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INTRODUCTION

When he hit me, I didn't see it coming, It was just a quick blur, a flash out of the corner of my eye, and then the side of my face just exploded, burning, as his hands slammed against me.

Strange, sleepy Rogerson, with his long brown dreads and brilliant green eyes, had seemed to Caitlin to be an open door. With him she could be anybody, not just the second-rate shadow of her two-years-older sister Cass. But now she is drowning in the vacuum Cass left behind when she turned her back on her family's expectations. Caitlin wanders in a dreamland of drugs and a nightmare of sudden fists, trapped in her search for herself.

As violence becomes more and more prevalent in our world, one out of every five teenage girls in America will be beaten by a dating partner, and one third to one half of married women will be victims of abuse. Yet shame, fear, and assumed guilt keeps many in conspiracy of silence about this widespread but invisible anguish. Why do girls allow themselves to get into such relationships—and what keeps them there?

In this riveting novel, Sarah Dessen searches for understanding and answers through the mind of a young girl who suddenly finds herself in a trap of constant menace, a trap that is baited with love and need. More and more she must frantically manage her every action to avoid being hit by the hands that had seemed so gentle. All around Caitlin are women who care—best friends, mother, sister, mentor—but she can confide in none of them, especially not Cass, her brilliant older sister, whose own flight from home had seemed to point the way for Caitlin.

Dessen has here created a subtle and compelling work of literature that goes far beyond the problem novel in a story rich with symbolism, dark scenes of paralyzing dread, quirky and memorable characters, and gleams of humor. With the consummate skill and psychological depth that brought her praise for Keeping the Moon, she explores the search for self-identity, the warmth of feminine friendships, and the destructive ways our society sets up young women for love gone wrong.

ABOUT SARAH DESSEN

Sarah Dessen grew up in Chapel Hill, where she teaches fiction writing at the University of North Carolina and recently married her high school sweetheart. Dreamland is her fourth novel for young people.

Further Reading and Recommended Sites

When She Was Good
by Norma Fox Mazer
Scholastic Paperbacks
Em's huge, dangerous big sister Pamela is dead, but her voice goes on telling Em that she's stupid and bad and deserves to be hit.

Breaking Free from Partner Abuse
by Mary Marecek
Morning Glory Press
A simply written little book that uses quotes from abused women, poetry, and helpful advice, to drive home the message that "people aren't for hitting." Includes 16 page mini-lesson on abuse.

Resources to Help Stop Partner Violence:

If you or someone you know is having trouble with partner violence, here are some organizations that you can turn to.

National Domestic Violence Hotline

Tel: 1-800-799-SAFE

Advice, comfort, and referral for teens in violent relationships, available 24 hours a day.

"Love Doesn't Have to Hurt Teens"

A teen-friendly website, sponsored by the American Psychological Association, that offers counsel to girls who think they may be headed for an abusive relationship.

National Resource Center on Domestic Violence

A referral organization that works to develop national and local programs and distributes materials, like their guide for parents, "Helping Teens Stop Violence."

National Coalition Against Domestic Violence

A gathering of organizations and groups working to stop partner abuse. Distributors of the "Rough Love" video and teaching guide.

AN INTERVIEW WITH SARAH DESSEN

How did you get started writing young adult fiction?

To be honest, I fell into it. But it is a voice that really works for me, partially because I live in my home town, and I'm very close to all of my friends from high school. A lot of my memories are very vivid because I'm still in the same place. It's easy to reach back when you drive past your high school at least once a week.

Tell me how you came to write about dating violence.

I've had several friends—not myself personally, because I've been dating the same person since high school—who have been in bad relationships like this and I didn't know until years later. Teenage girls are evolving so much and it's so easy—the first time when you fall in love especially—to think maybe this is just the way it's supposed to be, or "Nobody will ever love me again." You don't have the strength that you would have later, to walk away. In writing this book there was such a sense of having to be very, very careful with this topic and very responsible with it.

Because you may have readers who are in this situation looking to you for answers.

Exactly, although this is not a problem novel. I also felt I had to be responsible about the role of marijuana in the story. I worried that when Corinna and Caitlin are sitting on the couch together for endless afternoons looking at television and smoking pot that it was going to seem frivolous, like I was making it seem attractive. But Caitlin uses it to dull her senses, and Rogerson is the one who starts her on it, and it's what enables her to endure his abuse. So I definitely needed it there, and I'm prepared for controversy.

