“Is that… is that from the Real World?” Michelle asked, eyes wide.
“Yes, it is,” Mattie said matter-of-factly. “It was sent from the other side of the portal in Real World Ashby de la Zouch.” She unfolded the paper. “Would you like me to read it?” The three could only nod.
“Ahem.
“Dear Mattie,
I hope you don’t mind me reaching out to you this way, but I wanted to get a message to you, and to Peter, and to all the characters who have worked so hard to make Fiction the beautiful, magical, whimsical place it should be again. Thank you.
I’ve been with you all, all along, and know that even when things have seemed ugly or terrible or unnecessary, I’ve been there. I knew it would be okay. But as much as I’ve been creating this story, so have you. We’ve been dancing together for three years: all of you inspiring me, me turning things into words—as you all found out early on.
Know that it was all for this: an ending worth fighting for. For if there was never any pain, there would be no joy: and what kind of story would that be?
I reached out to Albert Stein in Los Angeles, and I hope it’s not too late. If it were only so simple to just write Jenny and all the other characters back into existence on my end; to fix it all with a Band-Aid and a nice red bow, believe me I would. But like I said, you’re really the ones creating this story; I’m just the writer.
When Peter wakes up, please just tell him ‘thank you.’ For everything.
Go ahead and close the portal; your heart will tell you how. And the wardrobe on this end will always be open to you.
Love,
N
P.S. Someone left a pair of socks in my basement. Next time someone comes through, I’ll leave them out.”
Mattie folded up the piece of paper and tucked it back into her pocket. She crossed her hands politely on the shining table as the two hosts and physicist continued to stare at her open-mouthed. It wasn’t until someone, perhaps one of the camera- or lights-people cleared their throat that Michelle seemed to remember they were on air.
“Okay, then. We’ll be back after these messages.”
Just as Michelle was rising to her feet, the screen cut to commercial.
Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow…
“Canyou turnthat off? Ihatethat song,” I managed to say. Unlike Randy, my voice was not so much hoarse; it was more like my tongue was a lot thicker and heavier than usual. It was getting better though; I could even lift my head a bit.
With the television off, the only sound in the room was a feeble beeping coming from one of the machines hooked up to me in some way or another. No one said a thing for about a minute. Then barely audibly, Randy said “I can’t believe it.”
“I know,” Jenny said, shaking her head. “I mean, that note? The portal? Our author?”
“And Mattie,” Randy wheezed, still staring at where Mattie had been on the screen. He shook his head slowly. “I never realized how brave she was. And how powerful. And—”
Jenny and I both turned to look at Randy. He blushed furiously, immediately making him look more like his old, ruddy self.
“So that’s it, then?” I asked. “The conflict’s resolved, Circe is dead, and the characters are all coming back? That pretty well seems to tie things up, doesn’t it?”
Jenny nodded, her brow furrowed in thought. Randy was still staring, glassy-eyed at the T.V.
“Okay, well… Uh, I guess that’s the end then,” I said.
“This is sort of awkward.” Jenny looked around. “I’ve never known quite how to—”
“We should have a party!” Randy announced, his voice a bit stronger.
“What do you—”
“A PARTY!”
Well, I guess that settled that.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Three weeks later, finals were all over and school was officially out for the semester. Of course, we’d spent so little time actually at school throughout the story that Randy and I would have to take some makeup classes in the spring and Jenny would have to make up her semester in the summer. But all of that would be months away during that blurry time when we were no longer being written. I’d be twenty-one; no longer a Boy Wizard at all. No longer even a main character.
I was thinking about this—and my authors, the people out in the Real World, Destiny, Circe, all of it—when Jenny walked into the kitchen. Randy and I were sitting at the table: him, once again, hidden behind his morning paper, and me, once again, pushing around some eggs on a plate.
“Hey Peter, you okay?”
“Hm? What d’you mean?”
“It’s just worry is written all over you.”
