by Jodi Picoult
At one point, just like always, I scale the rock wall—but here, I pause and give a speech.
While she was writing the new story, Delilah realized she still needed a spot where I was alone, so that she could always find me on a certain page if necessary. But now, instead of climbing the rock wall on page 43, I talk about Delilah. About this girl who, against all odds, noticed that I am real.
And then, before I know it, we are all gathered again for the final illustration on Everafter Beach. Here I am with Frump by my side, a wedding ring tied to his collar. Here’s Seraphima, walking down the crushed shell aisle. But this time, I don’t kiss the bride.
“I object,” I say, my new line.
Captain Crabbe, who is officiating at the wedding, looks up. “I don’t think you can object to your own wedding, son.”
“But you can if it’s not true love,” I reply.
“I object too,” Seraphima announces. “I’m in love with someone else.” She looks down at Frump. “Something else.”
She leans down and plants a kiss on Frump’s slightly damp snout.
There is a shower of sparks, and before our eyes, Frump transforms into a human again. A clothed one, this time. When Delilah wrote the scene, I made sure of it.
Frump feels his arms and his legs, and tosses me the widest of smiles. “True love,” he says, “can break the most powerful curse.”
The fact that Frump has morphed means that the book is allowing some of the changes we’ve made. I can only hope it’s a sign of what’s left to come. This is our loophole: we’re not changing the story, we’re adding to it. There’s nothing to be fixed, only more to be done by its characters.
I take Seraphima’s hand and carefully place it in Frump’s. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on a lifetime of love any more than you’d want me to miss out on the same,” I tell her. “Everyone deserves a happy ending… and mine is somewhere outside these pages.”
I’ve read Delilah’s final paragraph a dozen times; I know it by heart. So I start moving. One foot in front of the other, down the beach, along the edge of the water. The mermaids wave, but I don’t look back at them. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll already start missing everyone I have to leave behind.
I am approaching the edge of the illustration, the part where the colors bleed to white space. Taking a deep breath, I jump.
And smack my face into something hard, stiff, unyielding.
For a moment, all I can see are silver stars, and white space.
I feel something licking my face and look up to find Frump, reverted once again to dog form. Then Seraphima’s voice floats over me. “Oliver?” she says. “Maybe this book doesn’t want to let you go.”
* * *
We are on page 43. Well, we’re on different sides of it, anyway. Delilah has propped the book up against her pillow, and we are speaking through the darkness.
Once it became clear that our latest plan wasn’t going to work either, Delilah politely said good night to Edgar and carried the book into the guest room. She managed to keep herself from crying until we were alone, but she hasn’t stopped since.
“It’s okay,” I try to tell her, lying. “It’s not so bad.”
“You hate it there,” she sobs. “And I can’t stand it here without you.”
I reach up to her, trying to remember what it felt like when I was holding her hand, walking down the roads of this kingdom. “I’m here whenever you need me,” I say. “I think it’s pretty clear I’m not going anywhere.”
It turns out that there’s something even harder than not being able to be with the person you love when you’re happy: not being able to comfort her when she’s sad. “Delilah Eve McPhee,” I say, “even if I never leave these pages… I would do this a thousand times over again, just to have the chance to meet you.”
“Oh, Oliver,” she whispers. “I love you too.”
* * *
Delilah falls asleep with the book open, which means I can watch her. You may think there’s nothing very interesting about seeing someone sleep, but that probably means you’ve never found the girl of your dreams. With each breath, she stirs a lock of hair that’s fallen in front of her face. Sometimes she clutches the pillow and sighs.
Now that I know I can’t be with her forever, I don’t want to waste the minutes I’ve got. For this reason, I haven’t closed my own eyes to get a good night’s rest. I’m afraid that if I do, she might disappear.
That’s why I’m awake when the door to the bedroom where Delilah is staying creaks open. Immediately I leap upright, clinging to the rock wall the way I’m supposed to on page 43 when the book is wide open. But the face that peers down at me is one I recognize. “Shhh,” Edgar says, and he carefully lifts the fairy tale from Delilah’s loose grasp.
I start to panic. What if he’s come to destroy the story? He never really liked it, by his own admission. What if he’s jealous and wants Delilah to himself? What if he’s sleepwalking and throws me out with the rubbish?
But instead, Edgar brings me into his own bedroom and closes the door. He sits down on the bed and bends his knees, resting the book along the slope of his legs so that I can see him while he speaks to me. “I know why it didn’t work,” he says. “You can’t take a character out of a story. Every time the book gets opened again, he’s right back where he started. What you need—what the story needs—isn’t an escape but a twist at the end.”
