice now; they had to eat.
“Alright, there’s a good little restaurant in your hotel. Buffet style for breakfast, I believe, and wait service during lunch and dinner. But first let’s get you all check in,” Danny the driver, having no one left in his car, walked the group toward the Disneyland Hotel—a towering, rectangular, blue-lit building with a sign out front saying Disneyland Hotel, with a castle and flourish of sparkles and—
“Tinkerbell,” Curly gasped as they walked under the sign.
“Oh, yessiree. You’re a fan of the Never Never Land books, are you? Well, you know what, you four could be straight out of those books, if I ever. And you could be a Disney Princess,” he added, winking at Princess Babroulbadour. He missed her withering glare. “Anyway, I got it all squared away on the phone in the car, so you folks should be all set to check right in. May your vacation be magical,” he said, and with a little bow and doff of his black cap, he turned and left them in the large lobby.
All around them were blues and purples: a thick carpet with blue and purple abstract designs, a long, curvy blue couch, and several high-backed and royal-looking purple chairs. There were tables and poofs and modern, frosted-glass chandeliers, tall plants peaking out from behind the couch. And filling the spaces, people milled about. Parents, silent and exhausted-looking, walked dead-eyed through the lobby pushing strollers and carrying crumpled children on their shoulders. Some people walked through the space with dogs on leashes; some with dogs guiding them, canes in hand. There was just so much going on in the Real World all the time, it seemed; it was hard to take in.
“Ah, hello! You all must be the crew auditioning.” A slight man with dark, dark skin, a shaved head, and black, short goatee had just appeared from the other side of the long check-in counter. He was wearing a charcoal gray suite and a purple, shining button-up. “Your driver called and said to expect six under the name…” He consulted a sheet of paper in his hands. “James Jamerson,” he looked, somewhat amusedly at Geppetto. “But he didn’t say to expect talent. Let me see, let me see. Come with me,” he gestured over his shoulder as he’d already turned and begun marching toward the front desk. He began rapidly typing away on the computer.
“Ah, here we go. We do, in fact, have the Adventureland Suite available, which I daresay might suit you all better, if you’re preparing for an audition to work at the park. Get you into the mindset. The price is… a bit higher, but the room is so much more extraordinary.”
Geppetto was no fool, and of course knew the man was trying to make a profit, but the thing about having a bunch of Real World money that you won’t be able to use in Fiction is: you want to spend it. He handed over a thick wad of American dollars, which they’d picked up in exchange for pounds in England, and said, “We’ll take the room for the week.”
If the man was surprised by the amount of cash this old man in rather shabby suspenders seemed to be carrying around, he didn’t show it. He just smiled and moments later the six were being shown to their room.
Meanwhile, just 2,000 miles away in a magical place called Avis Car Rental in the Atlanta, Georgia International Airport, Mattie and Merlin were sitting in two chairs, still waiting to speak to someone about renting a car. They’d arrived several hours before on their flight from London, but it had taken two hours for them to figure out where they needed to go, and another two just to stop reeling from the flight. Finally, they took a shuttle to the car rental area and chose the first one they saw.
The room was windowless and sterile-feeling: fluorescent lights, white countertops, white tile floors, white walls. There was a little area for coffee and biscuits (which Mattie and Merlin ate five of each) and a small area for toddlers to play or read illustrated books (where Merlin sat tinkering with one of the toys.)
Mattie, however, was sitting in a hard-backed chair along the far wall of the room, as were several other exhausted and frustrated customers. The computer system had gone down an hour ago, and rather than go through the trouble of changing their reservations, it seemed most people were inclined to wait—albeit grumpily.
“Marsha Feingold?” a tall rather horse-like woman was saying from behind the counter. She had dark features—dark, deep-set eyes, dark, long hair, and a long, angular face. “Marsha Feingold, you’re up,” the woman said again, looking this time, directly at Mattie.
“Oh right! That’s me.” Mattie picked her backpack up from the floor under the chair and walked over to the counter.
“Please sit,” the woman gestured to the chair opposite her. Mattie sat. “I’ll need your license and if you have car insurance, I’ll need to see that too. You can choose to use our car insurance when you rent the car, for a nominal fee, or we can contact… Farmers,” she said as she glanced down at the card Mattie had just handed over, “to see if they will cover it.”
“They won’t,” Mattie said quickly. “I’ve tried before. We’ll just pay the extra for yours this time.”
The woman across the counter looked down at the license and back up at Mattie several times before handing her back the two cards, then some paperwork.
“You’ll fill this out; we’ll go out an inspect the car together, make sure there’s no damage before you take off. There’s just one thing—”
Mattie’s heart was racing. She felt Merlin’s attention snap in their direction as well. This was it. She knew the cards were forged.
“Just what is your skin regimen? You are glowing—it’s almost like you’re shining!”
Mattie let out a breath.
“I just eat a lot of snozzberries.”
And with a very confused look, the woman ushered them out of the room and into the parking lot beyond.
