The Dream Spies Read online

  Also by Nicole Lesperance

  The Wide Starlight

  The Nightmare Thief

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2022 by Nicole Lesperance

  Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks

  Cover and internal artwork by Federica Frenna

  Internal design by Danielle McNaughton/Sourcebooks

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Young Readers, an imprint of Sourcebooks Kids

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebookskids.com

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my sister, Alissa

  (who would never ditch me for a smarmy lifeguard).

  One

  “TU PUES COMME UN PIED DE GORILLE!”

  Ignoring Henri, her grandmother Lishta’s obnoxious gray parrot, Maren opened the top of the coffee grinder and slid it over to her older sister. It was a warm July day, and a salty breeze wafted in through the open windows of her family’s dream shop, tinkling the sea-glass wind chimes her grandmother had recently hung in the center of the room.

  “Henri, how would you even know what a gorilla’s foot smells like?” Maren’s sister, Hallie, rolled her eyes as she added a teaspoon of freshly powdered Astroturf to the coffee grinder. Feeling the tiniest bit glad that Henri had another person to pick on now, Maren broke off three splinters of wood from a piece of an old windmill and added them to the dream mixture.

  “I’m sure Henri had a wild and interesting life before he came to us,” said Lishta, looking up from her newspaper to grab a saltine cracker from the plate she was sharing with her beloved bird. “We’ll never know where exactly he’s been and what he’s seen…or sniffed.”

  “I don’t think I want to know.” Hallie turned to Maren. “Can you grab the putter?”

  Maren headed for the closet at the back of the dream shop and rummaged through brooms and mops and rakes and old tennis rackets until she found the golf club. Pulling out a metal file, Hallie dragged it across the head of the club until shiny silver specks dotted the sheet of paper she’d laid underneath.

  “What else?” she said as she tipped the putter dust into the coffee grinder.

  Maren twisted a green strand of her hair as she pondered. This dream was going to be about mini golfing. But it wasn’t just any ordinary golf course. The dreamers could jump in and out of the obstacles if they wanted: take a ride on the windmill’s whirling arms, whiz down a triple loop-de-loop slide, climb giant flowers and sit on their swaying tops. So far, Maren and Hallie had concepts for fourteen of the eighteen holes.

  “A blue whale,” said Maren.

  “Ooh, I like that.” Hallie’s eyes sparkled, which made Maren’s heart sparkle.

  “You can jump into its mouth and it’ll shoot you out its blowhole,” continued Maren.

  “Yesss,” said Hallie, already climbing the ladder. “What do you think, Gran-Gran? Atlantic or Pacific seawater?”

  Lishta, absorbed in her newspaper, didn’t answer.

  “Gran-Gran?” repeated Hallie.

  “Hmm?” Lishta pushed her glasses up and squinted at the paper.

  “Atlantic or Pacific seawater?”

  “For what, dear?”

  With a huff, Hallie jumped off the ladder, startling Henri, who flapped his wings and almost knocked over a jar of tiny glass beads before Maren caught it.

  “What are you reading?” asked Hallie, peering over Lishta’s shoulder.

  “An advertisement for a summer camp,” said Lishta.

  “Don’t you think you’re a little old for that?” said Hallie.

  “Very funny.” Lishta poked a knobby finger at Hallie’s midsection, causing her to leap backward with a yelp. Maren grabbed another teetering jar before it fell off the shelf.

  “Look at this,” said her grandmother, spreading the newspaper flat on the counter. An illustrated ad took up the lower half of the page. It had big, cartoony letters, and underneath was a drawing of a lake and some cabins. The sky was full of z’s and little thought bubbles with pictures inside: a flying superhero, a smiling cupcake, a kitten wearing sunglasses.

  CAMP SHADY SANDS!!

  Never in your wildest dreams could you imagine such a perfect summer!!! Nestled on the shaded, sandy shores of Lake Lentille, our camp is literally the stuff of dreams! We offer introductory dream-taking classes for our younger campers and advanced dream-crafting for seasoned dreamers! Plus, each camper will receive their own personal dream package, hand-selected and specially tailored to their individual tastes and wishes!!

  DREAM BIG!!! Sign up now!!!

  “That sure is a lot of exclamation points,” muttered Hallie.

  “Are they actually teaching kids how to make dreams?” said Maren.

  Lishta tapped her chin with a pencil. “I wonder who’s running this camp.”

  “TROUPEAU DE VACHES GRINCHEUSES!” shouted Henri.

  “That’s a good suggestion, Henri,” said Lishta, “but it’s probably not a herd of grumpy cows.”

  Maren skimmed through more exclamation-pointed, sales-pitchy text and found the contact info. “It doesn’t say. But they have a website.”

