by Jodi Picoult
I wish I’d never met Oliver. Because then I wouldn’t know how much I’m missing now.
There’s a chime from the laptop on my desk, and the screen glows to life. A graphic of a ringing phone appears, and a name beneath it: PRINCE CHARMING.
I’m the one who gave him that Skype name.
Rolling onto my side, I reach for the keyboard and decline the call. I doubt there’s anything Oliver can say that will make me feel better. And I don’t know what I would say to him right now. It seems like the more miserable I get, the more I lash out at him, and that certainly isn’t going to make him want to stay with me any longer.
In fact, knowing me, I’ve probably screwed this up so badly that it’s already over.
I may be mad at Oliver, but I’m even angrier at myself.
I curl into a ball, hugging my knees close to my chest, sobbing. It’s not a pretty cry; I’m practically triple-tearing, secreting from my eyes, nose, and mouth all at once. Not to be outdone, Humphrey howls too.
The door bursts open, and my mother rushes to my side, grasping my shoulders. “What’s the matter?” Her voice feels like a rush of cold water. “Are you sick? Does something hurt?”
I curl into her arms, like I did when I was little and thought a thunderstorm was a monster running toward my bedroom, snapping trees with every step. My face is hot and swollen. “I think I messed up.”
“Do you need help hiding the body?” my mother asks.
I pull away from her and look at her face. “What? No.”
“Then it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.” She smooths my hair. “Does this have something to do with a certain guy who’s been hanging around here a lot?”
“We got in a huge fight. And then he tried to make things better and I basically blew him off because I’m the world’s biggest idiot and now I’m going to be the world’s biggest single idiot.”
My mom’s arms tighten around me. “Being single isn’t a fatal disaster.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You have Greg.”
“For a lot of years, I didn’t. I just had you. And that was enough.”
“That is so sad,” I wail, throwing myself face-forward into a pillow. “I’m going to be that kid who takes her own mother to prom.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” my mother says. “There are going to be plenty of other guys in your life before you find The One.”
“I don’t want any other guys. I want Ol—” I catch myself. “I want Edgar.”
My mother draws away from me, serious. “Delilah,” she asks, “do you love him?”
Is love really this hard?
Is it needing to be with someone so much that you can’t breathe when you’re not? Is it wanting to kill someone for making you feel like dying when he looks at another girl? Is it wishing to be with him every minute, but knowing it’s too much to ask?
Is it handing someone your heart to hold, knowing you’re also giving him the power to crush it?
A fresh wash of tears flows over my cheeks. “What difference does it make? I’m probably never going to see him again.”
“You know,” my mother says, glancing past me, “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
She gets up from the bed, calling Humphrey to her side, and I roll over to see Oliver standing in the doorway. “I knocked, but no one answered . . . so I let myself in,” Oliver says. “Is this a bad time?”
“It’s the perfect time,” my mother says, and she leaves my room. After a tiny hesitation, she grabs the doorknob and pulls the door shut.
I sit up and open my mouth, but Oliver raises his hand to stop me. “Don’t speak,” he says. He walks toward the bed, stopping a foot away. “You’ve been trying to turn me into a high school student, but when I act like one, everything falls apart. That’s because I’m not a high school student. I’m a prince. It’s what I’ve always been, and no matter what world I’m living in, it’s what I’ll always be. I understand things feel wrong between us right now. But you and I, we’re not broken.”
He takes one small step toward me. “I know what this is. This is where I slay the dragon so I can climb the tower, kill the villain, and risk my life to be with you. This is the tough spot. This is the bit that keeps you on the edge of your seat so you can get to the good part, where you can finally let go of the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.” A muscle works in his throat as he swallows, but he doesn’t move an inch. “This isn’t the end for us. This isn’t how fairy tales finish.”
“If it’s not the end,” I ask, “then what is it?”
He reaches for my hands and tugs me to my feet. “This is the part where I look you in the eyes,” Oliver says, his gaze locked on me, “take you in my arms . . .” He pulls me against his chest. “. . . and say: Delilah McPhee, I love you.”