“Shut up. Just. SHUT. UP!” Kiki couldn’t take it anymore. She had never spent much time around kids in Romance—she was usually on a coffee date, licking frozen yogurt off of the same cone as a handsome man, or mixing up phone numbers and leaving it to fate to connect her with the momentary love of her life! She didn’t have the time or inclination to babysit a bunch of kids; and yet that’s precisely what she felt she was doing.
Phil, Willy, and Nilly all stopped, mouths still open mid-bicker, arms still outstretched mid-slap or -scratch. They looked at Kiki, who had once ventured from her normal role as heroin in Romance to Vindictive Serial Killer in a Suspense Romance, and saw that this was a line they didn’t want to cross. They straightened up.
“Well what are we s’posed to do, then? You ask me, I think we gotta go straight to his aunt’s house. We found that one,” Nilly said, pointing ferociously at the screen.
The four of them were in a rather antiquated-looking Internet Café in London, after having taken a bus and a train from Ashby de la Zouch. They’d found the nearest hotel to the St. Pancras Station, checked in, showered, eaten, and had since been sitting, exhausted and bleary-eyed in the little café. Needless to say, their patience with each other and the so far fruitless search for James M. Hardon, was waning.
“I’ve told you before, Nilly. We can’t ask any of his relatives where he is. The man is so elusive, largely because of his relationship with his family. I just don’t want to involve them.”
“Okay, what bout what I said, then?”
“Taking out a billboard ad?” Kiki asked disdainfully, looking over at Willy. “Um, we came to London in the first place because this was his last known address; I totally doubt he stuck around after tha
t falling out with his sister,” she said, pointing to her own computer screen. There were three rather boxy, old laptops on each long wooden table. She sat next to Nilly and behind them, Willy and Phil stood looking over their shoulders.
“‘Fantasy Short-Story Author and Poet, more widely known as a seventh-generation Hardon of Yorkshire, James M. Hardon, and sister Beatrice Hardon fight bitterly over the estate left by late father, the renowned Sir. James E. Hardon. In a statement to the press, James M. suggested the press and his sister screw off, just before leaving his London estate. His whereabouts are currently unknown.’ I mean, for all we know, this guy could have driven off and gotten in a wreck or something. Do we even know if he’s still alive?”
Behind her, Phil stifled a laugh.
“Is that funny?” she snapped. When she looked at him, though, she saw that he was staring down at the phone in his hands. Teenagers these days.
“Sorry; wasn’t listening. It’s just—have you guys hearda this thing called Reddit? Never seen it on Fictional Internet—guess it’s probably there now, though, huh? It’s just a giant message board where people from all over come talk to each other, share ideas, info, help each other find things or people. Anyway, there’s this gif of a panda dancin’ here.”
“What did you say?”
“Panda dancin’?”
“No,” Kiki said. “About people helping each other find things.”
“Oh, right—yeah, there are things called subreddits on here, and there’s this whole place for people to go n’ discuss lost and mysterious things and people and stuff. It’s pretty cool, I guess.” Phil smiled again, presumably at the panda, and then put the phone back in his pocket. “So. What we doin’ about this Hardon guy, hm?”
Kiki would never admit it, but it seemed as though hanging out with a bunch of teenagers for the past twelve hours might have just paid off.
The next day, the Princess, Geppetto, Curly, Tootles, and the Twins woke up late and had breakfast in the room; rather, in one of their many rooms. You see, the Adventureland Suite was made up of a master bedroom, a secondary bedroom, a living room, a library, an eating area, and den—all of which had rich maroon walls lined with wooden bookshelves and old maps and things. The warped-looking wooden floors were covered in many places with thick Persian rugs, ornate cherry wood tables, topped with more books, bowls of fruit, and on that particular morning, a 30-pancake breakfast from the kitchen.
After the six could eat no more, they made their way downstairs, and at exactly 10:30, were escorted into an awaiting shuttle.
“Haa! I’m Louanne, this here’s Marge, this is Mr. Richard Brandywine, and this here’s a little joy, who’s o course auditionin’ to play Joy. I’m goin’ in for both Belle and Sleepin’ Beauty—I’ll wear a wig, o’ course. Who’re y’all auditionin’ for?”
The words poured out of Louanne’s mouth—a very wide and lipsticked mouth on the face of a pretty, fair-skinned young woman with mousey brown hair—before Geppetto had even closed the van’s sliding door behind him. All eyes were on him as he sat down and put his tweed jacket in his lap. Next to him in the long seat, Princess Badroulbadour was closing her eyes and seemed to be counting or praying for patience.
“I bet yer auditionin’ fer the man from Up! Is that it? Y’all sure do look animated; shiny almost even.”
“Or—you could be Mr. Smee!” the young and petite girl, who Louanne had described as a joy said.
“I’ll bet he’s going to be the Sultan, and she’ll be Jasmine!” a woman said, who looked strikingly like the Fictional Ariel said.
At this, the Princess’s eyes flew open and she responded, teeth together, that they were just looking for some writers, thank you. With some confused looks around the car, the conversation slowly moved away from the odd newcomers to the vehicle and onto other things—what people were looking forward to most about being in California, where they were from, why they wanted to work at the park.
“All this talk about working at a park. What is this?” Princess Badroulbadour whispered to Curly to her right once the car was filled with others’ voices. He shrugged, but to his right, Toodles was looking out the window at something she couldn’t see.