Did your editor feel the same way?

I was so glad I was with Deborah Brodie for this book, because she allowed me to be true to my voice; she was respectful in not wanting to tinker with things too much, and that was great. And she has amazing insight—I could not have done better!

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. In the first chapter, Sarah Dessen not only puts us immediately in the midst of the action and introduces us to all the major characters in her story, but she drops hints about ideas and events that will be important in the novel. For instance, Caitlin stumbles over Cass's gift as she leaves her room, "whacking my face on a hall light switch." Later, her parents are too distraught over Cass's departure to notice Caitlin's injury—a pattern that foreshadows the violence to come. What other clues are embedded in the chapter that point to symbols and themes that will be explored later?
    
2. The idea of "Dreamland" as a place of refuge is central to the story, as the title suggests. What childhood events establish this picture in Caitlin's mind? Why is it significant that Cass has given Caitlin a dream journal and what does she imply in her cryptic message to her sister: "I'll see you there"? Trace how the meaning of the word later changes for Caitlin as she retreats into a drugged sleepiness and thinks, "This Dreamland was preferable, walking through this life half-sleeping, everything at arm's length or farther away." Who else in the novel is in Dreamland? Find a passage at the end of the novel that suggests that Dreamland could become a more hopeful idea.
    
3. Explaining Cass's flight, Boo says, "It's so easy to get caught up in what people expect of you. Sometimes, you can just lose yourself." In what way does this also describe Caitlin's situation? Both sisters are trying to find an identity by stepping outside of other people's expectations. In what ways are their attempts at taking control alike? How do they differ? Do you think women often try to find their own selves by their choice of a man?
    
4. What has been the effect on Caitlin of following in the footsteps of her older and more talented sister all her life? How does the scar on her eyebrow that Cass inflicted sum up those feelings? On the other hand, what different meaning does the scar hold for Cass? What scenes dramatize this? Why is Caitlin particularly anxious to hide Rogerson's abuse from her? In the end Cass, with unconscious irony, writes in a letter yo her sister, "You were always able to make your choices based on you and what you wanted, nothing else." How and why can she be so wrong?
    
5. In a striking scene from Caitlin's childhood, Boo uses the little girl's play with a Barbie doll to drive home a feminist lesson. "She can be anything—and so can you," she tells Caitlin—whose own mother has never noticed that fact. What small evidence can you find that this message has not been entirely wasted on the teenage Caitlin, even as she goes through her cheerleading routines and surrenders her life to Rogerson?
    
6. When Caitlin first chooses to go with Rogerson, even though they know nothing about each other, she thinks, "I could have been anybody, and it made everything possible." What is it about Rogerson that makes him so perfectly suited to Caitlin's need? Before he turns violent, we—and Caitlin—learn only seemingly unrelated facts about Rogerson's past, his family, his likes and dislikes, his behavior quirks and odd abilities. What are the missing pieces in this enigmatic personality, and can you guess at the rest of the picture? What do you think is the particular quality in Caitlin that makes her so attractive to him?
    
7. The first time Rogerson hits Caitlin, it comes out of nowhere as a complete shock—for us as well as her. Yet, on another level, we're not really surprised. We knew some things about him that should have been warning signals. What were they? Obviously, Caitlin should leave him immediately at this point. Why is this impossible for her, and why does it become increasingly impossible as his violence escalates? Sketch out a scene as to what might have happened if she had been able to walk away from him after the first attack. Would it really have ended there? Or not?
    
8. The affectionate portrayals of New Agers Boo and Stewart, with their tempeh salads and wise comments, lighten this powerfully dark novel. Do you think they have remained fast friends with the O'Korens only—as Caitlin supposes—because they live next door? Rina, too, who has issues with men, brings some comic relief to the story, and she and Caitlin are another unlikely friendship. What do you think holds them together? And why is Caitlin unable to confide in her about the abuse?
    
9. Corinna, another woman who has run away from her parents' world, is also a mismatched friend for Caitlin, who thinks that they have "a lot in common." Even though their backgrounds and interests are so different, in what ways is this true? When Corinna makes a safe haven for Caitlin, how is it both comforting and destructive for both of them? When Corinna finally finds the courage to leave Dave, what do her silver bracelets come to symbolize to Caitlin, and how does the wearing of them affect her decisions?
    