His mouth closes over mine, stealing my breath and all of my doubt. His hands tangle in my hair and anchor my lips against his. I sink into him, as if the heat from his body is melting mine.
This isn’t just any kiss. This is the shooting-star, fireworks-finale, earth-shattering kiss that makes time stand still, so that we are spinning inside a universe made for two.
This is what love is: never wanting to give up.
I pull away just far enough for a promise to fit between us. “Oliver,” I say, “I love you too.”
How come love sounds so violent?
You fall head over heels.
You’re struck by Cupid’s arrow.
You take the risk of having your heart broken.
From an outside perspective, it sounds impossibly painful, not worth the trouble. And yet we do it every day. We keep coming back for more.
Why?
If it weren’t so perilous, maybe we wouldn’t crave it so much.
Maybe it has to be brutal, in order to work. People come in so many shapes and sizes that it takes a bit of force in order to fit together perfectly.
But you know what they say about a break that heals: it’s always stronger than before.
EDGAR
I didn’t notice the first time I saw it, but now I realize Orville’s cottage is familiar.
It’s almost an exact replica of a cabin my mom and I rented one summer in Maine. There was no electricity, and a spider the size of my fist lived in the shower with us the entire week we were there because neither one of us wanted to touch it. The splintered wood of Orville’s door has a knot in the middle that kind of resembles Gandhi, just like the door in Maine. And like the roof of that cabin, Orville’s roof sags a little on the left side, possibly about to fall right in.
I think of them as déjà vus, these hidden details of my mom’s life that she’s sprinkled through the fairy tale. I have to admit—I kind of like seeing them. It’s like when she used to put notes in my lunch box, just to let me know she was still thinking of me when she wasn’t there.
I’m just leaving the page with Orville’s home and crossing onto the beach, when suddenly Socks gallops into sight and comes to a halt in front of me.
“This is a disaster!” he wails. “This is catastrophic. The world might as well be ending.”
Without even glancing at him, I say, “You look fine, Socks.” I’m used to these dramatic displays of low self-esteem from the horse, when he is reduced to Jell-O by the appearance of a nonexistent wrinkle or a dimple of cellulite.
“I’m not talking about me,” Socks scoffs. “Jeez, do you really think I’d be so self-centered?” He pauses. “Wait—are people saying that about me?”
“I don’t have time for this,” I tell him. “Where’s Frump? Everyone’s here waiting for him.”
Everyone is gathered on the beach once again for our morning run-down—except our ringleader is a no-show.
Socks rolls his eyes. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you. Frump won’t leave his doghouse. I suppose I may know a thing or two about locking yourself in your barn stall because of an issue with your appearance . . .”
Captain Crabbe
sidles closer to us. “Beg pardon for eavesdropping, but if it’s fleas again, I’d ask the mermaids to whip up a lovely kelp salt scrub before you release him back into the public.”
Socks sighs. “It’s going to take more than a spa remedy to fix this.”
I exhale heavily. “All right. Where is he?”
“Excuse me?” I turn when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Queen Maureen smiles apologetically. “Sorry to bother you, dear. But is there any chance my fellow characters and I might get a little update? It’s awfully hot to sit in this galactic armor, and people are getting a wee bit antsy.”
I hop up onto the stump that Frump uses to address the cast. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . and, uh, trolls. We’re experiencing some technical difficulties. Please stand by.” With that, I leap down and climb onto Socks’s back. “Let’s get this over with,” I say.
Behind the castle are the royal stables and pens for the peacocks, as well as the dovecote used during the wedding on the final page of the fairy tale, where the birds rested up between readings. Tucked against the rear door of the kitchens is a tiny purple structure with white trim, a miniature Victorian house complete with shutters and flower boxes. The only element that hints at its original use as a doghouse is the swinging flap it has as a door.
When I first came into the book, Queen Maureen offered to give Frump his own bedroom in the castle. After all, he’s human now. He stayed a couple of nights, moving from the mattress to the floor, and finally decided he got a better night’s rest in his own home.