I looked down at my arms and hands; sure enough, it was. Good ol’ Fiction.
“It’s nothing, really. Just thinking.” I got up to clear my plate and I heard Randy flip the page of his newspaper and start chuckling. (“Oh, Marmaduke.”)
“So tonight! The party, huh? Anyone else excited? Because I sure am.” I sat down again at the table where Jenny and Randy were both giving me Looks. “Sorry, I had some Enthusiasm in my hot chocolate earlier,” I lied. I don’t know why I didn’t just tell them what was on my mind then; I guess I just didn’t want to ruin their last pages, too.
So in we launched to talks about the party. We’d have it catered by Wonka’s Factory, of course. We’d have a DJ, a Christmas tree, cookies for decorating, tone-enhancing sweets, and we’d welcome everyone and anyone who could make it—but first and foremost this was a party for all of the characters who went out into the Real World.
By about seven that night, the scene was set; and it was even better than I’d imagined. Once again for this party, we’d used a simple little charm to enhance the size of our apartment’s interior; it was nearly five times its original size. (Our super, Mr. Super had given us his blessings, just as long as we put it back to normal and touched up any paint dings to get the security deposit back.) We borrowed one of the long house tables from a certain other series, and it stretched out across the back of the space beneath a long line of windows. It was laden with a veritable feast of snacks and delights: everything from custard-cream-filled cakes to huge slabs of raw, blood-dripping meat on a platter. We’d added two small fountains to the room: one spouted clear, blue water, and the other burbled with thick, purplish mud (for the various pixies that might be coming.)
We’d even removed all our regular furniture and replaced it with big, round, squishy poofs covered in pillows, as well as a couch the length of the house table, and several cushy, mismatched armchairs. Little coffee tables were scattered throughout. The DJ was set up near the snack table, to the left. She was a rather large and cartoonish-looking white and blue pony called Vinyl Scratch or Pon-3 or something. Before the first guests even arrived she was playing some rather shrill, hyperactive kids’ music.
By 8:00, there were probably fifty characters milling about the space, making it look even larger since there was still quite a lot of room to move around. The group of centaurs from the neighborhood had showed up, fresh from an evening jog and famished. They made their way immediately to the snack table for some wheatgrass shots. Then there were a few large, boulder-like giants and one notable giant celebrity with large ears—a good thing we raised the ceilings. A few green, southern pixies were sitting on the lip of the blue fountain, their delicate, smooth feet dipped into the water. And so many people: there were couples from romance who immediately gravitated toward the cozy round poofs, and laid down on their sides to stare longingly into each other’s eyes; more Sci Fi robots and aliens than I would have cared for, including the little orange, soccer-ball-like droid who’d run over my foot once. The entire character list from Lord of the Rings was there, including my professor, Gandal—
“Oh ho! Look, you have the golden ticket!” a talking duck near the snack table shouted before I could get into trouble.
And as the night went on, more and more characters arrived: The Stereotypical Frat Boys
(who had brought their own keg and were tapping it in front of the DJ’s set up), several blue northern pixies (who were glaring across the fountain at the southern pixies, splashing them occasionally with their feet), our friendly neighborhood Damsel in Distress, Pip and Pop came along with a whole bag of their freshly-baked pies. There were YA Vamps like Ed—moody and sparkling, and in Ed’s case, trying to catch Jenny’s attention throughout the night; Classic Vamps in hoods, their red eyes gleaming out from the darkness menacingly; Jenny’s terribly described friend, Joanne (who had hair), my for-a-minute-best-friend, Ogre, and then, finally—
“Long John, Jerry!” I called. I’d been flitting about making sure everyone was okay, that pillows were fluffed and drinks were filled, when they pushed their way into the room. The enlarged apartment was packed now, and characters were chatting just in front of the door.