10. One of the most puzzling paradoxes about Rogerson is his gentleness as a lover, as contrasted with his violence. Find evidence of his patience toward Caitlin in sexual matters and his insensitivity to her needs in all other ways. What in his background could explain this and why is it such a powerful tool in gaining her trust? In a related paradox, what two kinds of "hits" does he give her and how do they work together?
     
11. Caitlin is tempted several times to tell her mother what is going on with Rogerson, but she cannot begin to break through her parent's complete obliviousness that something is wrong. A poignant example is the moment when her father carefully spreads ashes on the slippery sidewalk because Caitlin has blamed a fall on the ice for the abrasions on her face. Find other examples of their loving intentions coupled with blindness to the reality of the situation. In a way, are these metaphors for most parent/child interactions in adolescence?
     
12. Sarah Dessen builds an almost unbearably escalating sense of dread into the climatic scene of the novel. We can almost hear the throbbing drums in the background as Caitlin, who has been bullied by Rina into going off to the lake, frantically tries to telephone a dangerously furious Rogerson. Imagine you are shooting this scene as a movie. How would you underscore the rising terror and tension with film techniques like jump cuts, close ups, long shots, distorted focus, special effects, computer graphics? What music would you choose? Where would you end the scene?
     
13. Much of the richness of the language of this novel comes from the many symbols that amplify the meaning of the story, and we have discussed several of these already, like the scar and the silver bracelets. Others to explore are the black BMW, the staring rows of dolls, the pyramid, Caitlin's photographs. An extended metaphor that brings the book home to a satisfying conclusion is drawn from T.S. Eliot's poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." A literary interpretation of this passage is clearly laid out by a bright student in Caitlin's English class. How do the elements of this metaphor—the mermaid's song, the voices calling, water and drowning at the surface—come to represent salvation to Caitlin in her turmoil? In this context, react to the last sentence, in which Caitlin feels "the water break across my face as I burst through it into the air to finally breathe on my own."

Patty Campbell is a longtime critic, librarian, editor, writer, and teacher in the field of young adult literature. She was the winner of the 1989 Grolier Award for distinction in the service of young adults and reading.

Read a Sample Chapter

Chapter One

    When I was four and Cass was six, she whacked me across the face with a plastic shovel at our neighborhood park. We were in the sandbox, and it was winter: In the pictures, we're in matching coats and hats and mittens. My mother loved to dress us alike, like twins, since we were only two years apart. We did look alike, with the same round face and dark eyes and the same brown hair. But we weren't the same, even then.

    The story goes like this: Cass had the shovel and I wanted it. My mother was sitting watching us on a bench with Boo, who had her camera and was snapping pictures. This was at Commons Park, the small grassy area in the center of our neighborhood, Lakeview. Besides the sandboxes it also had a swing set, one of those circular things you push real fast and then jump on—a kind of manual merry-go-round—and enough grass to play baseball or kickball. Cass and I spent most of the afternoons of our childhood at Commons Park, but the shovel incident is what we both always remembered.

    Not that we ourselves recalled it that well. We had just heard the story recounted so many times over the years that it was easy to take the details and fold them into our own sparse memories, embellishing here or there to fill in the blanks.

    It is said that I reached for the shovel and Cass wouldn't give it to me, so I grabbed her hand and tried to yank it away. A struggle ensued, which must have looked harmless until Cass somehow scraped one hard plastic edge across my temple and it began to bleed.

    Thismoment, the moment, we have documented in one of Boo's photos. There is one picture of Cass and me playing happily, another of the struggle over the shovel (I'm wailing, my mouth a perfect O, while Cass looks stubborn and determined, always a fighter), and finally, a shot of her arm extended, the shovel against my face, and a blur in the left corner, which I know is my mother, jumping to her feet and running to the sandbox to pull us apart.

    Apparently, there was a lot of blood. My mother ran through the winding sidewalks of Lakeview with me in her arms, shrieking, then took me to the hospital where I received five tiny stitches. Cass got to stay at Boo and Stewart's, eat ice cream, and watch TV until we got home.

    The shovel was destroyed. My mother, already a nervous case, wouldn't let us leave the house or play with anything not plush or stuffed for about six months. And I grew up with a scar over my eye, small enough that hardly anyone ever noticed it, except for me. And Cass.

