by Jodi Picoult
Captain Crabbe brandishes the dental scraper, a blinding silver hook.
“Nine,” Ember says.
He holds it up to a shaft of light, examining the point.
“Eight…”
Socks twists his neck, looking at the tool with dread.
“Seven…”
I swing my leg over the pony and lean down against his mane. “It’s your call, Socks. You can do this your way, or his way.”
“Six…”
“I love a good lancing at twilight,” Captain Crabbe says with a sigh.
“Five…”
“Well?” I say. “What’s it going to be?”
“Four… three…”
Socks shifts nervously. “Um… um…”
“Two…”
Captain Crabbe raises his arm high as several fairies fall, exhausted, to the barn floor in small puffs of golden glitter.
“One!”
“Wait!” Socks cries, but Captain Crabbe has already jammed the tool into his hindquarters, sending the pony crashing through the wall of the barn. The wooden wall splinters and shatters just as the sky above us becomes blindingly white and the rest of the fairies lose their hold on the seam of the scene. “Places, everyone!” Frump screams. Even though I dig in my heels, Socks runs blisteringly fast, and I can barely hang on. I look back to see utter chaos—characters trampling each other to get to their correct spots, words jamming and tangling as they rearrange themselves on the page, the barn shattered by Socks in his escape.
Except, it’s not.
As Socks continues his gallop, I stare over my shoulder and watch the wooden boards that have been torn from the barn frame slowly knitting themselves back together, until the wall that was broken a moment before is just as good as new.
* * *
Rapscullio.
Why didn’t I think of Rapscullio?
Every time we tell the story, it ends with a fight between us. There I am, unarmed, as Rapscullio swings his sword back and forth. Eventually, he backs me up against the tower window. Sixty feet below me, the angry ocean crashes against a stony cliff. The sea mist sprays upward in a plume. “Goodbye, Prince Oliver,” Rapscullio says with a sneer, every time. But as he lunges toward me with his sword pointed, I duck to the side. Without the resistance he’s expecting, Rapscullio falls forward through the open window and shrieks to his death below.
Here’s the thing:
After the next few pages are finished and Seraphima and I have our wedding on the beach, the book closes, and there’s Rapscullio walking around from page to page—chasing another butterfly, or doing needlepoint, or trying out a new lemon square recipe with the trolls as his willing taste testers. In other words, he’s no worse for wear.
He falls sixty feet onto jagged rocks and pounding surf, and winds up as good as new.
Now that I’m thinking about it, there are plenty of instances I’ve witnessed where something happens on the page, only to undo itself moments later. Pyro’s braces vanish the moment the story’s over. The bridges that the trolls have built collapse again.
So even if I write myself out of the fairy tale… I might wake up the next morning to find myself right back where I started.
What this calls for, I realize, is a test. A personal test. As scary as it is, I have to be the one to get hurt—because that’s the only way to know whether my story has any hope of changing for good.
“I’ll show you,” Delilah says, her voice filling every corner of my mind. “I’m not making this up.” Suddenly, I am clinging to the rock wall for dear life, looking up at the tower that houses Seraphima.
In other words, the book is open again, and I’m on page 43.
Who is she talking to?
I glance over my shoulder and see Delilah—with another face peering down at me.
Some fellow I’ve never seen before, with a sweep of brown hair and kind blue eyes.
He seems a bit old for her, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling a burning jealousy in my belly. If I took my dagger out from between my teeth, could I throw it at him? Would it just bounce back against the barrier between us?
“Oliver,” Delilah says.
That’s more like it, sweetheart.
“Say something.”
I freeze. I’m completely confused. Am I supposed to speak out loud or not? Delilah seems to change her mind about this as frequently as Socks changes horseshoes. She wants me to be quiet when her mother is nearby; but then she’s angry when I don’t speak for her friend Jules. I honestly don’t know what she wants of me this time.
“Oliver!” Delilah groans. She turns to the man. “I don’t know why he’s not talking to me.”
