Ashlynn's Dreams

To God:

Who fashioned me

To my sister, Carrie:

For the description stuck on stupid

To my parents:

Who tolerate all my crazy ideas

To friends who encourage me to stick with it:

Cara Guglielmon, Chrissy Guglielmon, and J. LaRocco

To the talented cover artist and true friend:

Timothy Sparvero

To the few, the proud, the proofreaders:

Laura Ginn

K. Dalenberg

Timothy Christian School English Department

(Any remaining mistakes are my own, despite their efforts.)

Dramatis Personae

(Warning: may contain spoilers)

Dr. Carla M. Wittier – Jillian’s old shrink lady

Dr. Stephanie Sokolowski – Jillian’s new shrink lady

Jillian (a.k.a. Ashlynn) – kidnapped twelve-year-old

Danielle – Jillian’s babysitter

Dr. Karita Robinson – former associate of Dr. Devya

Dr. Jessica Paladon – former associate of Dr. Devya

Dr. Sean J. Pauling – former associate of Dr. Devya

Cora – associate of Dr. Devya

Dr. Evelyn Carnasis – researcher, associate of Dr. Devya

Dr. Devya – researcher, creator of Devya’s Children

Dr. Linus Capren – assistant to Dr. Devya

Dr. Naresh Das – assistant to Dr. Devya

Devya’s Children:

Varick – soldier

Nadia (a.k.a. Elena) – thinker

Ashlynn – dreamer

Malia – feeler

Dustin – Devya’s telepathist

Benjamin – second dreamer

Michio – first nanomachine controller

Aiden – second nanomachine controller

Prologue

I don’t want to control the world. I want to make it better. ~Dr. Devya

ITEM 1: Letter from Dr. Carla Wittier

Item Source: Dr. Carla M. Wittier

To Dr. Stephanie Sokolowski:

I apologize for the tardiness of this letter. Computer troubles have plagued me of late.

Enclosed please find the original accounts of adventures undertaken by Jillian Marie Antel Blairington. The flash drive contains electronic copies for your files. Jillian started keeping such records as a ten-year-old. I understand quite a bit has transpired since my sessions with the young lady. She has full knowledge of this disclosure, for it is made upon written request from her and her parents.

I can say very little you do not already know without breaking patient confidentiality, so I will reiterate that the young lady is unusually brilliant, highly opinionated, very compassionate, and brave to a fault.

Best wishes in your endeavors. I hope you can help her.

Regards,

Carla M. Wittier, Ph.D.

Chapter 1

Helping Mr. Blairington

ITEM 2: Jillian’s first pre-kidnapping journal entry

Item Source: Dr. Carla M. Wittier

I’m Jillian, and Momma says I’m smart as a whip. I saw a picture of a whip once; it didn’t look too smart. But I’ve learned to nod and smile, even if I don’t understand. Ain’t no better accomplisher than me in all of Atlanta or Georgia or these here sweet Southern states, as Nana likes to call ’em, and that’s a fact. Momma says it’s not nice to say such things, but I never get no good idears about what she means when she scolds like that.

Momma’s been lonesome ever since Daddy up and left us two years ago. Well, that ain’t all true, and Nana and Momma would get real loud if they heard me telling fibbers. Honest, I don’t know the whole story ’cause Momma won’t tell me, but Daddy musta done something real rotten to get run off like he did. I’ll tell all about that another time, but for now, I wanted to tell ya about Momma and Mr. Blairington.

As I was saying, Momma and Daddy had loud words, including some Momma said I ain’t never to repeat to nobody under no conditions, unless I want the whupping of a lifetime. A long, long time after this, uh, I think it was seven months ago, Momma met this real neat old man. His name’s Mr. Blairington. I don’t mind that he’s thirty-three, a whole three years older than Momma, ’cause he’s a good man. He brings gifts for me and Momma lots, and he speaks all soft and mushy to Momma when it’s late at night and they think I’m tucked up safe in bed. Only problem with Mr. Blairington is that he’s uncommon shy, almost to what Nana calls the shameful point, when it comes to big matters.

One day, about four months into their special kinda friendship, while Mr. Blairington and I was setting there waiting for Momma to fix her face, he told me he was waiting for a special moment to pop the question. I’d never heard a question could be popped and told him so. He laughed and said that it was a secret he wouldn’t tell me ’cause little girls can’t keep secrets. This made me mad. I cried and cried, partly ’cause I couldn’t help it and partly ’cause I knowd he’d tell me how a question could be popped, if I cried long and loud enough. Poor Mr. Blairington didn’t know what to do. It took him forever to give in. He’s a rather stubborn man, but I still like him. Finally, he said he wanted to marry Momma but that I couldn’t tell nobody.