I shake my head. “I don’t see the point, if it means I’m still stuck here—”
“But what if it wasn’t you?” Edgar says. “What if you told the wrong story? What if, at the end, everyone finds out that you were an impostor all along?”
“Not a prince?” I ask.
“Not even Oliver,” he says. “Just someone who looks, well, remarkably similar.”
I am stunned into silence for a moment. “You would do that? For us?”
“No, but I’d do it for me,” Edgar says. “You don’t realize how much alike we actually are. We’re both stuck in worlds we don’t really fit into. We both lost our dads. We both wish we could be someone we’re not. I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.”
But if I have learned anything, it’s that saying goodbye to the people you love isn’t easy. And when I wrote Delilah into the book, she was desperate to come home to her mother. I haven’t had one myself, but if I did, I can’t imagine leaving her behind forever. “What about your mom?” I ask him.
“She created everyone in there. She’d be all around me. Besides, she always wanted a son like you. And after all, if I can hear you in there, you’ll most likely be able to hear me. If I want out, I’ll find a way to let you know.” He shrugs. “What have you got to lose, Oliver? For once, you get the right girl, and for once, I get to be a hero.”
He lifts a stack of papers I haven’t noticed before. Only now do I see how red his eyes are, how tired Edgar seems to be. Whatever he’s been doing, he’s been up all night. “I’m not much of a writer,” he says, “but this is a story I could live with.”
I wish I could shake his hand. I wish I could thank him properly. This may not work, but it’s certainly worth a try. Lifting my face, I nod at Edgar. “Well then,” I say. “Let’s hear it.”
Delilah
WHEN I WAKE UP, I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE I AM.
The sheets aren’t the ones on my bed at home; the walls of this room are painted a different color. I can’t hear my mother singing off-key as she fries bacon downstairs in the kitchen.
Then it all comes rushing back to me.
Running away from home.
Being grounded till I die.
Jessamyn Jacobs.
Edgar.
The revised story.
Failure feels like a punch. All I have to look forward to today is four hours of What the heck were you thinking? from my mother during a long, painful car ride back home, and the knowledge that I finally found someone who understands who I am and likes me for it—only to realize that he’s a figment of my i
magination.
I pull the covers over my head, wishing I didn’t have to wake up. At least in my dreams I can be with Oliver.
Oliver.
I feel around under the pillows, but the book is missing. Jumping out of bed, I look beneath its frame, and on the dresser. I rip the blankets and sheets off. I know I fell asleep with the fairy tale in my arms last night. I just know it.
“Where is it?” I mutter, and at that moment there is a knock at the door.
It swings open, and Edgar is standing on the threshold, book in hand. “Looking for this?” he asks, grinning.
“Yes!” I grab it out of his hands, angry. “You shouldn’t steal other people’s property.”
“Well, it’s not technically yours, is it? You stole it from your school library.”
“I’m the only person who ever checked this book out of—” I break off, my eyes narrowing. “How do you know that?”
“Because I listen,” Edgar says, coming closer. He takes the book from me and sets it on the bed, then holds my hands. “I listen to everything you say, Delilah.”
He’s staring at me as if he can see right inside me, and that’s creepy, because this is Edgar, after all—Edgar, who locks himself in his room to play video games all day. Except his eyes are different. I can’t really describe it, but they look softer around the edges. Wiser. And maybe, a little amazed.
“Delilah,” he whispers. “It’s me.”
“Of course it’s you, Edgar. Who else would it be?”
“Oliver. It worked, Delilah. It actually worked.” He smiles, and for a moment, I almost believe him. The way his mouth tips up on one side. The way his voice has the gentlest hint of a British accent.
But it didn’t work. I saw that with my own eyes. I take a step backward, shaking my head.
“I can prove it,” Edgar says, and he picks up the book. Pinching one page with two fingers, he slides his palm across the sharp edge, giving himself an inch-long paper cut.
“Stop that!” I grab his hand, but it’s too late. The book drops to the bed again, closed, as I turn his palm over to see how deep the cut is.
He’s bleeding, but the blood isn’t red.
It’s black as ink.
page 60
Hurtling toward the churning seas, Prince Oliver closed his eyes and prepared to die. The wind and the spray lashed his cheeks; the shreds of Seraphima’s gown flew behind him like a banner. He heard Rapscullio’s scream, and knew that his own moment of impact was seconds away.
