by Jodi Picoult
“Glint, can I borrow your poisonberry lip gloss?” asks Sparks.
“Get your own,” Glint says. “I’m tired of you using all my stuff.” But she tosses an acorn to Sparks, who twists off the cap and dips her finger into the cosmetic. She leans toward a dewdrop to see her reflection and then swipes her tiny finger across her lips. I try to read the book in front of me, but branches block out the light. Suddenly, a hovering glow illuminates the page. I squint at it and see Ember shining.
“Thanks for that,” I say.
She flashes a brilliant smile. “No problem.”
I flip through the pages, absently wondering if in some other world, there is a cast of royalty and mermaids and pirates all racing into position so that I can enjoy my story.
I wonder if in some other world a prince is pining away for a girl he loves.
“Love?” I say out loud.
“Love?” Glint repeats.
“Did someone say love?” Ember asks.
“Love?” I hear again, followed by an echo, and another, and another, as every fairy in the forest repeats the word.
“Oh yes,” Sparks says, “I totally called this.”
“Remember yesterday, when you walked into a tree?” Ember asks.
“That,” Glint says, “is when we started taking bets.”
The fairies perch on my shoulders and arms. “Who’s the lucky princess?” Ember asks.
I have no intention of telling them; I couldn’t betray Delilah that way. “You wouldn’t know her. She’s not from around here.”
“Uh… who isn’t?” Sparks says.
All of a sudden I hear a bark from across the woods. “Frump,” I say with relief.
“I’m pretty sure Frump is from around here,” Sparks replies.
Waving them away, I hop off the tree branch and land on the ground just as Frump skids to a stop at my feet.
“Hey, buddy… you got a minute?” he asks. The look on his face is one I’ve seen before—mostly when he’s under the table begging for scraps.
With reluctance I tuck the book beneath my tunic. He leads me out of the forest, away from the keen ears of the fairies. As soon as we clear the woods, Frump breaks into a run. I have to sprint to catch up to him.
We race past the cliff walk and the turnoff for the trail to where Orville the wizard lives. “Is there a reason we’re in a hurry?” I pant.
“We have to get to the unicorn meadow in time,” Frump shouts back to me.
“What’s in the unicorn meadow?” I ask as we break into its center. The field is full of snowy, horned creatures grazing on lush silver grass.
“You are,” Frump admits, coming to a stop. “I told Seraphima you’d be here.”
“Why?”
He looks down at the ground. “So she’d come. If it had just been me, she’d never bother.”
Frump was, according to the backstory we all know by heart, once human. My best friend, as a matter of fact, until Rapscullio stole some herbs from Orville, intending to kill the young prince (namely, me) he saw as an obstacle to his love for Maureen. The draught into which he mixed the herbs, however, was mistakenly drunk by Frump. He would have died without Orville’s intervention. The wizard couldn’t reverse the curse, yet he managed a transfiguration: Frump would live, but in the body of a different creature. In this way, he’d be safe from Rapscullio’s wrath.
This, anyway, is what the text says during the course of our story. But I have known Frump only as a dog, because that’s what he is when the fairy tale begins. He’s a boy only in flashbacks, and flashback characters don’t exist the way the rest of us do, flesh and blood even when we’re offstage. It’s why I’ve never met King Maurice; it’s why Frump is a hound… with the heart and mind of a young man.
One who is utterly, incomprehensibly, madly in love with Seraphima. Who wouldn’t give him the time of day, even if he didn’t have fleas.
“Aw, Frump.” I scratch behind his ears. “You don’t need me to get a girl interested in you.”
“Oh yeah? Then how come she lit up like a firecracker as soon as I mentioned your name?”
I wince, thinking of Seraphima. “Doesn’t it bother you to know she can’t tell the difference between when the book is closed and when it’s open?”
“Not really. I keep telling myself that’s why she isn’t interested in me. To her, I’m just a dog.”
I suppose it could be argued that Delilah doesn’t have the best track record either, when it comes to telling reality from fiction. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“How do you know she’s the one for you?”