I kept that huge secret for a whole week, but time was getting on and I was fit to burst with the news that Mr. Blairington wanted to marry Momma. He even took Momma to a fine dinner. That means you gotta dress up all uncomfortable before they let you in. Still, Momma didn’t tell me he’d popped the question, and she surely would’ve if he had.

One day, when Nana was watching me for Momma, we got to talking about Momma and Mr. Blairington. She said, Someone needs to give that boy a good kick. I musta looked at her funny ’cause she said, Not a real kick, Pudding Cake; it means help. Someone needs to help that boy find his courage.

I didn’t say nothing to Nana, but I decided to help Mr. Blairington. That night, when Mr. Blairington came to take Momma out to dinner, he kept patting his right coat pocket. So I gave him a huge hug, just like my Daddy taught me, and slipped my hand into that pocket. My fingers found a hard, little box which I opened right quick. There was something small in the box so I borrowed the small thing and went to my room to have a look at it. It was a shiny gold ring that had what Daddy woulda called a real deal diamond appeal. I figured the ring had something to do with popping the question, so all I had to do was get the ring to Momma.

It took me some time to figure out the perfect way, but my brains musta been in working order ’cause I finally cracked that tough nut, as Nana would say. Next morning, I put the ring in Momma’s bowl of Crispy O’s. They’re just like Cheerios, only faker. I tried to act casual.

Momma musta sensed something though ’cause she used her serious voice, and said, "Jillian Marie Antel, what are you up to?"

Up to, Momma? I asked back. She hates it when I do that.

Yes, up to! Momma snapped, very sharp-like. You look like a cat that ate a whole nest of birds! Her right hand jerked a little, and I saw the sparkly ring on her spoon.

My eyes got so big I thought they might fall out. The spoon moved toward her mouth. No! I leapt forward to grab her hand, but she jerked her hand out of my reach. You’ll eat the question popper!

Momma looked at me strange, but then, she too saw the ring. Her mouth dropped like a bird shot from the bonny blue sky, and for a second, I thought Momma would eat it anyway. Then, she did something strange. She laughed and cried and laughed some more. Mr. Blairington arrived just then, and I answered the door ’cause Momma was all out of sorts.

What’s wrong, Allison? asked Mr. Blairington, rushing past me.

"Is this your doing?" Momma demanded, holding out the spoon with the ring still half-buried by milk and crowned with a Crispy O.

Mr. Blairington nearly choked, then laughed so hard he almost cried. Momma was still laughing and crying. Grownups are strange.

It isn’t the presentation I was going for, but it will do, said Mr. Blairington. Will you marry me?

Of course, I will, Momma said, leaning forward to kiss him.

I turned away like I always do when they get mushy.

A thousand times, yes! was the last thing I heard Momma say before I made it to my room.

They did get married, but they waited a whole three months for the wedding. I had to wear an uncomfortable white dress for that, but it was worth it. Now, whenever Momma’s mad at me she can call me Jillian Marie Antel Blairington. And the best part is that by the time she’s done hollering for me, she forgets whatever it was she was yelling for.

***

ITEM 3-10: Jillian’s remaining pre-kidnapping journal entries

Item Source: Dr. Carla M. Wittier

ERROR—FILE CORRUPTED

Chapter 2

It’s Good for Me

ITEM 11: Jillian’s first post-kidnapping journal entry

Item Source: Jillian Blairington

I got two mommas and four daddies. I reckon I’m just gonna have to tell y’all the whole thing if it’s to make any sense at all. Nana says I should plan my words with great care so as not to cause trouble springing from trouble. I’ll try. Reckon I can’t go and make a promise on something I ain’t aiming to keep, but I guess trying will have to do.

Not sure what to write next. Nana says it ain’t nice to boast, but Momma, my real momma that is, says telling the story ought to do me good. I think she just wants to know the whole story herself. I haven’t told her everything yet ’cause she’d worry. Dr. S. said it would be cathartic, which basically means good for my soul. Dr. S. is always using big words, but I don’t mind, I’m special in more ways than one, thanks to Daddy Three. Individual words don’t give me problems, but Nana rarely says anything in a word. Usually, it’s a whole string of words with several meanings. It’s downright vexing if you ask me. That word I got from my sister, Nadia. I’ll get to her later.

