I’d been so enthralled by the images on the screen, it took me a moment to realize two people were talking over them.
“—course there are disbelievers. It’s like someone announcing that Santa, this character we’ve made up, has been real the entire time! Wait, you don’t suppose that means…”
“If there are books about him, then he is real. At least according to this theory. It’s quite simple: if there are infinite realities in parallel dimensions, then quite literally everything is not only possible, but exists. Every slight alteration from this reality exists, all the way to the most outrageous of things—the existence of Santa, for example. Or Kiki James!”
“And speaking of Kiki James,” the screen now cut to the people talking and revealed a woman, about forty, with dark brown hair sitting next to a dark eyed balding man, and across an overly-shiny table from a slight young man with an overly shiny forehead, “here she is!”
And there she was, followed by Phil, Willy, and Nilly, from somewhere off camera.
“Oh no,” I said. I looked around and saw that Randy had not moved since the television had been turned on; he was sitting on the edge of the old wooden chair, hand clutched around his throat convulsively. Jerry looked much the same. But Long John, oddly, was smirking.
“Peter, seems like a good time to do that little trick of yours again, don’t ya think?” Long John asked, still smiling at the screen. And so I did.
In a brightly-lit studio in Rockefeller Plaza, Kiki James walked, calmly as she could, over to the shining table. Michelle Williamson, Brent Barker, and the renowned and prodigious physicist, Blake Stinson were sitting at the table, staring at her appreciatively—which she was used to. But they were admiring more than her beauty; they were admiring her very Fictionality.
“Welcome, Kiki. Welcome, Phil, Willy, and Nilly. I’m Michelle Williamson, this is my cohost Brent Barker, and this is Blake Stinson, a physicist who’d like to talk to you,” the woman said soothingly. She then gestured to four empty seats at the table. Just across from them there was a mess of people—people holding cameras, lighting, sound equipment; people wearing black shirts and black hats monitoring computer screens, and then behind the table was a window, filled with even more people. They couldn’t hear them, but many of them were holding signs claiming WE’RE BRINGING FICTION BACK!, or WE LOVE YOU, CHARACTERS!, or KIKI 4EVA. And it was all so Real. It was overwhelming.
“Uh hello,” Kiki said, taking her seat. She was very aware of the realness of the table—the fine details of it, she wouldn’t expect from something so polished and shiny. A bit of something grainy under her finger; its coolness against her wrists. Phil, Willy, and Nilly sat down to her right. They didn’t look nervous; Phil even looked a little bored.
“So we’ve been hearing the wildest reports since your Reddit Thread went viral. Over,” Brent Barker looked down at a piece of paper, “100,000 comments on this post. Of course we haven’t looked at them all, but we’ve gotten the gist of it: some people believe you actually are Fictional characters come to the Real World, some, of course, don’t, and others want to. It’s just so far-fetched, as my co-host was saying earlier. But, well, you do certainly have something I can’t quite explain going on,” the man took it in turns to examine each of them. “You’re shining or something. What is that?”
Without missing a beat, Nilly said, “Oh yeah, well that’d be cuz in the book world when you’re bein’ written, you get all shiny. ‘S how you can tell who’s bein’ written or not over there. The characters who haven’t been written about in a long time get all dull and boring-looking and stuff.”
“Oh, yes, I see. Certainly.” Michelle was talking now, all hints of nurturing gone from her voice. Kiki felt like she was being cross-examined. “Of course, this could be some sort of makeup or technological illusion. Not to say I don’t believe you all. You certainly do look an awful lot like Kiki, Phil, Willy, and Nilly, and you are very… shiny, but really, can you give us anything more to go off? What on earth would,” this time she looked down at a piece of paper, “sixteen Fictional characters be doing out here in the Real World? Taking a vacation?”
“‘Ere it is,” Long John said, leaning forward in the cushy armchair.
“Actually, no,” Phil said. He was looking down at his phone, and only reluctantly put it away a moment later. “We’re here to bring some a the characters back into Fiction. See, they got erased last year by this psycho character there—he got their backstories out here.”