“Alright, move then! Go on! Get out of the way!” Long John shouted, kicking out with his fake leg. Quickly, the space around the door cleared. “I mean, who stands around in front of the door?” he muttered as we met.
“Peter, it’s good to see you,” Jerry said with a smile. Just behind them more people were filtering in—a wood nymph I recognized as Nadia with silver eyes and hair, Randy’s rarely mentioned secretary, Cynthia, and then—
“Mattie! Merlin! Come on in. Let’s get you some snacks and drinks and then find a place to all sit down. Come on then…” With them behind me, we cut our way through the crowd and to the long snack table. To my surprise and delight, the snacks on the plates seemed to simply be refilling themselves when they were running low; I wondered if it had something to do with borrowing, not just the table, but the plates from that other series’ too. I spared just a moment to hope that Mr. Super’s apartment downstairs wasn’t filled with elves, but then pushed it aside.
“I’ll find us some chairs,” I called to the group, who were happily making plates for themselves and grabbing drinks. Just as I was leaving, I noticed Randy rush clumsily over to Mattie, red-faced, and take her hand. I could hear him sputtering the words thank you and lovely as I walked away.
“Jenny!” I called, seeing her. She’d created a little circle of chairs and poofs, dotted here and there with coffee tables, and in a few of them sat Phil, Willy, Nilly, Curly and Tootles, Princess Badroulbadour and her handsome new Prince friend, Kiki, and Geppetto. And in her lap, squiggling about uncontrollably, was none other than Dach-shund.
“Dash! What the—”
BARK!
She leapt from Jenny’s lap and in two bounds was jumping up and running around in circles around my feet. I knelt down and let her lick my face and rubbed her ears, and was a little surprised to find that I was crying. I’d missed this little expletive-blocker; she’d always used to climb into my windows at night and wake me up in the mornings.
“How did Dash—?”
“I guess Albert finished writing my girl wizard books Out There. Terrill and Ivor told me earlier—they’re here somewhere—that they’d been out into the Real World for business recently and found out that ever since you all went Out There, the authors just sort of remembered everything; books already written in their minds. Stories unfolding by the day. Apparently there’s never been so many books written so quickly. Anyway, Dash wasn’t mentioned until my final book. So here she is.”
“Oh, Jenny, that’s so great. You’re back then! You’re really back!” I picked up the little Dachshund (who squirmed and wriggled, because she hated that), and plopped down on the poof next to Jenny. She looked more detailed and more alive than I’d seen her since she’d disappeared. It filled me with both terrible sadness and joy. She must have seen what was up, because astutely, she asked
“What’s up?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, trying to smile. Luckily, just then I was saved having to go into it, because Long John, Jerry, Randy, and Mattie arrived—the latter two had their arms linked around each other and were so absorbed in conversation that Randy walked right into Kiki’s chair and slopped his drink down her back. It was purple and creamy, and I immediately recognized it as a purple Russian—a strong little drink from Romance.
“Oh, sorry about that, Kelly,” Randy said, absentmindedly. He pat Kiki’s perfect, blonde hair as he and Mattie giggled and walked over to a neighboring poof and sat down.
“Dad,” Jenny said, standing up. She walked over to him and buried her head in his shoulder; he wrapped his arms around her.
“Hello, my girl.” His eyes were closed, but tears still leaked out of their corners and onto Jenny’s shoulder. They’d seen each other once since she’d been re-written, but it wasn’t until Jenny’s last two books that Albert had given her much of a relationship with her parents; and it seemed this time around, he’d gone above and beyond. I’d never seen Jerry look so dynamic and detailed. “It’s good to have you back,” he said.
“You too, Dad.”