I’ve got a whole lot more to say about Daddy Three, too, and not all of it nice, but right now, I wanna focus on the good doctor. Her full name is Dr. Stephanie Kamilia Soko-something-or-other, but Dr. S. is about all I can say properly. She meets with me every week just to talk for an hour. It’s real nice of her ’cause I’m pretty sure no one’s paying her, and she’s certainly the type of doctor people pay a whole heap to see all regular-like. Dr. S. says if I talk about what happened enough it’ll all make sense. She’s real patient, which is good ’cause sometimes I’m kinda thick for a real smart kid.

Great ghastly goobers, I done lost my manners. Right now, this here journal thing is just for me, but eventually, somebody else might read it. Y’all are probably thinking I’m either crazy or special. I’m neither; I’m just Jillian Marie Antel Blairington. I’m twelve years old, and I’m gonna be a big sister soon. Fudge, I’m getting ahead of myself. I really did say fudge, not that word.

My Old Daddy, Daddy One, said I should only use the Big Bad Word if I want to really rile Momma. Easy for him to say, he ain’t living with Momma. Allison Michelle Blairington—that’s Momma—would whup my backside good if she ever heard bad words, especially that one, slip out. I keep that one bottled in tight.

Kinda wish I didn’t even know it as that’d be the best way to avoid using it. Never call Momma Allie neither, unless you do want to rile her. If that’s the case, you’re just crazy, and I probably ought not talk to you.

It all started with the move to the money sign state. Nope, before that, probably about the time the Old Daddy got hisself run clear off our property. Or maybe it started before that when he plowed too many fields for his own good. I don’t know the whole story, of course, ’cause it ain’t mine to tell, but the blond and busty bimbo, as Momma put it, might have something to do with that particular story. Momma didn’t tell me that, of course. She can’t picture me as anything but her sweet, innocent little baby, but I heard her crying on Nana’s shoulder one day.

I guess that’s about as good a starting place as any. Momma wouldn’t have none of my Old Daddy’s guff and games. She served him some papers and told him not to come back. He didn’t listen too good ’cause he wanted to see me. Momma didn’t like it, but she had to allow it ’cause the serious-faced judge said so. Come to think of it, the story probably truly begins before I was born, but Nana says to only speak about what I got good, solid ground to talk on.

Momma was a wreck on two skinny legs until she met Mr. Jeffrey Michael Blairington. That I know for a fact. Momma must have a thing for J names. My name is Jillian, my Old Daddy’s name is Jason, and my New Daddy’s name is Jeffrey. I just call him New Daddy or Daddy Two so I don’t confuse him with the Old Daddy or Daddy Three or Daddy Four. Well, maybe not so much Daddy Four. He don’t count much except for which of his genes ended up in me. He’s kinda grumpy, too, Daddy Four that is. I’m letting my lips run before my good sense again though, so I’ll slow down.

I sure hope Momma stays hitched to this one. He’s definitely a keeper. He used to sell special chocolates and candies to stores and restaurants throughout the Southern states. That’s how he met Momma. After he married Momma though, he didn’t fancy traipsing all over God’s creation no more. Mr. Charlie Davis, that’s my New Daddy’s boss, said we should all come on up north and settle down, so that’s just what we did. Now my New Daddy manages the first of what Mr. Davis hopes will be a chain of stores called Charlie’s Chocolates.

That’s how we made it to the money sign state. They call it the Garden State sometimes, too, but that name just don’t fit right. For such a tiny state, this place sure does pack in the people. They can’t drive well neither. Everybody’s going too darn slow or trying to take the back bumper off.

On our very first day here, we got lost trying to find the house. I thought my New Daddy would break his teeth, grinding ’em so hard. I’m still not sure how I feel about the move. It’s exciting and scary all at once.

At first, I missed Nana and Jimmy, but since all the excitement, I did get to see ’em again. Still, there are days I could just cry for wanting to have Nana wrap her arms around me. Nana’s Nana, you know? I can’t remember a day of my life until the move that I didn’t see her. She raised me about as much as Momma did, maybe more so even ’cause Momma had to work an awful lot.

My Old Daddy had more odd jobs than a baboon has hair but none of ’em paid a halfway decent wage. He sure does love his secrets, my Old Daddy. All the time he spent in between jobs, he tried to drink rivers of sweet spirits, which just left the bills to Momma.

It’s kinda funny in a mighty sad, awful sort of way. If Momma had known what we know today and not cared one whit about me, she coulda sold me for a lot of money. Maybe not enough to set her up for life, but she coulda at least collected a couple of million dollars. I feel funny saying that ’cause I don’t want y’all to get the impression I view myself higher than I ought to. Caden Phillips probably came closest to summing things up, and he just said I was a freak. He was trying to be mean, but he was right. It’s gonna take many more chats with Dr. S. to come to grips with that without wanting to cry, but I’m getting there.