Frump wags his tail. “Well, she’s got that beautiful, shiny blond coat… er… I mean, hair… and there’s that little space between her front teeth… and did you ever notice how, when she’s nervous, she sings? Off-key?”
“You like that?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Frump says. “I think her flaws make me love her even more. She’s not perfect, but she’s perfect to me.”
I think about Delilah—how she snorts when she laughs, how she bites her nails when she’s thinking hard about something. How she doesn’t seem to know the simplest things—like that if one has an ache of the head, a leech—not some small round white candy—will do the trick. How she makes wishes on eyelashes and stars or when her clock reads 11:11. “Yes,” I say softly. “I understand.”
Frump lets out a painful yowl. “You love her too?”
“Seraphima? No. A million times no.”
He gives me a look that betrays just the slightest doubt.
Even if I didn’t want to kiss Seraphima, the book would pull me into the embrace. And she’s pretty enough. So kissing her isn’t really a hardship, and if I have to do it, I might as well pretend I am having fun.
Still, my intimate moments with Seraphima always leave me feeling guilty. Not just because of Frump, but because I know she is putting all her passion into that kiss since she thinks it’s real, when for me, it’s a day’s work… with some pleasant benefits.
“Then you’ve got to help me, Oliver,” Frump begs. “How do I get her to notice me?”
For a moment, I let myself consider this. Delilah saw me all on her own, and I doubt that even if Frump mowed the word HELP into this field, it would do anything but annoy the unicorns. “What about a gift?” I suggest.
“I gave her a bone—the best one I’ve ever buried. She threw it away!”
“What did you do?” I ask.
Frump shrugs. “I fetched.”
I start pacing. “The problem is that Seraphima always sees me as the conquering hero, when she needs to look at you that way. Which means, my friend, that you need a damsel in distress.” Several unicorns whinny as I pass by too closely. “That’s it.” I snap my fingers. “I’m going to die.”
“What?”
“Not for real. Just pretend. Then you can rescue me in front of Seraphima.”
“Ollie, no offense, but you make a really ugly princess. And I’m not going to kiss you to wake you up from your fake sleep, no matter what.”
“You don’t have to, Frump. We’re going to pretend I’ve been gored by a unicorn. All you have to do is stop the fake bleeding.” I bend down in front of a sugarberry bush and grab a handful of the fruit.
Frump looks anxiously off in the distance. “Could you maybe pick berries afterward? She’s going to be here any minute.”
“I’m not going to eat them,” I mutter, mashing the berries between my hands. They are a red, runny mess. Opening my tunic so that my white shirt shows through, I smear the berry juice into the fabric. A red stain bleeds from the center of my chest.
“There’s just one problem,” Frump says. “No one’s ever been gored by a unicorn. They’re the sweetest creatures in the book.”
“Well… maybe I made one really angry,” I suggest. I lie down with my head against a boulder and cover my fake wound with my hand.
Frump is turning in nervous circles. “It’s not
going to work, Oliver. She’s going to figure it out. I can’t act….”
“Are you kidding me? You act like a dog every day. Surely this has to be easier.”
Suddenly we hear a high, off-key tune floating over the meadow. The unicorns bleat and scatter. “Oh, Oliver…” Seraphima trills. “Are we playing hide-and-seek, my darling?”
“Oh, that’s good, that’s really good,” Frump whispers, glancing at my face. “You look really sick.”
“Focus,” I hiss. “Fr… ump…” I gasp. “Help me…”
Seraphima races across the field, but when she sees me fallen and bloody, she shrieks. “Oliver!”
Frump leaps onto my chest. “Hang in there, my friend,” he says. He turns to Seraphima. “One of the unicorns went berserk. Oliver’s lost a great deal of blood.” Frump presses his paw down in the center of the wound. “Take off my collar,” he orders.
“I beg your pardon!”
“For a tourniquet,” Frump says.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Seraphima stare at Frump in a way I’ve never seen her look at him. But it’s not adoration I’m seeing.
