Daydream Believer

By Shaka Bry

If you are a believer, come in...

It's been three years since Jonas Shay's mother disappeared. Rather than face the painful truth, he lost himself in an elaborate daydream—a wonderland he called Extraordinary. With his dad's help, Jonas eventually grounded himself back in the real world.

Today, just shy of turning thirteen, Jonas's overactive imagination is acting up again. He can ignore jabbering seagulls and pushy elfins for a while. But when Jonas learns his mom is being held captive somewhere deep inside his fantasy, reality fades once again.

Falling into his familiar, beloved daydream, Jonas quickly realizes his childish, make-believe world is dying. Along with his best friend Zana and a few imaginary heroes, he'll embark on a quest to find his long-lost mother and save Extraordinary from extinction. But if he does, what will become of his reality?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Purple Dog Press
• Release date: May 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393002550

Book preview

Chapter One

Surf walloped the beach . The surprising reminder of Mother Nature’s majesty stunned Jonas into his right mind. He looked up, expecting wild riptides and monster waves, perhaps a radioactive giant squid crushing an aircraft carrier with its mile-long tentacles. But from his position on the boardwalk, the sea seemed calm. Rhythmic, sure, but not raging. The sound he’d heard must have been imagined.

He was half-aware of being on the verge of flying away to some impossible, wondrous, fairy-tale land. It was right there on the tip of his mind, as if he was peeking in on someone else’s memory—one that would only reveal itself in blurry, incoherent snippets.

Shaking away the odd, familiar feeling, he loosened his death-grip on Rosco’s leash. The old dog was moving approximately four steps a minute. Well, maybe he wasn’t that slow, but lately, Jonas witnessed a rapid, unwelcome aging in his faithful basset hound.

C’mon boy, let’s pick up the pace.

Rosco’s eyes weren’t completely bloodshot. They were a shade that was close to the color of sunset. But this light in his dog’s eyes that likened to the end of days, only made him look more ancient and tired.

Rosco made a move to feel the cool April sand on his paws, but Jonas held him back.

You know we don’t go out there, he said, much to Rosco’s displeasure. The dog gave a pout, but relented to his master’s wish. He shuffled over to some tall weeds, between boardwalk and beach, to do his business. Behind them, the Atlantic Ocean continued its eternal, rockabye lullaby.

There was a time, not long ago, when Rosco was eager to stretch his legs the entire mile and a half down the boardwalk and back. Today, they’d barely made it to 77th Street.

Jonas cleaned up after him and tossed the poo bag in a nearby trashcan. Together, they made their slow way off the shiny wooden planks and back to the cracked pavement.

The town was relatively quiet this time of the year. That would soon change. The droves of vacationers didn’t wait for Memorial Day anymore. As soon as the temperature rose above 70, the early bird weekenders would arrive.

If only birds could talk, Jonas pondered. What would they say?

Ca-caw! Ca-caw! Ca-cawing out to Jonas Shay! Come in, Jonas Shay? Can you hear us?... By Jove, I think we’ve got a connection! Go and tweet the news far and wide! All the way to the Forbidden Mountains!... Jonas can you hear me? We need ca-caw!

Jonas ceased his mind from meandering any further. He was going to be a bona fide teenager in just a matter of days; he was certainly too old to be daydreaming. Besides, if he kept allowing himself these lightheaded visions, there was no telling what might become of him. He’d been lost before.

Hello there, said a man Jonas had not seen coming. He was standing right by his side, looming over him like a sinister, disembodied shadow. Jonas shielded his eyes to see the man’s face, which was partially blocking the sun.

Hi, he offered, leery of the odd, lanky stranger wearing silent shoes. Though Jonas wasn’t strong by any definition of the word, he was fast. If the man made any movement in his direction, Jonas was confident he could pick Rosco up and beat it out of there before this dude could do his worst.

No school today? the man asked.

It’s Sunday, Jonas answered.

Right, Sunday, well... Hi there, pup! He bent forward and brought his long arm down to pet Rosco. Rosco emitted a low growl and the man quickly withdrew.

Good boy, Jonas thought.

Nice dog, the man said, retreating two-and-a-half steps. Say, do you know where I can find Seaport Paintings? It’s supposed to be on this street. I’ve been up and down twice and can’t seem to find it.

"Seaside Paintings," Jonas corrected him. His parents... well, his dad owned Seaside Paintings, Seaport’s only art gallery. It used to be a place of prestige in the community. These days, Jonas heard, it was slowly turning into a junk store for amateurs to peddle their splotchy seascapes.

His mom had been the artist and creative force behind the business. How his dad was managing the store alone all this time, Jonas did not know. He refused to go anywhere near it.

Right, yeah, that’s it. Seaside. So where the heck is it?

Jonas hated when people used words like ‘heck.’ If, as the adults say, everyone is supposed to be considered equal, then it should be okay to throw a casual ‘hell’ into conversations with kids, where it was warranted. ‘Heck’ just sounded hokey and dumb.

What was even dumber, however, was that Jonas was inexplicably standing right in front of the gallery. He’d avoided this place entirely for nearly three years. But now he was staring right at the storefront.