As he fell, the chain around his neck worked its way free, floating delicately upward, over his head. His father’s compass. Oliver reached out, wrapping his fingers tightly around the small disk, hoping for just an ounce or two of his father’s legendary bravery at this moment.
The brass hinge popped open, and the needle of the compass spun wildly. With his last breath on Earth, Oliver thought of home.
The world was suddenly blindingly white. Oliver winced as his vision slowly came back.
He was not falling anymore. He was not broken into pieces across the jagged rocks in the pounding surf. Instead, he was whole and safe and wrapped in Seraphima’s arms.
At that moment Oliver realized that home is not a place, but rather, the people who love you.
Which means, of course, that Prince Oliver and the girl he adored lived happily ever after.
OLIVER
I CAN TELL THE MOMENT SHE BELIEVES ME. HER whole face changes, like the sky after a storm, open to possibility. “But Edgar… ?” she says.
“It was his idea,” I tell her. This time, I’m the one opening the book. It feels odd, as if I’ve suddenly been granted a phenomenal amount of power.
The story falls open to the illustration on the final page. All the characters are gathered on Everafter Beach, but there are some significant changes. For example, Seraphima is wearing a form-fitting suit of galactic armor. Frump—now human—is wielding a laser beam. And standing in the middle of the fray is someone who looks a great deal like Prince Oliver, holding a sword in one hand and the severed head of the mighty Zorg in the other.
“How fortunate they were to have learned that the intruder in their midst had never really been a royal prince at all—but actually, a seasoned soldier from the future,” Delilah reads out loud. “Once the last Galactoid from Planet Zugon was dispatched by the guerrilla fighters of the kingdom, Edgar swung his blade and with one mighty blow brought down the monstrous Zorg. ‘Victory!’ he cried.”
I am pretty sure that both Delilah and I see Edgar wink at us.
Gently, I close the book, imagining Frump yelling “Cut!” and everyone grinning and congratulating each other on a job well done.
“Funny,” she says, “that’s not quite how I remember the story.”
“Oh really?” I clasp my hands behind her back and draw her closer. “How do you remember it?”
“Something like this,” Delilah says, and she reaches up on her tiptoes and kisses me.
She’s right. This is exactly the way the fairy tale was supposed to go. Except this time, when I glance up, I don’t see the words THE END written above my head.
I guess that’s because it’s just the beginning.
Acknowledgments
Just like it takes a cast of characters behind the scenes to bring a fairy tale to life every time a reader opens a book, there are a vast number of people who helped us create our story as well. We’d like to thank all the people at Emily Bestler Books and Simon Pulse who got just as excited about Between the Lines as we were: Kate Cetrulo, Caroline Porter, Judith Curr, Carolyn Reidy, David Brown, Ariele Fredman, Mellony Torres, Jon Anderson, Bethany Buck, Mara Anastas, Michael Strother, Lucille Rettino, Sooji Kim, Carolyn Swerdloff, Dawn Ryan, Lauren Forte, Jessica Handelman, Mike Rosamilia, Russell Gordon, Julie Doebler, Paul Crichton, Nicole Russo, Michelle Fadlalla, Laura Antonacci, and Venessa Williams. Thanks also to Camille McDuffie and Kathleen Carter Zrelak for their assistance in spreading the word!
Special thanks go to Emily Bestler and Jen Klonsky, for helping us define our imaginary world better, and for agreeing when we wanted to create a final product that was a little “out of the box” for a normal YA novel. In this ever-changing world of electronic books, we wanted to create a story that was a keepsake—one you’d pass down to your children because of its beauty and design—much like the fairy tale in the story is to Delilah. Just like those gorgeous picture books from the turn of the century with colored plates by Arthur Rackham, we wanted a novel that took one’s breath away. Thanks to the spirited support of Emily and Jen, we got exactly that.
Which is why we also must thank Yvonne Gilbert, who brought our handsome prince to life, and Scott M. Fischer, whose silhouettes still astound us. Quite simply, you blew us away with your vision and your passion for this project.
Thanks, too, to Laura Gross, who encouraged us to take Sammy’s idea and run with it; and to Tim van Leer and Jane Picoult, who read the early drafts and laughed in all the right places.
Finally, thanks to all the readers of Jodi’s books, who have asked her for years for a story they could use to introduce her writing to their children—some of whom were too young to address the issues in her adult novels. We hope they enjoy sharing this with their kids as much as we enjoyed working together to create it.