“Through the portal?!” the physicist asked.
“Yeah, yeah, through the portal. Doorway, really. Point is,” Phil said loudly before young Stinson could barrage him with more questions, “these guys are gone in Fiction, and out here too. Any mention of em in books or anything is just gone. And, ya know, even though we don’t remember em exactly—we all know who they were.”
“Wha- what do you mean, exactly?” the woman reporter leaned in, her arms rested on the table. She seemed utterly unaware that she was being filmed.
“Think you know what we’re talkin’ about,” Willy piped up. “We’re talkin’ about those characters who keep poppin’ up in everyone’s dreams and thoughts. Aladdin, the Arabian peasant boy with his magic lamp.” At this the woman leaned back as though slapped, “Cinderella, the beautiful young woman whose step-mother and -sisters made her their slave, an’ she became a princess an’ all that.” Someone in the film crew coughed, but there was no other sound. “Then there’s those three fairies who live in that buttercup and ride Bartemus the Toad when they plant dreams or somethin’.” Everyone’s mouths were agog—camera perfection be damned. “And o’ course, Pinocchio the wooden puppet who only wants ta be real. There’s Peter Pan who’s actually Captain Hook’s nemesis—s’why there’s always seemed to be somethin’ missin’ in those stories. An’ Jenny the Girl Wizard, whose dad, Jerry and boyfriend, Peter, are out here right now trying to—”
“Alright that’s enough,” Michelle Williamson had lost her composure. Her hair was mussed from the compulsive way she’d been rubbing the back of her neck and some of her lipstick was on her front teeth from biting her lip. “Did my therapist put you up to this? Is this some sort of early birthday prank?” Michelle looked around at her co-host, then at the camerapeople. She knew immediately it was no joke.
Finally Brent Barker found his voice, something regular viewers knew he’d never struggled with before. “So… they’re real then? The people in these dreams I’ve been having?”
In that moment, Kiki finally saw why they were there. So what if the Real Worlders knew they were real? If it helped bring back the erased characters, it was worth it.
“Yes, they were real,” and then Kiki realized she could take it one further. “And there’s one more character out here in the Real World from Fiction, and we need your help bringing her to justice. You might know her as the scientist, Destiny Stein.”
“Bingo,” Long John said, leaning back in his armchair.
It took a long while, lots of chocolate, and several pots of tea to calm Albert Stein down after the program had ended. Albert had already been mostly on board with the whole Fictional characters are real thing; but he’d had no further doubts once the T.V. physicist explained how with infinite realities this was not only possible but inevitable. After all, he was already mostly convinced; he’d known Jenny was more real than a dream for a long time.
What he was having trouble with, though, was seeing his wife’s picture, captioned Destiny Stein/Anna Albrecht, pop up on the T.V. screen in his living room. It was the drawing from the cover of the last Mein Wissenschaftler book: Anna Albrecht standing behind a long lab table, watching someone else (I assumed it was Dedrick) who was looking away. She was younger, a bit softer looking, but still, unmistakably, Destiny.
“I always knew there was something different about her,” Albert was crying now. He’d already flown right through the first few stages of grief (“No—but she’s my wife! I know her!” to “Please j
ust tell me it’s not true,”) and had landed squarely in depression. “But I just thought it was a natural glow; and it did fade over time.”
“That’d be because staying out here in the Real World makes us more real after a while,” I said, pointing down at my own arm. It was still shiny, but there were a few more details here and there than I’d prefer.
“How stupid I’ve been,” he said. “She never did want me writing anything, did you know that? I had to publish my story about Jerry in secret,” Albert said, glancing Jerry’s way ashamedly. “And when I talked about wanting to write a novel, she panicked. I never did write it—or, I suppose I did in some alternate version of things, but that’s neither here nor there. But ever since then she’s been… off. Just, paranoid. Talking about alternate realities, feeling scared that I’d leave her for a fantasy world… It never made sense to me. In fact, for the past two years, I’ve been living here while I thought she was seeing a very competent therapist in England. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. I needed a creative outlet,” Albert was talking in earnest; it seemed a long time since he’d talked to anyone about this. “I’ve been writing screenplays, you know. And still doing my art. Look,” at this, Albert got up from the couch, somewhat rockily. He left the room through a darkened doorway, and a few minutes later came back with an old, warped sketchbook.