“There it is,” he said.
And a moment later they turned into a parking lot so vast it was like a concrete truck had covered an ocean, and beyond that, she could see what ‘it’ was.
“Oh my…”
“Welcome to the most magical place on earth,” the driver said, turning around to flash them a toothy smile.
The group from the van were guided through the main entrance of the park, and rather than waiting in the long lines of people—families mostly, some young couples, and some older, retired couples and friends, too—they were lead through a little side entrance marked Employees Only. And then, as soon as they were through the gate, they found themselves home.
“Wow, oh wow. Is it just me or does this all look just like Fiction?” Curly asked the group. They were walking together, steps behind the others in the van, through Main Street, U.S.A. Everything was so colorful; so animated; so perfect! The paint was uniformly coated and smooth along the buildings; the windows were polished and tinted blue; the flowers were pristine and colorful. There were even other characters walking around from Fiction—there was Mickey and Minnie, together crouched down with a horrified-looking child in between them. As they walked on, the smells of cotton candy and baking cookies and ice cream permeated the air, just as it did near Romance and Fantasy. There were animated-looking characters wearing things like conductor’s uniforms and old timey-suits and suspenders, shouting about local news and handing out papers. It was all so much, and yet so familiar, and then—
“There it is,” Tootles said again.
And then there was a castle looming up on them. Not just a castle, but Princess Aurora’s castle; Princess Badroulbadour knew it well, as they were near each other at home in Fantasy.
“It’s so small!” she gasped as they got closer. And it was. Princess Aurora’s castle at home was fifty times the size. Before she could go on about it, though, there was Princess Aurora herself. She was wearing a long, pink gown with long sleeves and off the shoulder collar, and her strawberry blonde hair cascaded down her back and over her shoulders from beneath her crown. But it was not, after all, the Fictional princess. No, this woman was far too real; and from beneath her left sleeve, poked the end of a black tattoo.
“Hello, and welcome you all to Disneyland, the most magical place on earth!” The fake Princess smiled at them toothily, and then they could see that she was not shiny after all, but just wearing a lot of makeup. “I, of course, am Princess Aurora and I will be showing you to the audition room. Right this way,” she gestured widely for them to follow her, like they were children about to go on an adventure. So they left their previous guide, the mustached and skinny, Hal, behind and walked along behind the trailing pink gown.
The others from the van were talking excitedly now, pointing at this and that, saying things like “I’m so nervous!” “If I don’t get it, I will die!”
And Princess Badroulbadour, Geppetto, and the four Lost Boys merely walked behind, feeling rather disappointed at the realness of this Fiction. In fact, it was that: walking into a land so close to being Fiction, and realizing it was just made to seem that way, that prompted Tootles to say:
“I miss home.”
At that very moment in a little town called Senoia, Georgia, Mattie and Merlin were sitting in their rented Toyota Camera (with just the tiniest dent on the rear bumper, but don’t worry, they showed it to Miranda with Avis), outside of a small cottage-like house. It was the only building for miles, and on all sides were lush green fields, and behind and to the side, a garden that must have been at least an acre.
“Are you ready?” Merlin asked, clearly not for the first time. Mattie seemed to be trying to calm herself down, which was odd. Mattie was always a model of composure.
“Yes. I can do this. It�
�s just. I didn’t know it could be so…”
“Green?” Merlin asked, looking happily out the car window. The reality of the Real World didn’t seem to affect him like it did his companion.
“So real. I feel more real every hour.”
“Don’t worry, my dear. You’re still shiny. Look,” he held her arm by the wrist for her to see. Sure enough, her skin shone with that clearly-being-written look that only came from the book world.
“I know. It will be fine. And the sooner we talk to Mr. Dingsworth and Ms. Woodensby, the sooner we can get home. Okay, let’s go.” She sighed heavily and reached behind the driver’s seat for her backpack. It was time to talk to a man about writing a book.
A moment later, the two were standing, looking more than a little out of place on the wide, wooden, Georgian front porch, not because they hadn’t dressed the part of two Real Worlders, but because, as Merlin had pointed out, they were still shiny. Before Mattie had even reached out her very subtly Fictional hand to knock on the door, it swung open. In the doorway was a rather fat man with dark skin, a gray beard of tight curls, and small spectacles perched atop his bulbous nose. He was wearing overalls, which had probably been blue at some point, but were now so covered in mud and earth they looked brown. In his right hand was a shovel, his left, the door knob.
“Oh, my. Hello! May I help you?” he spoke in thick southern drawl, but his voice was gentle and soft.
“Uh, yes. Are you Bryce Dingsworth?”
“Why yes, yes I am. How can I be of service to y’all?” He stepped out from the doorway and onto the porch, closing the door behind him. He leaned the shovel up against the house and looked from Mattie to Merlin—Mattie in her urban hipster attire, and Merlin in his white-washed jeans and (what appeared to be a woman’s) red blouse.
“Well, sir. It’s just,” Mattie stammered. Being in the Real World had drained her of something more than magic; her confidence and energy felt zapped.
The Actual Account of Peter Able Page 14