  Hallie already had her phone out, fingers flying across the keypad. “It says here the directors are Calvin and Malvin Peppernot.”

  “Kelvin and Melvin who?” Lishta adjusted her glasses again.

  “Calvin and Malvin.” Hallie zoomed in on the photo of two balding men with identical goofy grins. They stood in front of a lake, wearing matching striped shirts, and one of them held a kayak paddle while the other clutched a pillow.

  “I’ve never seen either of them in my life,” said Lishta, which was surprising because there weren’t many people in the dream industry, and she knew most of them. “Can you make the picture bigger?”

  Hallie pinched and zoomed until the left twin’s face filled her screen. Freckles dotted his lumpy nose, and the wispy beginnings of a mustache sprouted on his upper lip.

  “I’ve got absolutely no idea who that is,” said Lishta, pulling a hairpin from her braid and sticking it in the corner of her mouth.

  “Maybe they work for somebody you know?” said Maren.

  “Perhaps,” said Lishta. “Is there anyone else listed on the website?”

  Hallie tapped and scrolled for a while. “Nope.”

  “Any indication of who’s supplying their dreams?” said Lishta.

  More tapping and scrolling. “Nope.”

  “VIENNOISERIES POURRIES,” squawked Henri.

  “Quite right,” murmured Lishta, still chewing on her hairpin. “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”

  “Is the camp in Denmark?” asked Maren.

  Hallie laughed. “It’s a quote from Hamlet, silly.”

  “Oh.” Maren’s cheeks went hot. It wasn
’t her fault they hadn’t started studying Shakespeare in school yet.

  “It means something’s fishy, dear,” said Lishta.

  “Shady, even,” said Hallie, waggling her eyebrows. “Ooh, look, there’s going to be a Cleo Montclair exhibition next week.” She pointed to the page opposite the ad for the camp. The headline read “Pine Ridge Art Museum Will Showcase Montclair’s Magical Monstrosities.”

  Cleo Montclair was one of Rockpool Bay’s most famous former residents, and one of Hallie’s very favorite artists. She created giant abstract sculptures that were magically animated, moving in gentle, repetitive patterns that responded to people’s emotions. To Maren, they seemed vaguely dangerous, but Hallie had several posters of those magical monstrosities hanging on her side of the room.

  The shop phone rang, and they all jumped. Henri let out an outraged screech and flew away to the top of the ladder as Hallie picked up the receiver.

  “Hey Mom,” she said. “Yeah, I’m taking her in a few minutes.” She tipped her chin away from the phone. “Gran-Gran, are you still coming for dinner tonight?”

  “Yes, that would be lovely.” Lishta stuck the hairpin back into her braid. “What time should I come?”

  Hallie listened into the phone. “Maren has dance class until six thirty, so we’ll probably eat around seven.”

  Lishta checked the clocks, one of which read four fifty and the other five ten. “I’d like to make to make a few phone calls first, and then I’ll come over.”

  Ever since the incident with Obscura Gray last year, Lishta and a few other dream shop owners around the country had been keeping an eye on the dream-crafting world, checking in and reporting anything suspicious to each other. She folded up her newspaper as Hallie said goodbye to their mother.

  “Should I go put up the Closed sign?” asked Maren.

  “Yes, please,” said Lishta. “Hallie, dear, could you write down all the contact information for that camp before you go? Especially those directors, Kelvin and Delvin.”

  “Calvin and Malvin,” said Hallie, grabbing a notepad and a pencil.

  As Maren made her way through the dim, wonderfully paper-and-ink-smelling typewriter showroom, worry gnawed at her stomach. Dream-making was a traditional art that was passed down through families, not taught at a camp like some fun craft project. More importantly, it was dangerous in the wrong hands. She’d seen that firsthand last year with Obscura Gray. Maren shuddered at the memory of the evil ballerina who’d blackmailed her, kidnapped her, and forced her to make nightmares as part of a scheme to brainwash and take over the whole town.

  Flipping the Open sign to Closed, Maren whispered the phrase she’d been repeating to herself whenever she started feeling panicky: Obscura is in jail. You are safe. Obscura is in jail. You are safe.

  It was true. Obscura had been sentenced to ten years. The prison was hundreds of miles away. Still, whenever Maren saw a moth, she flinched, remembering how Obscura had used them to stealthily deliver nightmares.

  Back in the dream shop, Lishta was flipping through her address book and Hallie was pouring the contents of the coffee grinder into a jar. Their mini golf dream would have to wait until tomorrow. But that was fine, since they hadn’t finished designing the last three holes of the golf course, and it was better not to rush creativity. Especially considering Hallie still needed a lot of downtime so she could continue recovering from her brain injury following the car accident.