Jenny casually waved her wand and next to our poof appeared a purple, high-backed armchair. She sat back down next to me, but turned to face her dad and the two of them talked and talked. (“Your mom will be so happy to see you; she’ll be here just as soon as she can leave work…” “Tell me about your time in the Real World…” “Remember when I was nine and that girl McKenzie froze my underpants…?”) I just sat and soaked it all in. I watched Mattie and Randy laughing and catching quick glimpses at each other here and there; Randy telling Mattie all about his kids, Molly and Brent (who, incidentally, were on the train from Boarmoles to visit Randy for winter vacation). I watched Long John lecturing Phil, Willy, and Nilly—something about commandeering a ship. And beyond our little circle, the guests were getting louder and more joyful—probably due to the spread of tone-inspiring chocolates and sweet drinks (Jenny and I had decided to leave Drama out.)
The characters who had disappeared were all sitting in a semi-circle near the snack table, occasionally hopping up to greet a friend or grab a snack. They were laughing and at ease; it was like they’d never left. And really, it felt like it. It was hard to imagine Fiction without Aladdin, Cinderella, Pinocchio, Peter Pan, Jenny, the three fairies, and Bill the Banana Tree. Gorndalf was still pretty easy to forget, though.
To our left, closer to the door, two of my professors from the previous year, Bateman and Professor S were in deep conversation. Professor S was in his giant, black beetle form, and Bateman was looking around, eyes darting dramatically from beneath his black, bat-like mask. If I hadn’t known him, I could have mistaken him for the real Batman—but the ears on his knockoff mask were far too long.
Just as I was watching Bateman stand up, to, apparently demonstrate how exactly to kick someone’s feet out from under them (and nearly taking out the tiny hobbit, Professor Gildo), I spotted Bob and Bonnie. Their green and bright leaves stood out among the crowd as they pivoted their pots side to side until they had joined our little circle.
“Peter, what a delight,” Bob said in his ever-posh accent. “And it’s so good to see you. And Jenny, you look exquisite and so well developed. Your character, that is,” Bob added quickly at a nudge from Bonnie. The two plants looked at each other (I think) and burst out laughing.
“Well this is it, itn’t then?” Long John said, leaning in toward the center of the circle. He was sitting in a green armchair, his Louisville Slugger resting next to him, and his other foot planted on the floor. “The end?”
Everyone in the little circle quieted, but outside of our group the party went on, unaware that perhaps in just moments, everything would be different. It’s what had been bothering me all day. I wanted curl up and cry and close my eyes, and yet soak it all in and not blink even for a moment.
I could tell everyone felt the same. We were all looking around at each other; smiling in gratitude, but so, so sad. When my first series had ended, I had no idea it was coming; my author had up and killed my little sister and then that was that: series over. But this was pretty clearly winding down. Don’t you think?
“I s
uppose…” Princess Badroulbadour had her head cocked to the side, thoughtfully; her long sheet of black hair tumbling down ridiculously. “I suppose it won’t really be ending, though, now will it? After all, we all live on in other books as characters and side characters and so on; and one day when none of us are mentioned in books Out There anymore, we’ll grow less and less shiny, until we fade away. But by then we’ll have lived long and full literary lives, and be ready to move on.”
We stared at her; I think it was the most I’d ever heard her say.
“What? My grandmother told me about it before she faded.”
“So… we’ll still be written?” I asked, hardly daring to believe it. “We won’t have to live the rest of our lives all dull and boring?” I said this last part quietly, as nearby was a rather vague black and white character who hadn’t been written in years; but even as I mentioned her she became just a little more solid.
“Of course, Peter,” a deep voice answered. I spun around and there he was: Aslan the Lion.
“For God’s sake, Peter. It’s me, Alan. Can’t you tell the difference by now?”
“Sorry.”
“As I was saying, of course we will still be written; and when we are not, we will live on forever in books.”
“But what about if all the books are destroyed—”
“And through books, we shall continue to be in each other’s’ lives. After all, who is to say that someone Out There is not currently writing a brand new book about us all?” At this, Alan looked around the room meaningfully, just as Randy might have done if he wasn’t busy kissing my teacher, Mattie.
The Actual Account of Peter Able Page 21