“Frump,” I call, knocking on the wall of the doghouse. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t come in, Edgar,” he yells. “I just need to be alone right now.”
“I can’t help you with your problem if you don’t tell me what it is.”
Frump hesitates. “Things are getting a little hairy.”
I glance at Socks, who shrugs. If a horse can really shrug, that is. “It’s okay. I’ll help you delegate so you don’t feel overwhelmed. Just come out here and let’s talk.”
There’s a rustle of plastic as the dog door opens, and Frump crawls out and gets to his feet. His arms are furry; his face is covered with a beard and muttonchops.
“No, literally,” he says, crestfallen. “Things are getting a little hairy.”
Socks gasps. “Holy Abraham Lincoln.”
“The tail . . . ?” I ask hopefully.
“Still there.”
I digest this information. “This is fixable!” I pronounce. “We can handle this!”
Socks leans forward and drops his voice to a whisper. “Glint the fairy gives the smoothest Brazilian wax.” He averts his eyes. “Not that I’m speaking from personal experience or anything.”
“Look at the bright side,” I suggest. “Your ears haven’t grown in.”
“Give it a day,” Frump says, glum.
“Listen, you have nothing to be embarrassed about, and no one’s going to say anything to you. You’re among friends,” I tell him.
Frump shakes his head. “I don’t want her to see me like this.”
Socks bursts into tears. “This is the most ill-fated love affair ever. It’s like Cleopatra and Mark Antony. Pyramus and Thisbe. Beauty and the Beast.”
I grit my teeth. “You’re not helping, Socks. Pull yourself together, and go tell Orville to meet us in his cottage.”
Socks sniffles. “Okay.” He trots off, his head still hanging.
I put my hand on Frump’s shoulder. “You know, she’s already seen you as a dog.”
“But she never noticed me until I was human,” Frump laments. “I can’t go back to being invisible to her.”
“You won’t have to,” I promise. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Frump scratches behind his ear. “I know Oliver left some pretty big boots to fill. But . . . you’re a good friend, Edgar.”
Before I came into the book, I was more likely to be found alone in my room with a video game controller than in the company of another human. The closest I’ve come to having friends is playing the avatars of strangers in online battles. Having someone who doesn’t just want to hang out with me but seeks me out for help—and believes I can actually make a difference—well, that’s something I’ve never experienced before. It makes me want to do everything I can not to disappoint him.
“You’re a good friend too, Frump,” I reply, and I wonder if he realizes that I need him as much as he needs me.
As it turns out, I never get to Orville’s cabin. I’m halfway there when suddenly the book is vigorously ripped open, and I find myself somersaulting through the pages until I land in a heap on Everafter Beach with a mouth full of sand. All the characters are there, of course, because the book has been opened, but I notice that Frump is hiding behind a giant rock and is wrapped head to toe in one of Rapscullio’s goth cloaks. Brushing myself off, I look up at the watery film at the top of the page to see Oliver and Delilah looming over us.
“I’m still getting used to this,” I say with a scowl. “You could be a little bit gentler.”
Oliver looks furious. “Well, you could perhaps stop interrupting us every time we start to—”
“Oliver!” Delilah cuts him off. She shakes her head just the tiniest bit, trying to shut him up. “We got another message.”
She tips the book again, and the world spins. “For God’s sake,” I mutter. “Some of us are still getting over our whiplash. . . .”
Delilah’s room comes into full view, panning past a dog sprawled on her quilt who looks like a distant relative of Frump. Suspended in the space above her bed is a string of bobbing letters: I NEED YOU.
The book is wrenched back around and Oliver glares down at us, gripping the pages so tightly the world bends in at the corners. “Which one of you is responsible?” he challenges, his voice ringing over the beach.
Everyone looks around awkwardly, waiting for someone to fess up. Curiosity spreads like a fever. Could it have been Frump, hoping his friend could save him from falling back to a four-legged existence? Or Seraphima, missing her (fake) true love? Could this be Captain Crabbe’s reminder of an annual dental checkup? Queen Maureen, pining for her fictional son? Or Rapscullio himself, accidentally pouring out his secret wish on the wrong canvas?