    As we grew older, I'd sometimes look up to find her peering very closely at my face, finding the scar with her eyes before reaching up with one hand to trace it with her finger. She always said it made her feel horrible to look at it, even though we both knew it wasn't really her fault. It was just one more thing we had in common, like our faces, our gestures, and our initials.

    When Cass was born my mother still wasn't sure what to name her. My mother had suffered terrible morning sickness, and Boo, who had moved in next door during the fourth month or so, spent a lot of time making herbal tea and rubbing my mother's feet, trying to make her force down the occasional saltine cracker. Boo was the one who suggested Cassandra.

    "In Greek mythology she was a seer, a prophet," she told my mother, whose tendencies leaned more toward Alice or Mary. "Of course she came to a horrible end, but in Greek mythology, who doesn't? Besides, what more could you want for your daughter than to be able to see her own future?"

    So Cassandra it was. By the time I came along, my mom and Boo were best friends. Boo's real name was Katherine, but she hated it, so I was named Caitlin, the Irish version. Cass's name was always cooler, but to be named for Boo was something special, so I never complained. Her name was just one thing I envied about Cass. Even with all our similarities, it was the things we didn't have in common that I was always most aware of.

    My sister wasn't a seer or a prophet, at least not at eighteen. What she was, was student body president two years running, star right wing of the girls' soccer team (State Champs her junior and senior year), and Homecoming Queen. She volunteered chopping vegetables at the homeless shelter for soup night every Thursday, had been skydiving twice, and was famous in our high school for staging a sit-in to protest the firing of a popular English teacher for assigning "questionable reading material"—Toni Morrison's Beloved. She made the local news for that one, speaking clearly and angrily to a local reporter, her eyes blazing, with half the school framed in the shot cheering behind her. My father, in his recliner, just sat there and grinned.

    There were only two times I can remember ever seeing Cass really depressed. One was after the soccer State Championship sophomore year, when she missed the goal that could have won it all. She locked herself in her room for a full day. She never talked about it again, instead just focusing on the next season, when she rectified the loss by scoring the only two goals of the championship game.

    The second time was at the end of her junior year, when her first real boyfriend, Jason Packer, dumped her so he could "see other people" and "enjoy his freedom" in his last summer before college. Cass cried for a week straight, sitting on her bed in her bathrobe and staring out the window, refusing to go anywhere.

    She drew back from everyone a bit, spending a lot of time next door with Boo where they drank tea, discussed Zen Buddhism, and read dream books together. This was when Cass became so spiritual, scanning the world around her for signs and symbols, sure that there had to be a message for her somewhere.

    She got into three out of the four schools she applied to, and ended up choosing Yale. My parents were ecstatic and threw a party to celebrate. We all applauded and cheered as she bent over to slice a big cake that read WATCH OUT YALE: HERE COMES CASS! which my mother had ordered special from a bakery in town.

    But Cass wasn't herself. She smiled and accepted all the pats on the back, rolling her eyes now and then at my parents' pride and excitement. But it seemed to me that she was just going through the motions. I wondered if she was looking for a sign, something she couldn't find with us or even at Yale.

    She stayed in this funk all the way through graduation. In mid-June she went to stay with her friend Mindy's family at the beach and got a job renting out beach chairs by the boardwalk every day. Three mornings into it she met Adam. He was down at the beach on vacation with some friends from the show, and rented a chair from her. He stayed all day, then asked her out.

    I could tell when she called the next morning, her voice so happy and laughing over the line, that our Cass was back. But not, we soon learned, for long.

    I don't think any of us knew how much we'd needed Cass until she was gone. All we had was her room, her stories, and the quiet that settled in as we tried in vain to spread ourselves out and fill the space she'd left behind.

    Everyone forgot my birthday as our kitchen became mission control, full of ringing phones, loud voices, and panic. My mother refused to leave the phone, positive Cass would call any minute and say it was all a joke, of course she was still going to Yale. Meanwhile my mother's friends from the PTA and Junior League circled through the house making fresh pots of coffee every five minutes, wiping the counters down, and clucking their tongues in packs by the back door. My father shut himself in his office to call everyone who'd ever known Cass, hanging up each time to cross another name off the long list in front of him. She was eighteen, so technically she couldn't be listed as a runaway. She was more like a soldier gone AWOL, still owing some service and on the lam.