“And how does that make you feel?” the man asks.
She leans closer to me. “Oliver,” Delilah whispers. “Speak!”
I can feel her breath ruffling my hair. She seems to want me to speak, but then again, maybe this is a trick. And besides, even if I yell at the top of my lungs, Delilah is the only person who’s ever heard me loud and clear. Better to be safe than sorry, to stay the course so that Delilah doesn’t come off as completely mad.
I carefully remain frozen on the page.
“Fine, then. Let’s try this scene,” Delilah says, and she flips through the book. I find myself tumbling sideways, smacking into several trees, the letter y, and Socks’s considerable rear end before landing in Seraphima’s embrace on the final page. Her lips are locked against mine, and her body is pressed along the length of me. The other characters stand in a semicircle around us. I roll my eyes upward, only to see those famous last words: THE END.
“Hmm. Let’s look at that again,” Delilah says, her voice sugary sweet, as she flips backward a few pages. This time I tumble across the slick deck of the pirate ship, splash into the frigid ocean, and get my tunic caught on the c of the word captain before finding myself facing an angry dragon.
Pre-orthodontia.
Pyro barely has time to blow a stream of fire at me before Delilah flips back to the last page, slamming me once again into Seraphima’s sloppy kiss.
She is totally doing this on purpose. Well, two can play this game. I tighten my arms around Seraphima and kiss her like… like… well, like she’s Delilah.
Seraphima melts against me, her eyes widening.
Twice more Delilah jumps between the scene with Pyro and the last page of the book. By the time Seraphima leans in for a fourth kiss, I can’t even pretend it’s fun anymore. She’s mauling me, and from behind, I can hear the slightest whimper escape from Frump.
That’s it. I am ready to say anything Delilah wants me to.
“I give up,” I cry out, and immediately, Delilah turns to the strange man.
“Did you hear that?” she says, and she lets the book fall open, mercifully to the page with Pyro instead of the one with Seraphima.
“You heard something?” the man asks.
“Didn’t you?” Delilah says.
Pyro is snorting small puffs of smoke.
It is the strangest feeling, to have words drawn out of your throat like water from a well, as if you have no control over stopping it from happening. I know these same words will float across the minds of Delilah and this man as they read the story. “Wait!” I cry, my mouth twisting into a conversation I’ve had a hundred times. “I didn’t come here to fight you. I’m here to help!”
The dragon’s scales shimmer in the strong sunlight. He pulls himself upright, to a full muscular height of twelve feet, and his teeth gnash as he takes a step forward. He belches, and sparks shoot from his nostrils.
I cannot take my eyes off Pyro’s mouth, the smoke seeping through his lips. One more line and he is going to shoot a fireball that sets a tree beside me into flames.
Suddenly I realize: this is my chance.
Pyro’s huge jaws open, and a blazing streak curls off the run of his tongue. I grab the fairy-tale book I’ve stolen from Rapscullio, hold it up to cover my face, and leap forward, setting myself on fire.
The last thing I remember is hearing Delilah scream.
Delilah
ACROSS FROM THE COUCH IN DR. DUCHARME’S office is a huge aquarium full of tropical fish. I know it’s supposed to be pretty, or relaxing, but it just makes me depressed. I’m quite sure they’d all much rather be doing the backstroke somewhere in the Caribbean.
“So,” the psychiatrist says, “tell me, off the top of your head, five places you’d rather be than here.”
I look up at him. “In England during the Black Plague, at the dentist getting a root canal, at a taping of Teletubbies, locked inside a Porta Potti, and… taking the SATs.”
He steeples his fingers together, considering these. “Teletubbies?” he says after a moment, wincing. “That bad?”
“That bad,” I say, but my lips twitch.
He has a nice smile, and all his hair, and he’s about my mom’s age. “Your mother says that you are somewhat less than thrilled to meet with me,” Dr. Ducharme says.