“Look,” he said, handing me the book. “She’s been here all along.”
“Jenny,” I breathed. The illustrations, much like the one in Destiny’s home, were so real. So very Jenny—from the half smile she wore to that somewhat contemptuous brow furrow I knew so well. My Jenny.
“Yes, Jenny. I’d sent Destiny—or, Anna I suppose—I’d sent her one of these drawings recently, a show of friendship. And the letters! I’ve sent her a letter once a week for two years since being here. But I’ve heard nothing from her. We never did divorce, but… well I never gave up hope. I thought she’d get help.
“Of course there’s no helping this. This is just so… unexpected.” Albert finished.
I nudged Randy because he’s a lot better at this stuff than I am.
“Yes, well, we’re all sorry to be the ones to tell you about Anna’s real identity—”
“—and the fact that there’s probably a search party out looking for her right now,” I added helpfully.
“But,” Randy cut in, “we need to know before we leave here today that you’re going to write these books about Jenny. We need her in Fiction, and I think you need her, too.”
Albert smiled sadly, his eyes glistening. “I never thought I had a book in me…” he laughed quietly. “Well, if you say I do, I do. Can somebody tell me about her—my Jenny?”
Everyone turned toward me expectantly, and I tried to ignore this and look only at Albert. But there was Jerry, too, who had been Jenny’s father in her younger literary life. And Randy, who had been like a dad to Jenny when we were all living together, and Long John, who had filled an odd, curmudgeony mentor role in her life; and the worst thing was, they couldn’t even remember her.
So ignoring the tears streaming down my face, I looked at all of them in turn and told them the story of Jenny the Girl Wizard.
“What do you mean none of you are writers for Disney? Isn’t there anyone here we can talk to about getting some books written?” Princess Badroulbadour was at her wits end. She’d literally been backed into a corner by several ogling photographers and Disney employees all exclaiming things like “She was born for this role!” and “She is the picture of Princess Jasmine!” Geppetto and the Lost Boys, meanwhile, were in separate audition rooms in the large building. The space was a stark contrast from the colorful and animated world outside. It was through a small, innocuous door in Adventureland that they’d been guided for their auditions. The six characters had ignored this, thinking that surely the Disney writers would be this way as well. Now they wished they hadn’t.
“The Disney writers? Darling, we are just here to cast actors for Disneyland, and you are just perfect for Princess Jasmine. That hair, those eyes. You are practically glowing with that Jasmine look.”
“I am not Princess Jasmine! I am Princess Badroulbadour, and I will not tolerate this impertinence. I want to see a writer immediately.” At this, the people surrounding her merely looked at one another and someone whispered, “Method actor. She’s great.”
Just then, though, the door to the little audition room swung open and a rather slight man in a rather small suit walked in. As soon as he did, the Disney employees straightened up and went silent.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” the little man said in what sounded like an Australian accent. When he spoke, his gray mustache twitched. “I hate to interrupt this audition, but it seems as though Ms. Badroulbadour has no need to be cast as a Princess at our park. She, you see, is the real thing. Princess, I believe you and your friends are looking for some writers? Please, come with me.”
The rest of the people parted ways silently and allowed the Princess to leave the room, guided out by one Mr. Stevenson, Director of Operations for Disneyland Actors. He opened the door for her and stood back as she walked through. Just before leaving he called to the room, “You’ll want to turn on the news, I expect,” and then they were gone.