It’s competition.
She lifts him up with two hands and hurls him off my body. “Out of my way, puppy,” she grunts, and she kneels in front of me. “Don’t go with the angels, Oliver!” she cries. “Stay with me!”
With that, she leans down and seals her lips over mine in a massive huff that is supposed to be artificial respiration but feels more like a sloppy, wet kiss. Sputtering, I sit up and push her off me.
“I did it! I saved you!” Seraphima cries, pulling me into her arms. “Oh, Oliver. I don’t know if this is life imitating art or art imitating life…. I’m just so glad to know that you and I will have our chance to live happily ever after!”
I groan. “Where’s the unicorn….”
“Far, far away, my love. Why?”
“I was hoping it could run me through again.”
Frump shuffles closer, his tail between his legs. Sorry, I silently mouth.
Seraphima plops herself down on the ground beside me and starts tearing the bottom of her skirt to make bandages. “We need to get you to Orville for a poultice….”
The last thing I want is for Seraphima to stay here playing nursemaid—or worse, to treat me for an injury I’ve never had. Thinking quickly, I frown and whip my head to the left. “Did you hear that?”
Frump barks.
“Right, old buddy. It did sound a lot like Rapscullio….” I know that will put Seraphima into a panic. For someone who can’t tell the difference between real life and the story, Rapscullio is a constant threat.
“Rapscullio!” Seraphima gasps. “What if he finds me?”
“Quick—run away.” Steeling myself, I give her a fast, firm peck on the lips. “Your life is more important than mine. I’ll come as quickly as I can. Frump, can I trust you to keep Seraphima safe?”
Frump smiles slowly. “It would be my honor and my privilege, Your Highness,” he says. “My lady?” He holds out a paw, and after a reluctant moment, Seraphima takes it.
I watch them hurry across the meadow, a delusional princess who can’t distinguish reality from fiction, and a lovesick basset hound. Well, there have been stranger couples, I suppose. “Good luck,” I whisper to Frump, although I know he cannot hear me. “I’ll miss you, if I ever get out of here.”
Not if, I tell myself. When.
* * *
As I’m changing into clean clothes, I wonder about the seeming discrepancies of my life in this book. Why is it that I have a closet full of tunics and doublets I am never seen wearing during the course of the story, but Frump, who by text used to be a boy, is never seen in that form? Why is the barn where Socks lives stocked with geese and chickens and cows who play no other discernible role in the fairy tale but Seraphima doesn’t recognize that the part she plays isn’t necessarily who she is? These are contradictions I don’t understand and, to be honest, haven’t considered before. Before meeting Delilah, that is.
I am still mulling over this when I hear Frump call a full-book alarm. “All fairy-tale personnel, report immediately to the stables,” he commands. “I repeat, this is an emergency—not a drill!”
On the way down the castle staircase, I nearly bump into the queen. “Oliver, dear,” she says. “Do you have any idea what’s happening?”
I don’t. But my heart is pounding and my hands are shaking… and I am hoping like mad this has nothing to do with me and Delilah. Has Rapscullio discovered the book is missing? Have the fairies figured out more from our earlier conversation? “I don’t know,” I tell the queen, “but I don’t like the sound of it.”
The sound actually gets worse as we approach the stables. There is a frantic snort and a series of low grunts. Overhead is the telltale sliver of light that indicates the book is about to be opened. But if that’s the case, why are we all just milling around?
Because I am a main character, I am able to push my way through the crowd to the open stable door. There, Frump paces back and forth on a clot of hay as chickens scurry and flap to get out of his way. “Frump, what’s this about?” I ask.
He turns. “Thank goodness you’re here.” He glances up at the slice of sky that is growing wider. “It’s Socks. He’s talking about a strike.”
“Strike? What did he strike?”
“No, he’s on strike. He refuses to come out of his stall for the next telling of the story.”