Did I walk here just now? What was I thinking? I’m not ready to go back there.

The old sign above the door was gone, and the windows were tinted black. From outside, it looked like an ominous, abandoned shop that once might have sold used tarot cards or bedeviled Ouija boards. Jonas could see why the man was having trouble locating it.

Rosco regarded Jonas with lonely, haggard eyes. And he was panting, out of breath.

The gallery was on 80th Street. Their home was on Ocean Ave, adjacent to 75th Street. So Jonas had walked in the wrong direction without even being aware of it. What had distracted him?

Talking birds. Madness.

This is it. Jonas pointed at the big, white door with the bright red doorknob. As he did so, that doorknob turned, and the next thing Jonas knew, his father was pouring out into the afternoon fog, smiling wide and making his way toward them.

Jonas! he exclaimed. What a wonderful surprise! I’m so glad you’re here! C’mon in, you can help with the... Oh, hello. He stopped his ridiculous dad masquerade and became the respectful business owner once again.

Did you really not see the giant of a man standing next to me until now, Dad?

Hello there, are you Frederick Shay? the man asked, stretching out his hand.

I am indeed one and the same, sir. And who might you be?

Sean Mulligan, glad to know you! I saw your glorious advertisement in the Bolchester Times. Well, if you could call it an advertisement. Ha. He pronounced advertisement, ad-verr-tiz-ment, drawing it out not once but twice, like a pompous buffoon. What genius! Placing a reproduction of a simple seascape in the paper and embossing your gallery’s name and address in fine print behind the sunlight. Now, after traveling all the way from North Jersey, I show up and find that your gallery is even more hidden away! Bravo, sir. You must show me inside at once.

What in the heckety heck is wrong with this guy?

Then it occurred to him. It’d been awhile, but the patrons that used to file through the gallery were each one as quirky as the next. That is to say, they were mostly oddballs gone gaga for rarified art. That his dad could still attract them surprised Jonas.

It takes all sorts, son, he once whispered when he caught Jonas staring at some funny-looking character with a bowtie mustache at an opening long ago in a reality far away. Back then, his dad called them ‘aficionados.’ Jonas called them ‘fishy cuckoos.’

Well, welcome. I’ve got some fresh new beauties that just arrived from Venice.

Oooh! Venice! The lanky man nearly peed his pants, prancing from foot to foot.

Jonas’ dad led the man down the short path to the door. Jonas half-believed he’d forgotten about him. No such luck.

Come on in, son. You won’t even recognize the place!

I’ve got homework, he lied. He always completed his homework right away, so that he never had to stress on Sundays. Of course, his dad would know that, wouldn’t he?

Rosco’s ears perked up at the sound of a shaking bag of treats in the doorway. His dad was trying to reel Jonas in by way of his best friend. It was a dirty trick, and Jonas wasn’t about to have any part of it. He was going to turn around and march right on home with Rosco in tow. When he got there he would—

Ca-caw! Just go. Just go! We’ve got something to show!

Good boy, his dad said, patting Jonas on the back as he closed the door behind them, shutting out the natural light.

Wait, what?

How was this possible? He was inside the gallery but had no memory of walking down the path and entering through the big, white door with the red doorknob. Of this, he was sure.

I’ve lost time, he said to no one in particular.

Oh nonsense, it’s only 2:30. You’ve got all afternoon and night to finish up your homework, his dad said. But his dad was wrong. It couldn’t be 2:30 because he and Rosco left the house around noon.

Jonas dug his phone out of his pocket. He had two missed calls from Zana. Why couldn’t she just text like a normal sixth grader? More importantly, the time was screaming at him like a cruel, truth sayer.

It was 2:32 p.m.

Ca-Caution over there, Mr. Mulligan, his dad stuttered. Jonas’ dad never stuttered. He probably misheard him. There’s a whole pile of Juno St. Laurens’ works I need to sort through. They haven’t even been unwrapped yet. I swear I’d lose my head if it weren’t stitched on! Can I show you some works by Bergman De Lamborghini Toilet blah blah black sheep zonk-a-snooze-a-roo?

While his dad rambled on about who-cares-what in the adjoining room, Jonas got his bearings. Yes, he was concerned he was losing his mind, but he was soothed by the art looking down on him from every wall. It wasn’t so bad being in here after all. It was peaceful appreciating the dozens of interpretations of the ocean and the dunes and the pesky seagulls—in paintings, they almost never try to eat your food.

He flipped absentmindedly through a rack of landscapes. He was more interested in the steady beat of the clicking of the wooden frames against one another than the various mountain, cave, and hilltop images that fluttered past. Rosco, oblivious to it all, lay down with his head on his paws behind the counter.

Jonas reached the end of the rack. These commonplace renditions used to hold such wonder for him when he was young. Now, even the undeniable smells of oak wood and lavender that still stuck to this room, couldn’t bring his heart to joy.

Whoa. You’re really bummin’ me out, pardner. Better come on back and see me soon. Come and save me, buddy. They got me locked up here in the towahh.

