Off the Page Read online

  The mothers surrounding the play zone, who have protectively curled their toddlers close after the arrival of Hurricane Seraphima, start to clap. Tentatively at first, and then louder. Seraphima steps down from the plastic play structure and takes Oliver’s hand, curtsying to the audience. Then she spies something in the distance. “Oh, look!” Seraphima exclaims, and she’s off and running again.

  She darts toward the food court, zipping through the crowds. We attempt to chase her, but we’re waylaid by lines of hungry shoppers and obstacle courses made of strollers and bags. “Delilah?” Oliver asks. “Why are we being followed?”

  I glance over my shoulder and see a woman with a white apron and a visor running behind us. “I don’t know,” I say as we finally locate our prey, peering into the window of the Tiffany & Co. store. “Seraphima!”

  She turns around, holding a full tray of kung pao chicken samples. The woman racing behind us skids to a stop, and I hand over the platter, apologizing. She shakes her head and walks away, muttering under her breath.

  “I’ll wear that one,” Seraphima announces, pointing to a glittering diamond tiara.

  At this, I laugh out loud. “Not even you can afford that, Your Highness.”

  Oliver and I anchor Seraphima between us—like a toddler or a psychiatric patient—and steer her toward the lingerie store. As soon as we walk into Victoria’s Secret, however, Oliver drops Seraphima’s arm to cover his eyes. “Good God, Delilah,” he says, hoarse. “This isn’t decent!”

  I lead him to a bench just outside the store. It is populated with dads, boyfriends, and husbands, who are all stuck in the purgatory of their significant other’s shopping.

  “Please don’t go anywhere,” I beg. “I can’t worry about both of you.”

  Seraphima and I head inside. I walk straight past the angel wings and lacy garter belts and sexy maid outfits to the more serviceable underwear in the back. As I sift through the sale section, trying to estimate Seraphima’s bra size, she flits from table to table, burying her hands in the piles of rainbow satin. She dances around me, holding up a pink corset trimmed with white lace. “Isn’t this perfect!” she cries.

  I snatch it from her hands. “First off, this is a hundred dollars. Second, if we wanted a corset, we’d use the one you brought with you.” I hold up a white cotton bra. “This is what you need.”

  Seraphima frowns. “I like this one,” she says, pulling out the least functional bra I’ve ever seen. It is hot pink, with a tulle ruffle at the bottom, and it is bedazzled with gemstones that spell V on one boob and S on the other.

  I rip it out of her hands. “No,” I say. “Just . . . no.” Dragging her into a dressing room, I shut the door behind her and toss the white bra over the door. “Put it on.”

  A moment later the door opens and there stands Seraphima wearing nothing on top but the white bra—and a gigantic smile. “It’s so free!” she gasps. “Watch how much I can move!” She twists from side to side, bends over, and then swings back upright.

  “I’m glad you like it. Now take it off so I can pay. . . .”

  Instead, she shoves past me, running up to the other women in the dressing room. She points to her chest. “Doesn’t this look splendid?” she asks.

  Some of the other customers nod, but most pretend to ignore her. I pull her hand to keep her from exiting the dressing room and showing off her cleavage to the entire store.

  It is a struggle to convince Seraphima to put on the sweatshirt again, until I bribe her with the thought of buying new clothes too. Collecting Oliver, I start walking to the Gap, in search of a T-shirt. “Oh, this is perfect!” Seraphima exclaims, and she runs to the far corner of the store, yanking a baby onesie off a rack. Sewn around its waist is a tiny silver sparkling tutu.

  “This is Baby Gap. That wouldn’t even fit on your foot,” I say. I walk to the adult area and find something I think will satisfy Seraphima’s appetite for glitter—a pink shirt with a sequined star emblazoned on the front. “Look, Seraphima,” I say. “Shiny!”

  Fifteen minutes later, we leave the store, with Seraphima decked out in her new T-shirt, as well as a pair of jeans that don’t end at her calf, and ballet flats. Every five steps, she squats or kicks or turns around to look at her butt. “Who is the ruler of this mall?” she asks. “I should like very much to meet him and congratulate him on his invention of these jeans.”

  “I don’t know if we’re gonna have time for that,” I mumble. “But I’ll pass along the message.”

  Oliver leans closer to me. “You know him?”

  Suddenly Seraphima grabs the shopping bag I’m carrying with the clothes she wore into the mall, and runs up to one of the bare-chested models standing outside Abercrombie. “Dear sir,” she says, placing her hand on the guy’s chest. “I’m so sorry you’ve fallen into such misfortune that you cannot even afford to clothe yourself. Please accept this small donation from me—and I hope things turn around for you soon.” She offers a brilliant smile and presses the sweatshirt into the model’s hands.

  In that moment, I miss Jules so badly.

  Three hours later, I’ve explained to Seraphima that Free People is not a place to purchase servants, and that they do not sell princes at Express Men. Exhausted, I announce that we are going to get some coffee at the food court. Seraphima immediately blanches. “Then I must prepare myself first!”

  Oliver glances at her. “You look lovely,” he says, in a tone that lets me know he’s had to say this very thing a thousand times before.

  “But I can’t meet the king and queen looking so unkempt!”

  “It’s not that kind of court,” I explain.

  When Seraphima looks disappointed, I tell her she can pick where we eat. Unfortunately she interprets this to mean that it’s perfectly all right to order from every stall that sells food. I watch her navigate the tables with a tray piled high with chicken fingers, pizza, hot pretzels, fried rice and egg rolls, french fries, a Big Mac, and a chocolate shake. “For a princess,” I say to Oliver, “she eats like a trucker.”

  Seraphima flounces down at a table and picks up a corn dog. She holds it like an ear of corn and nibbles around the edges like a hamster.

  I bump Oliver’s shoulder with mine and grin up at him. “So how does it feel to officially have survived the worst nightmare of most teenage guys: a shopping day with your girlfriend?”

  He glances sidelong at Seraphima, cringing slightly as she puts an entire chicken finger in her mouth at once. “Technically,” he says, “that’s not my girlfriend.” He reaches for my hand and squeezes it on the bench between us. “Besides, I don’t know what those fellows would be complaining about. A whole day with you? That sounds absolutely perfect to me.”

  He leans toward me, and I tilt my chin up for a kiss.

  “Eww. Please!” Seraphima interrupts. She is staring at us with revulsion and talking with her mouth full. “I’m trying to eat.”

  “I’m beginning to understand why you wanted to leave home,” I murmur to Oliver.

  Just when I think things can’t get any worse, Allie McAndrews sashays into the food court, like the lead goose in a formation flying south for the winter. Her entourage fans out behind her, moving in unison, each holding a tray with a bottle of water on it and nothing else.

  I told Seraphima there’s no queen in this court, but she just arrived.

  As if she has radar, Allie manages to home in directly on the table where we’re sitting. Her eyes narrow at the sight of me with Oliver, and she makes a beeline for us. “Girls! This table seems to be free. Do you see anyone here? Because I don’t.” She slams her purse down between me and Seraphima.

  “Allie,” Oliver says, “perhaps you need spectacles—”

  “Forget it,” I interrupt. “Let’s just go.”

  But Seraphima doesn’t budge. She looks Allie over from head to toe, fascinated. “I would look so much better in that outfit.”

  Allie finally notices that someone is sitting with Oliver and me. �