“Don’t take it personally. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I’m glad to hear that. But that’s not why your mom is concerned.” He leans forward. “What worries her is that you seem to be isolating yourself lately. You’ve become dependent on—maybe even obsessed with—this book.”
When I don’t reply, he clasps his hands. “When I was your age, I used to watch A Christmas Story every Christmas at least ten times. ‘You’ll shoot your eye out!’” he quotes.
I stare at him blankly.
“Guess you’ve never seen it,” the doctor says. “My point is, I used to watch that movie over and over because it was easier than admitting to myself that Christmas is a really crappy day for a kid whose parents are divorced. Sometimes the things we treasure for comfort are just masking a deeper symptom.” He looks at me directly. “Maybe you can tell me why this story means so much to you?”
I don’t know how to respond. If I say Oliver speaks to me, I look insane.
“I don’t read it because I miss my dad or I hate my mother or any of the other juicy things psychiatrists always think. It’s really not a big deal.”
“Your mom seems to think it is a pretty big deal to you,” Dr. Ducharme replies. “I don’t know many fifteen-year-olds who spend their time reading fairy tales.”
“It’s not just a fairy tale,” I blurt out.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a one-of-a-kind story. The only copy in existence.”
“I see,” the psychiatrist says. “You’re intrigued by rare books?”
“No,” I admit, blushing. “The main character. I can relate to him.”
“How, exactly?”
I think for a second, watching the fish in Dr. Ducharme’s tank swim in trapped circles. “He wishes his life could be different.”
“Do you wish your life could be different?”
“No!” I say, frustrated. “It’s not about me. It’s what he’s told me.” Immediately, I panic—I’ve just admitted exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t.
“So… you hear him talking?”
The psychiatrist thinks I’m nuts. Then again, why would I be here if I wasn’t? “I’m not hearing voices. I’m just hearing Oliver. Look,” I say, “I’ll show you.”
I skim through the book until I land on page 43. There’s Oliver frozen, clinging to the rock wall, dagger in his mouth. “Oliver,” I demand, “say something.”
Nothing.
“Oliver!” I groan. “I don’t know why he’s not talking to me.”
“And how does that make you feel?” Dr. Ducharme asks.
Oliver knows I’m here. I can see it, in the way his eyes slide toward mine when he thinks the psychiatrist isn’t looking. Can’t he understand that I need him more than ever? That this isn’t the time to fool around? That our entire future together might be dependent on him actually emitting a sound right now? I lean in and press my nose to the book. “Oliver,” I grit out. “Speak!”
There’s no response.
Well, if he wants to play games, I’m perfectly happy to do just that.
“Fine, then. Let’s try this scene.” I turn to the last page in the book, where Oliver and Seraphima are locked together in a perfect kiss.
I think I see him squirm.
It serves him right.
“Do you ever have trouble telling the difference between… for example… a dream you’ve had the night before and reality?” the doctor asks.
“I’m not making this up,” I insist. “Hmm. Let’s look at that again.” Angry, I flip back and forth between a scene where Oliver is fighting the dragon and the final page. Is it my imagination, or is he actually kissing Seraphima as if he’s enjoying it?
Angrily, I open and close the book a few more times.
Then, faintly:
“I give up.”
“Did you hear that?” I cry.
“You heard something?”
Oliver. I heard Oliver, loud and clear. “Didn’t you?” I ask, but I already know the answer. Oliver told me that in all the years he’s been in this fairy tale, I’m the first reader who ever listened.
The psychiatrist gently pries the book out of my hands and places it on the coffee table between us, still open to the page where Oliver stands toe to toe with Pyro.
“Delilah,” he says quietly, “I know sometimes it’s easier to make believe than to have to deal with the truth.”
“This isn’t make-believe!” I glance down at the book, and my eyes widen. Something’s wrong, terribly wrong. My eyes fall on the text across from the illustration:
“Wait!” Oliver cried. “I didn’t come here to fight you. I’m here to help!”