If those were the chirping ravings of some phantom bird, Jonas was an aardvark’s estranged aunt. It sounded more like a cowboy he knew once upon a time, in the sky.

That doesn’t make any sense, he said.

Lord in Heaven, what is this?!

Jonas looked up. The lanky, fish cuckoo was standing over him and gazing longingly at a painting that was hanging high on the wall. Jonas followed the man’s gaze and recognized the rare beauty immediately.

Why is this breathtaking piece unfinished? Here, he pointed to the edge of the mountains on the far right. To the untrained eye, this might seem intentional. Where the gray fades out at the very edge—the artist stopped painting. Why?

This one is not for sale, Jonas’ dad said.

The plot thickens! Did the artist die mid-brushstroke? How did you come about this work? Oh, don’t tell me. The mystery behind the art is as intriguing as the art itself. I must have it!

Jonas couldn’t believe his eyes. Hanging there, in all its glory, right there on the wall was Extraordinary. Inside his head, a dam broke and a flood of magical, imaginary memories washed over him.

I will have it and I will display it in my hall and everyone who comes to dine will languish over this pearl, this wonder!

NO! Jonas screamed. "You can’t have it! Extraordinary is mine!"

My my my, little man. Do I smell a bidding war a’brewing?

As I said, Mr. Mulligan. It’s not for sale, his dad declared. Perhaps I can show you some more—

I’ll give you twelve thousand dollars for it.

Time died. The earth stopped moving. Rosco yawned.

I’m sorry, did you say twelve thousand?

Dad!

OK, thirteen, but that’s my final offer.

Thirteen thousand dollars?

"I don’t believe I stuttered, Mr. Shay. When I see something I want, I act. So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?"

Dad? Jonas pleaded. No.

Once again, I’m afraid we cannot sell you this painting. There is no price. I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.

The lanky man with the silent shoes slammed his palm down on the counter. Rosco growled loudly at him from the ground. The man retreated to the door and opened it.

It’s your loss, Mr. Shay. Good day, sir.

He left and slammed the door behind him.

Good day, his dad echoed. Tell your friends?

Jonas watched, impressed, as his dad’s face snapped from downtrodden to glad. His new smile grew and became infectious. Jonas couldn’t help but paint one on his own face as well. Together they admired his mother’s finest work of art.

I can’t believe you turned down that much money.

Jonas, no amount of money is going to bring her back.

She’d been gone for what seemed like forever, but still Jonas held on to the impossible possibility of her return. Stranger things had happened.

It’s good that you’re here, son. Why don’t you come help me unwrap some of the new inventory? He headed to the storage room in the back of the gallery. Jonas would go and help him soon.

Yes, he would walk back there and help his dad unwrap new shipments or re-frame old paintings, or lend a hand with whatever odds and ends he was futzing about today. When they were finished, they would go home and have dinner together, maybe. Probably not. More likely, Jonas would heat up a frozen pizza and eat it in his room.

Jonas’ body would be physically capable of doing all of these things. His arms and legs and feet and hands and head and shoulders and belly and butt would follow through with the motions and, when necessary, his mouth would speak noncommittal phrases to assure his dad that everything was hunky dory, peachy keen, super swell, okay? But, Jonas knew, his mind and his spirit would be elsewhere.

The voices in his head led him here for a reason. It was out of his hands. He was going to return. He was already drifting there now.

He stared longingly into the painting until the flat landscape it portrayed swirled within him. He remembered the undeniable relief he felt the first time he found himself inside the sturdy straw hut at the edge of the river.

It was just within his reach.

The forest of vast and towering elmwood trees, the rolling hills of luscious green, and even those dark, foreboding (and forbidden), unfinished mountains way, way off near the edge of his mom’s epic painting were all just scenery for his beautiful fantasy. An entire world of adventure lay between the borders.

It was a welcoming feeling, a peaceful state of mind he hadn’t tapped into in forever. Before his rational self could talk him out of it, the daydream took over his consciousness. It was all so familiar and warm.

Once, long ago, Jonas was the almighty Creator of his make-believe, fairy tale land.

Once, upon a time...

Chapter Two

Jonas materialized inside his small straw hut at the edge of the Hullabaloo River. A fresh breeze blew in through the open window, bringing with it a scent of mint and pine.

Outside, the gentle wind picked up and carried with it a soothing symphony of a far-off flutist’s thrilling trills. Everything was exactly as Jonas orchestrated. Though it had been years since he first imagined this unreal paradise, he now felt as if he’d never left.

Nothing is ordinary in Extraordinary, Jonas proclaimed out loud for his beloved make-believe world to hear.

He was not inside the painting on the wall that hung in his Dad’s gallery, per se. That would be preposterous. A person can’t just crawl into a work of art. A person has to make his own art. And Jonas’ art was his incredible ability to create his fantasy. It’d been far too long since he put his talent to work.

He placed his palm on the door and pushed. It was jammed, stuck on something.

Not in my world, said Jonas, and he kicked the door so hard, it broke free of its hinges and flew off, landing thirty feet away. Sweet.

Bright-faced in his long silk robe and snug sandals, Jonas stepped forward and took it all in. He stretched his arms wide to touch the impossible