  “You ready?” said Hallie, fishing her keys out of her sweatshirt pocket. She’d finally been allowed to start driving again last month, and Maren never, ever forgot her duty to look out for hazards.

  “Yep.” Maren’s tap shoes clanked inside her bag as she threw it over her shoulder. “Bye, Gran-Gran!”

  Without looking up from her newspaper, Lishta blew her granddaughters a kiss and wiggled her fingers in the air.

  Two

  Maren’s house smelled like an Italian restaurant and a bakery all rolled up in one. The savory aroma of garlic and tomatoes mingled with the yeasty scent of baking bread, and her stomach gurgled so loudly that Hallie heard it and laughed.

  “Buonasera, ragazze!” called their dad from the kitchen. Opera music blared, and he sang along in half Italian, half gibberish, adding a dramatic tremolo to his voice.

  With a groan, Hallie pulled out her phone and headed down the hallway.

  “Aren’t you going to hang out with us?” asked Maren.

  “In a minute,” said Hallie.

  Maren’s heart sank. She’d spent so much time looking forward to everything she and Hallie would do once she woke up from her coma. They’d spent lots of time together while Hallie was still in the rehab facility and then recovering at home. But now that Hallie had gone back to school, she’d thrown herself into a social life full of activities and friends and boys…and not Maren.

  With a sigh, Maren pulled out a stool at the kitchen island where her dad stood, tossing mushrooms and peppers into a giant salad bowl.

  “Lalalalala bababababa ba BAHHH!” he bellowed, and Maren couldn’t help but crack up as she reached for a cherry tomato.

  “You sound like an injured sheep, hon.” Maren’s mom wandered in from the living room with an empty tea mug and a book. She kissed the top of her daughter’s head and pulled up a stool. “How were things at the shop?”

  “Pretty good,” said Maren. “We sold four of your new water-skiing potato dream. Hallie was really talking it up to customers.”

  Her mom beamed. “Excellent.”

  “But then Gran-Gran found this weird ad in the paper for a summer camp that’s all about dreaming. Apparently they’re teaching kids how to make dreams.”

  Her mom’s eyebrow lifted. “Who’s running that?”

  “We don’t know,” said Maren. “Some guys called Alvin and Galvin.”

  “Calvin and Malvin,” called Hallie from their room.

  “Whatever.” Maren shrugged. “Gran-Gran wanted to make some calls to find out about them before she came over.”

  Her mom stole a cherry tomato from the salad, and her dad pretended to smack her hand away. “Hopefully it’s all fake and nothing to worry about.”

  “Hopefully.” Maren bit into a yellow pepper. But if the camp was fake, that wasn’t great either. She didn’t like the idea of anybody spreading false information about dreams. There were enough rumors about their shop floating around town after Obscura had started slipping people their nightmares.

  The doorbell rang, and Maren jumped up to open it. There stood Lishta, clutching a bag of cookies and a bouquet of yellow roses from the Green and Fresh grocery store.

  “It smells utterly delightful in here,” said Lishta, handing the flowers to Maren’s mom and taking an exaggerated sniff. “I should come for dinner more often.”

  “You really should, Ma,” said Maren’s mom, pulling a vase from the cabinet. Maren’s dad set a glass of Lishta’s favorite raspberry ginger ale on the island, and she pulled up a stool and took the newspaper from her giant, lumpy purse.

  “Did the girls tell you about this?” asked Lishta.

  “Yes.” Maren’s mom scanned the page. “It looks a little fishy, doesn’t it? And what’s with all those exclamation points?”

  “That’s what I said.” Hallie emerged from the hallway, having changed into her extra fluffy pajamas and pulled her blond hair up in a messy bun. She stretched and yawned, and her mom gave her a worried look.

  “How are you feeling?” Almost a year after the accident, she still asked Hallie this question approximately forty-five times a day.

  “I’m fine.” Hallie gave her mom a patient smile. “Just tired. I was up until two finishing a book.”

  And texting her friends, thought Maren with a twinge of jealousy.

  Her mother frowned and picked a thread off Hallie’s shoulder. “You know you shouldn’t be doing that. Your doctors—”

  “My doctors said I’m fine,” said Hallie, pouring herself a glass of raspberry ginger ale. “If I start feeling bad, I need to rest. But I don’t feel bad. And I’ll go to bed early tonight, okay?”

  “Nine o’clock,” said her mom, pointing aggressively at her watch.

  Hallie rolled her eyes. “We’ll see.”

  “How did your phone calls go, Gran-Gran? Did you find out anything?” Maren didn’t like talking about Hallie’s brain injury, and she especially didn’t like when her mom harped on it. Hallie was awake; Hallie was fine. It was another phrase she repeated to herself sometimes when she started worrying.