The dragon took a menacing step forward and roared.
Because I have read this book a hundred times, I know what comes next. Pyro snorts and lights a tree on fire. Except now it reads differently:
As Pyro snorted, Prince Oliver rushed headlong into the ball of fire.
“Oliver!” I scream. “No!”
The illustration quivers and re-forms, like a pond after a stone’s thrown into it. Before my eyes I see Oliver being burned alive as the dragon rears its head behind him.
I reach for the book, hoping to slam it closed, but it singes my fingers. “Ouch! You have to help him,” I sob, grabbing at the psychiatrist’s sleeve. “Please. Before it’s too late…”
Dr. Ducharme puts his hands on my shoulders. “It’s all right, Delilah. Take a few deep breaths.”
I do what he says, but my eyes are on the book that’s on the table behind him. It’s glowing red, like coals, at the edges of the page.
“I’m going to get your mother to join us for these last few minutes,” Dr. Ducharme suggests. “Are you all right now?”
I nod. The minute he steps out of his office, the book bursts into flames.
Oh my gosh. I grab my coat, and using it as a giant pot holder, snatch the book from the table and thrust it into the enormous fish tank. Two angelfish scuttle out of the way as the book bubbles and fizzes down to the plastic-pebbled bottom.
With a small smile, I realize I’ve rescued the prince, instead of the other way around.
The book is dripping wet, so I hold it over the tank as I turn to page 43. Oliver is healthy and intact—if a little bit damp. I remember my tears splashing on him as well; whatever seal is between us must be porous to liquid. “What were you trying do? Kill yourself?” I yell.
“Exactly,” Oliver says, taking the dagger from between his teeth so that he can talk to me. “I was proving a hypothesis.”
“Like whether you could burn this office down?”
“What office? Where are you, anyway?” Oliver asks. “And why am I sopping wet, down to my undergarments?”
“Long story…” I suddenly realize what he’s said to me. “You… you want to die?”
“No—I want to get out of here. But everything that changes in this story winds up fixing itself in the end. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Dead
men walk again; broken barns fix themselves. What good would it be for me to write myself out of this book if I’m going to wind up right back inside it sooner or later?”
I remember the words on the page shimmering and changing before my eyes. “Hang on,” I say, and I flip to the page that has Pyro and Oliver fighting on it.
The text has gone back to the way it used to be.
I hurriedly turn again to page 43, where Oliver and I can speak freely. “You’re right,” I tell him.
“Obviously. I didn’t burn to death.” He sniffs at his sleeves. “Not even smoky. Delilah, I’m afraid I’m stuck here, destined to be part of this story forever. Nothing from this book will ever break through to the outside world.”
I think about how water has permeated that barrier—but in both cases, it was water from my world entering his, a one-way valve. The only time we tried to extract something from the book—that spider—it didn’t work.
Except, this time, something did escape.
“Oliver,” I say, “you’re wrong.”
He lifts his face toward mine. “How so?”
“When you ran into Pyro’s flames, were you holding the book you found at Rapscullio’s?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that must be the difference. When it caught fire,” I say, “so did the book I was reading. And it wasn’t just words like inferno and blaze writing themselves all over the place—it was actually flaming.”
Oliver’s eyes widen. “You mean—”
“Yes.” I laugh. “You did it!”
“What did you do?” My mother has come into Dr. Ducharme’s office. They are both staring at me as I stand in front of the fish tank talking to an open book.
“I, um, was just… proving a hypothesis,” I say, borrowing Oliver’s phrase. “In Biology we’re studying the ability of, uh, sea creatures to recognize the written word.” Closing the book, I wrap it in my coat and hug it to my chest. It leaves a damp spot on the front of my shirt.
If the psychiatrist didn’t think I was crazy already, seeing me reading to his angelfish will have sealed the deal. Knowing there’s no way to get out of this one, I smile at Dr. Ducharme. “So,” I say brightly. “Same time next week?”