I hesitate. No one in this story has ever resisted the telling of it. That is, every time the book opens, characters scramble into position. I’m the only one I know of who’s ever defied it in any way—and I know from experience that the book will correct itself and yank Socks into position whether he likes it or not. But if I admit that out loud, I’ll create an even bigger stir, because everyone will realize that I have been actively resisting the book too.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I say lightly. “So I’m missing a trusty steed. No one will ever notice.” No one will ever notice, I think, because the minute we’re all back on page one, Socks will have been dragged against his will to meet us where he belongs.
“We can’t take that chance. We’re trying to buy some time.” Frump jerks his chin up to the corner of the barn, where Orville teeters on a ladder, pointing his wand at the crack of light. “Obscurius manturius…” he intones, and a shower of sparks creates a gummy seal across the line of light, falling to the hayloft and igniting several small fires that Rapscullio, standing below, stomps out.
“Someone’s opening the book even now, Oliver,” Frump says. “I don’t know how long we can hold it shut.”
I am knocked sideways as the trolls lumber past me into Socks’s stall. “From the back, boys,” Frump orders. “Give him your best shove.”
I approach the open stall door. Socks is standing with his face in the corner, head ducked. “Socks?” I murmur. “What’s going on, buddy?”
“Just go away,” the pony sobs.
“Whatever it is, I’m sure we can work it out. I’m here for you. We’re all here for you.”
He tosses his mane. “I am a hideous, monstrous beast. Please let me wallow in my own misery.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Socks. I mean, a lot of people are counting on you. We’ve got a story to tell. And you—you’re one of the stars of the show.”
He hesitates. “I… I am?”
“How else would I get anywhere?” I say. But there is a part of me wondering if I’m right about what will happen if Socks just stays in his stall. Will he be ripped into position on the page, like I was? Or will he do what I so badly crave: change the way this story goes?
“Ein… zwei… drei… stoß!” the trolls shout, and Socks whinnies as they shove at him, trying to make him budge.
“Frump,” Orville shrieks, “I’m afraid I can’t make this hold any longer!”
I glance up. By now, long streaks of light are falling on the floor of the barn. “We�
�re on it!” Glint calls. A battalion of fairies flutters up to the corner of the scene. Like an acrobatic circus troupe, they arch their bodies over the growing gap, their small faces twisted with determination as they struggle to keep the pages shut.
Stepping into the stall, I sink down to the ground so that I can shimmy underneath Socks. He immediately averts his nose. “I can’t. I can’t.”
“Socks,” I beg. “Please. At least tell me what the problem is so that I can fix it.”
“It’s too horrendously embarrassing.”
“As embarrassing as the time I fell overboard on the pirate ship?”
“Worse,” Socks groans. “I have… I have… Oh, I can’t say it out loud.”
“Chicken pox?” I guess. “Poison ivy? Heartburn?”
“A zit,” Socks bursts out. “A huge, red, swollen zit on my nose.”
“Horses don’t get zits, Socks,” I say gently.
“Oh, great. So now I’m a zoological abnormality with acne.”
“Let me look.” Gently, I pull his velvety muzzle down to my face. I scrutinize from nostril to nostril, finding no blemish of any kind. “Socks,” I say, “there’s nothing there.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better!” he wails. “I cannot go out in public with a big red clown nose, Oliver!”
There is a commotion as Captain Crabbe comes through the crowd. He is wearing his dentist’s coat and carrying a blue-paper-wrapped pack of sterilized instruments. “Did someone call for a surgical consult?” he asks.
Socks’s eyes widen. “Surgery! Who said anything about surgery?”
“Don’t worry, my little horseshoed friend. You’ll only feel a pinch,” Captain Crabbe promises.
He motions the trolls out of the way and stands directly behind Socks. As he unwraps the sterilized tools, several points of light shimmer from the corner of the scene onto Socks’s back, dappling his hide. “Frump,” Sparks grits out from the top edge of the page, “it’s T minus ten…”
Is Delilah wondering why the book is stuck? Is she attributing the trouble to humidity, faulty binding, a smear of jam?