If you want to get technical about it, everyone on this beach has a reason to want Oliver to return.
I round on the cast, stepping up. “Well? Who is it? Which one of you keeps sending these messages?”
I’m greeted by silence.
“Fine,” Oliver snaps. “If no one’s going to admit to this, I’m going to figure it out for myself. Edgar, Rapscullio? Meet me on page six.”
This time I get a running start, breaking through the pages like a ghost walking through walls, as Oliver and Delilah flip backward through the book. Breathless, I land heavily in Rapscullio’s lair, knocking over a stack of canvases. Every single one is painted with Queen Maureen’s face. I look at Rapscullio. “Dude, that’s creepy.”
Rapscullio shrugs. “Don’t blame me. I was written that way.”
The lair is a dark, narrow cave lit by tallow candles. Spiders hide in the crevices of the walls, and rats scatter across the floor like moving shadows. Everything seems a little bit damp, and there’s a faint, incessant dripping sound coming from the stalactites.
While we wait for Rapscullio to locate the easel, I look up at Oliver. “So how’s my mom?” I ask.
“She’s an excellent cook,” Oliver says brightly.
“No,” I repeat. “I mean . . . how’s my mom?”
“She seems to get tired often.”
I shrug. “She’s always tired. If she doesn’t have five cups of coffee a day, you’re living with an imposter.”
Suddenly Rapscullio interrupts, placing the magic easel front and center. It’s painted with a background that matches Delilah’s bedroom. The same message Oliver showed us is scrawled in its center.
Rapscullio lifts the canvas off its frame. He shakes it like it’s
an Etch A Sketch he’s trying to clear, but nothing happens. “Hmm,” he muses. “Something’s not quite right.”
He settles the canvas back on the easel, takes a paintbrush, dips it in turpentine, and traces over the letters. One at a time, each loop and line vanishes.
“Is it gone?” I ask, looking up at Oliver.
He looks away from the book, his chin raised. “Yes,” he says, sighing with relief. “But that doesn’t answer the question of who wrote it in the first place. Someone in the book needs help, and I can’t be expected to live with one foot in each world. These are your people now, Edgar. You’re supposed to be keeping track of them.”
My face flushes with anger. When Frump asked for my help, I thought I was finally getting somewhere . . . that I was becoming a real part of this community. But the fact that Oliver has found another message means I may have taken one step forward but three steps back. I mean, he of all people should know how hard it is to be inside this book. I don’t really need him giving me lectures on responsibility, after all I’ve done for him.
“Really? These are my people? Why don’t you tell them that? Then maybe they’ll stop writing to you for help.”
Oliver leans into the book, shouting. “Don’t blame me just because you don’t have the skill it takes to be a main character—”
“Stop it, you two,” Delilah scolds. “You can both stop measuring your egos.”
“Erm.” Rapscullio clears his throat. “I think you need to see this.”
I follow his gaze to the easel. Without a paintbrush or a pen, or any visible artist, the letters are tracing themselves onto the canvas: I NEED YOU.
I turn to Rapscullio. “Are you doing that? Is it magic?”
“I’m not doing a thing,” he vows.
As we all watch, the letters soak into the canvas, disappearing like invisible ink. A moment later, they rewrite themselves, sinking in again, the process repeating over and over.
“Oliver!” Delilah cries. “Help!”
Rapscullio and I tear our gazes away from the canvas to see Delilah’s room flooding with the black loops and curls of letters. They may be disappearing in our world, but they keep rising in hers, swarming like bats. The dog in her bedroom is barking and trying to bite the duplicating words. They tangle in Delilah’s hair, pecking at her. Oliver tries to wrestle them away, but they wrap around his wrists and pull his arms down to his sides, trapping him. And still the words keep coming, floating in the space between them, turning the air black and drowning them in language.