Just as the Princess, Geppetto, and the four Lost Boys were being whisked away from Disneyland in a very large and luxurious company car (in which Mr. Stevenson accompanied them and apologized all the way to Burbank), Mattie and Merlin were finally leaving Bryce Dingsworth’s home. They’d been there for hours trying to explain who they were and why they were there. But Bryce, while warmhearted and open, was a practical man. And walking into a practical man’s home and claiming that you’re a couple of Fictional characters come to inspire him to write the book about the banana tree that he’s always wanted to, well, that’s just not going to go over well. He’d been polite enough, of course, and heard them out; and when they’d produced a backstory that even looked to be written in his writing all about a banana tree’s early life as a seedling, then a young sprout, he’d been touched at their effort, if not a little bit worried.
“No, no, we didn’t create this document to look like your handwriting,” Mattie said in exasperation. She was feeling the pressure of time and the weight of the Real World every moment out here. Her hair was sticking out at odd ends, her eyes were bulging, and she was sweating nervously. She looked a bit crazy, which didn’t help her case with Bryce. “This is your handwriting! You see, you wrote a book about Bill the Banana Tree, but in Fiction, where we live, a villain erased Bill from the backstory. See, here—” she pointed at the places throughout the handwritten page where there were smudgy erased marks. “That’s why you don’t remember him: because when he was erased in Fiction, he was erased from out here, and from everyone’s memory! Don’t you see??”
It was at this point that Bryce Dingsworth had smiled calmly and said that yes, of course, he saw, and would either of them like some tea? And excused himself from the little parlor-like living room and into the kitchen. It was as he was picking up the phone to dial his husband, Seth, to find out what in the world he should do with these two polite but clearly insane people in their home, when he saw the very same insane people’s faces on his little television. Calmer than most people would have been, he walked up to the counter and turned up the volume on the little television set.
“Well, yes, of course there are disbelievers. It’s like someone announcing that Santa, this character we’ve made up, has been real the entire time! Wait, you don’t suppose that means…”
“If there are books about him, then he is real. At least according to this theory. It’s quite simple—if there are infinite realities in parallel dimensions, then quite literally everything is not only possible, but exists. Every slight alteration from this reality exists, all the way to the most outrageous of things—the existence of Santa, for example. Or Kiki James!”
A moment later, the two hosts and scientist on the show were talking wi
th a woman who looked remarkably like the well-known romance character, Kiki James, and the three troublesome triplets, Phil, Willy, and Nilly. They, too, talked about how characters had been erased in backstories, but still showed up in people’s thoughts and dreams today; they mentioned the other Fictional characters out in the Real World, like Merlin and Mattie, who were sent to inspire their friends’ authors to write again. And they explained it all with science. And for this logical botanist, that was good enough.
“Okay,” he said entering the living room, not with tea but with a set of keys in his hand, “I believe you, and if y’all say this is the book I’m meant to write, well, I’ll do it. Nothin’ like this has ever happened to me, and even if y’all are a part of some worldwide scam, well, I’ve been wantin’ to write a book my whole life. Now’s as good a time as any. And I do like the sound of this Banana Tree.”
Mattie sighed in relief; Merlin meanwhile was examining a globe in the corner of the room muttering to himself.
“Now you said you two needed to get to Decatur later today to talk to one of the other authors, right? Well, I’m headin’ there anyway to get some seeds from my sister-in-law. She’s got more alfalfa than she knows what to do with. It’s not even in season, can you believe it? She’s got a greener thumb than me, even.”
At this Merlin looked up from the globe, his index finger planted squarely in the middle of South America. As was often the case with Merlin, he looked like he might have just woken up from a dream or shifted suddenly from one reality, invisible to anyone else, into this one.
“What is your sister-in-law’s name, Mr. Dingsworth?” he asked, again his tone politely curious.
“Why it’s Amanda. Amanda Woodensby.”
Merlin nodded as though he’d been expecting as much, and told him that yes, a ride would be lovely. Even though Peter had said there wasn’t any visible magic in the Real World, Mattie had a feeling that she’d just seen a glimpse of it.
The Actual Account of Peter Able Page 16