    They'd already tried Adam's apartment in New York, but the number had been disconnected. Then they called the Lamont Whipper Show, where they kept getting an answering machine encouraging them to leave their experience with this week's topic—My Twin Dresses Like a Slut and I Can't Stand It!—so that a staffer could get back to them.

    "I can't believe she'd do this," my mother kept saying. "Yale. She's supposed to be at Yale." And all the heads around her would nod, or hand her more coffee, or cluck again.

    I went into Cass's room and sat on her bed, looking around at how neatly she'd left everything. In a stack by the bureau was everything she and my mother had bought on endless Saturday trips to Wal-Mart for college: pillowcases, a fan, a little plastic basket to hold her shower stuff, hangers, and her new blue comforter, still in its plastic bag. I wondered how long she'd known she wouldn't use any of this stuff—when she'd hatched this plan to be with Adam. She'd fooled us all, every one.

    She had come home from the beach tanned, gorgeous, and sloppy in love, and proceeded to spend about an hour each night on the phone long-distance with him, spending every bit of the money she'd made that summer.

    "I love you," she'd whisper to him, and I'd blush; she didn't even care that I was there. She'd be lying across the bed, twirling and untwirling the cord around her wrist. "No, I love you more. I do. Adam, I do. Okay. Good night. I love you. What? More than anything. Anything. I swear. Okay. I love you too." And when she finally did hang up she'd pull her legs up against her chest, grinning stupidly, and sigh.

    "You are pathetic," I told her one night when it was particularly sickening, involving about twenty I love yous and four punkins.

    "Oh, Caitlin," she said, sighing again, rolling over on the bed and sitting up to look at me. "Someday this will happen to you."

    "God, I hope not," I said. "If I act like that, be sure to put me out of my misery."

    "Oh, really," she said, raising one eyebrow. Then, before I could react, she lunged forward and grabbed me around the waist, pulling me down onto the bed with her. I tried to wriggle away but she was strong, laughing in my ear as we fought. "Give," she said in my ear; she had a lock hold on my waist. "Go on. Say it."

    "Okay, okay," I said, laughing. "I give." I could feel her breathing against the back of my neck.

    "Caitlin, Caitlin," she said in my ear, one arm still thrown over my shoulder, holding me there. She reached up with her finger and traced the scar over my eyebrow, and I closed my eye, breathing in. Cass always smelled like Ivory soap and fresh air. "You're such a pain in the ass," she whispered to me. "But I love you anyway."

    "Likewise," I said.

    That had been two weeks earlier. She had to have known even then she was leaving.

    I walked to her mirror and looked at all the ribbons and pictures she had taped around it: spelling bees, honor roll, shots from the mall photo booth of her friends making faces and laughing, their arms looped around each other. There were a couple of us, too. One from a Christmas when we were kids, both of us in little red dresses and white tights, holding hands, and one from a summer at the lake where we're sitting at the end of a dock, legs dangling over, in our matching blue polka-dot bathing suits, eating Popsicles.

    On the other side of the wall, in my room, I had the same bed, the same bureau set, and the same mirror. But on my mirror, I had one picture of my best friend, Rina, my third-place ribbon from horseback riding, and my certificate from the B honor roll. Most people would have been happy with that. But for me, with Cass always blazing the trail ahead, there was nothing to do but pale in comparison.

    Okay, so maybe I was jealous, now and then, but I could never have hated Cass. She came to all my competitions, cheering the loudest as I went for the bronze. She was the first one waiting for me when I came off the ice during my only skating competition, after falling on my ass four times in five minutes. She didn't even say anything, just took off her mittens, gave them to me, and helped me back to the dressing rooms where I cried in private as she unlaced my skates, telling knock-knock jokes the whole time.

    To be honest, a part of me had been looking forward to Cass going off to Yale at the end of the summer. I thought her leaving might actually give me some growing room, a chance to finally strike out on my own. But this changed everything.

    I'd always counted on Cass to lead me. She was out there somewhere, but she'd taken her own route, and for once I couldn't follow. This time, she'd left me to find my own way.

NINE CRAZY IDEAS IN SCIENCE
A Few Might Even Be True

---

By Robert Ehrlich

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS

Copyright © 2001 Princeton University Press. All rights reserved.