Power Play

She dozed off, dreaming of school that day, of meeting the Keepers at Crazy Glaze, and of a particularly disturbing exchange of texts with Philby. They’d been texting a lot recently, which she didn’t mind at all. But when she found out that Philby, not Maybeck, had kissed Charlene to break the spell, she’d felt the tug of jealousy. Charlene, with her athletic ability, her incredible looks, and her class-A flirting-if she turned on the charm, a fire hydrant would agree to go to the mall with her. Why had Philby been the one to kiss her and not Finn? Why had his recent texts felt more normal and less crushy? Mr. Totems brought her comfort, but her mind wouldn’t stop churning.

Willa’s dream became intensely realistic. Suddenly, she was laying beside a lake, while clutching tightly to Mr. Totems, her bear. Across the lake-rising out of the water-was a green dinosaur. A brontosaurus, she thought, though she was no expert. It was not daylight, but it was not exactly night either. There was an eerie quality to the color of the light, everything around her was glowing. She let go of Mr. Totems, noticing the familiar shimmer to the outline of her forearm and hand. She held her hand out in front of her, admiring the translucent quality of her skin. Then a breeze blew across her and she shivered. And she gasped.

It wasn’t a dream at all: she was a hologram. A DHI. She had crossed over in her sleep.

It wasn’t supposed to have been able to happen. They had talked about avoiding crossing over until they knew more, until they knew it was safe. Philby would have told her if he’d planned this; otherwise it must be an extreme emergency, she thought. Something that couldn’t wait.

And here she was: in her pajamas with Mr. Totems, somewhere in Disney World. At least her Justice pajamas weren’t too embarrassing-red pants, and a long-sleeve top with a panda bear and fireworks that glittered. Not exactly what she wanted to be seen in; but better than a nightgown, which was what Charlene typically ended up in.

But which Park was it? Willa wondered as she took her bearings. She faced a street-not much of a clue. Some buildings surrounding an open plaza-again, not enough to tell her which Park it was. She sat on a raised platform; it was nearly pitch-black above her, except that she could just make out a patch of nighttime clouds swirling directly overhead in a doughnut of black.

Her lack of familiarity with the place told her two things: one, she wasn’t anywhere in the Magic Kingdom or the Animal Kingdom-she knew both Parks too well; two, by process of elimination, that left only Epcot and Disney’s Hollywood Studios.

Epcot had streets in the various World Showcase attractions, but none as wide, as real-looking as what she faced. A moment later, she had it: she was sitting beneath Mickey’s Sorcerer’s Hat. Now it made so much sense, she felt stupid. Disney’s Hollywood Studios. Of course.

She heard a rhythmic clomp, clomp, clomp, reminding her at first of the sound of the football team crossing the running track as they ran out onto a field before a game. The sounds rang of men and equipment. She sat up, only to realize she was clutching tightly to Mr. Totems. She held Mr. Totems to the side so she could see, and there, coming up Sunset Boulevard was a group-no, she thought, a troop-of soldiers. They were so hard to see that she thought they must be wearing camouflage. But as they drew closer-clomp, clomp, clomp-she saw it wasn’t camouflage. They were a solid, dark green. They were the Army Men from Toy Story, but they weren’t toys at all. They were life-size, and they were coming right at her.

Willa grabbed Mr. Totems and scrambled to her feet, heading away from the Army Men, keeping in shadow until she fled down a set of steps. She sprinted once she reached the plaza, running down Commissary Lane and putting some distance between herself and the troop.

Arriving at the end of the street, she heard more of the organized marching up ahead. She turned left, past some landscaping, and kept running, the sounds of marching soldiers all around her.

Forced by the sounds to move to her left, she now faced Echo Lake. Willa squeezed Mr. Totems all the tighter. This wasn’t going well. To either side of the lake were more Army Men, enough to block her way. Behind her, the two squads arrived, now merged as one large unit.

“Mr. Totems, it’s time to get out of here. Any suggestions?”

Mr. Totems didn’t answer. His expression didn’t change. Willa wondered if something like this had happened to Charlene the night before. Was she under some spell she didn’t know about? What did they want with her? She recalled Maybeck wanting to scare the truth out of one of the green-contact-lens kids. She hoped that wasn’t what was intended for her: if so, it was already working.

She needed to get to Epcot. She needed the Return.

“Close zee ranks!” came a heavily accented Frenchman’s voice. Willa didn’t see him at first; she was far more concerned with the circle of green Army Men tightening around her.

Then she spotted him: a man in a red velvet dinner jacket, beneath which was a frilly white shirt and a bizarrely large black bow tie, the tails of which disappeared into the velvet. His pants were three-quarter length, tight around the calf, and puffy on his upper legs, with hook-and-eye laced brown leather boots spit-polished to gleaming. He had long curly hair-a wig perhaps-beneath an exaggerated hat like those worn by the Three Musketeers. Judge Claude Frollo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

It took her another few seconds to figure out what he was doing here in the Studios-that he was part of the Fantasmic! show. The soldiers continued to close around her.

“You have to understand, my dear,” Judge Frollo said. “I have no patience for young children. As a judge that is. My verdict is a simple one: guilty! Of having too much fun: guilty. Misuse of time: guilty. Irresponsible, unacceptable behavior: guilty. So it’s nothing personal, you understand? It comes down to this: It has fallen upon me to determine what your friend showed you at school. I’m told it is a drawing, and that it was drawn upon a small, square tissue.” He stroked his chin, a nervous habit. “What is the subject matter of this drawing, if you please?”

“But I don’t…” she said.

“Excusez-moi?”

“If you please,” she said. “I don’t wish to tell you.”

Perplexed, he cocked his head, considering her. “I would be careful, my dear. My politeness is but a formality, an inescapable part of my egalitarian French upbringing. So civilized, the French, don’t you think? But make no mistake-I would just as soon direct my minions here,” he said, gesturing toward the hundred soldiers, “to test the water, as it were. To send you bottom-fishing. To drown you, my dear. Did I caution you that I’m not a patient man when it comes to children?”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” she said, lying, though lying well, she thought.

“But you were seen. Witnessed. It was reported.”

Her head swooned. Which was it, witnessed or reported? One way would put the event in her school hallway; another inside the private meeting with the other Keepers. The source of the leak was of vital importance to her. She thought of Philby and what he’d do in her position.

Gather intelligence, she thought. Gain enough data, enough information to form an exit strategy, an escape plan. Finn would have schooled her to rely upon her DHI status-to maintain all clear. But she was so scared her teeth would have been chattering had she not been biting down on her tongue. If she were fifty percent DHI at the moment she’d be lucky. The thin blue outline that should have been surrounding her arms had dimmed to nearly nothing. All clear was not an option-not at the moment, anyway.

Judge Frollo smiled, a snarl of gnarly teeth and a twist of lip that turned her stomach.

“If it please the court,” he said, then guffawing (since he was the court), “I will ask the defendant again: What did you see drawn upon the tissue?”

“It was a napkin, Your Honor,” she said, trying to appeal to his sense of importance. “A tissue meant to catch crumbs in your lap. It is not something one writes upon. That task is better served by a pad of drawing paper, or notepaper. There may have been a logo, or business name I was meant to take note of. I’m sorry to say, I don’t happen to remember.”

“You do, however, recall what it is I intended to do to the infant boy in the animated motion picture that bears, in part, the name of a certain famous Parisian cathedral?”

“Notre Dame.”

“The same!”

“You were going to kill him,” she said. “Quasimodo.”