Chapter 3

Jillian

ITEM 12: Danielle’s first letter

Item Source: Danielle Matheson

Dear Dr. Sokolowski,

Thank you for your inquiry into my health. Physically, I’m fine. It’s the mental side of me that’s got my mom wearing her worrywart hat these days. In that regard, I’m doing as well as can be expected. I’m still dealing with everything, including the loss of coming off the speed so suddenly, but I just keep silently telling myself: It’s only psychological dependence. If I repeat that mantra enough, it tends to take away a bit of the edge, though I still have a long way to go. This would be an example of a bad day. On a good day, I hardly remember I ever had a minor drug problem.

Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about all that. Your letter inquired about my impressions of Jillian. She’s a good kid. I don’t know if I would have made it through that whole ordeal without her. She’s got a quick smile and a solid sense of herself. I feel bad for her though. No offense, but if anyone needs your services, she does.

I’ve been reading the paper a bit. There’s not much else to do around here anyway, except maybe study. I may yet be ready to take the SAT II’s on schedule next year, though every time I mention that to my mother she tears up.

Can’t say that I like the story being floated about Jillian, but I can appreciate the need to keep things spun a certain way for the public. Poor kid, she’d never know another day’s peace if the rest of this nosy world knew. I can hardly believe it myself and I was there when that jerk explained it to her. Well, sort of there anyway. In the same facility has to count for something. Why do evil people get a kick out of hearing their own voices?

I’m torn on your proposal to share my version of the events. I’d say give me time to think, but I’ve got nothing but time now and you’ve been patient enough with me for these past three weeks. I’ll make you a deal, you share Jillian’s version of the events, and I’ll give you mine.

Ah, who am I kidding? Yes, I realize you’ll never take such a deal, so yes again. I’ll give you what I remember, but any and all profits should go into a fund for Jillian’s college.

Before you get all misty-eyed at that sentiment, I’ll tell you straight-out that kid deserves every good thing this life can offer. I’ve been a teacher’s assistant long enough in fifth grade classes to know that some of those little imps deserve a good smack upside the bumside, as my grandmother used to say. Not Jillian though. She’s from that other side; the side where right and wrong are very clearly defined. She owes that to her Nana I suppose. That’s not a knock against her mother; it’s just that the woman spent most of Jillian’s formative years working like crazy to feed the kid.

Ha, I guess she kind of wears off on you. I almost wrote kinda. You spend enough time in conversation with Jillian and she’ll have you talking with a Southern accent, drinking some berry flavored tea, and fighting the urge to dig up worms to go fishing.

Though you obviously don’t need a physical description, I think it’s worth mentioning her blue eyes. There’s something about the intelligence that lies behind those eyes that ought to have tipped off everyone that she’s more than she seems. Other than the eyes, she’s quite ordinary. A bit on the thin side perhaps, the type my grandmother used to say needs more meat on the bones.

I met the family about two months before all the craziness, through my job at the General Pharmacy; original name, huh? But like my dad once said, they didn’t hire me to critique their name. Jillian’s stepfather, Jeffrey Blairington, is the manager of the chocolate store right next to the pharmacy. He comes in from time to time for a cold drink or prenatal vitamins for his wife. We chatted a little on and off, and one day, he mentioned he needed a babysitter. The rest is history, as they say. The Blairingtons even attend our church now.

My hand hurts, so I’ll close this letter. I know I could type it, but if I do that, it’ll all come out too fast. I will tell you what I remember in subsequent letters. I just can’t deal with too much of it at once.

Sincerely,

Danielle Matheson.

P.S. Sorry for missing our first two meetings. If all goes well here, they might let me out for good behavior in another week or so. If you have any further questions regarding Jillian, please don’t hesitate to ask.

Chapter 4

The Day It All Blew Up

ITEM 13: Jillian’s second post-kidnapping journal entry

Item Source: Jillian Blairington

Kids don’t get to control much, and in that way, I ain’t much different than any kid. On the other side of the toast, not many kids get to say they was kidnapped by a couple of complete strangers and lived to scream another day. I wasn’t alone that day, nor on the long twenty-one days afterward. Danielle Matheson, my babysitter, was there the whole time. I think it was probably scarier for her than me though ’cause people kept threatening to hurt her.

If someone ever prints this for the public, Dr. S. says we gotta change all the names ’cause we don’t wanna go messing