Between the Lines Read online

  “It did,” I say, grasping his arm. “I know it seems crazy and impossible, but you have to believe me—it’s real. He’s real. And I promised I’d help him get out of this book.”

  This is huge. If I’m not the only person who can hear Oliver, then there’s somebody else in this world who can help me save him. And yet, I feel the tiniest twinge in my chest, thinking that if I’m not the only person who hears Oliver, it makes the connection between us a little less special.

  “What is that?” Oliver’s eyes gleam. I follow his gaze off the edge of the page to the computer screen, which has rebooted and shows a massive army of aliens attacking Earth.

  “Battle Zorg 2000,” I reply. “It’s a computer game.”

  “How did all those little people get inside the box?”

  I’m not about to give Oliver a tutorial on electronics. “I’ll explain it later. All you need to know is that that little box is the machine Jessamyn Jacobs used when she wrote Between the Lines. The original story is still in there.”

  “So what?” Edgar and Oliver speak simultaneously—and then look at each other.

  “Oliver, you couldn’t change the ending of the book. And Jessamyn Jacobs may not be willing to change the ending of the book.” I wait for him to meet my gaze. “But I’m going to try.”

  page 52

  In the dungeon below Timble Tower, with rats running over his boots and bats screeching past his face in the dark, Oliver thought this was a rather ignominious way to end one’s life story.

  That is: failing in one’s attempt to rescue a potential bride.

  He felt sorry for Seraphima, but he felt even sorrier for himself.

  He would never ride Socks again at breakneck speed across a meadow.

  He’d never throw a stick for Frump to fetch.

  He’d never rule a kingdom.

  He’d never feel the rain on his face.

  He’d never kiss his true love.

  Think on the bright side, Oliver, he schooled himself. He’d never have to worry about going bald. He’d never have to suffer through another meal of liver and onions. He’d never get chicken pox.

  He wouldn’t have to feel that horrible little itch on the small of his back, which he couldn’t reach because his hands were tied behind him.

  Frustrated, he tried to inch his bound hands up toward the itch, but instead, he only managed to jostle his tunic.

  Something clattered to the stone floor.

  In the dim light, Oliver squinted. The shark’s tooth that the mermaids had given him. He’d kept it, like a good-luck amulet, in his pocket. After all, it didn’t have much use, unless you were a shark in need of dentures.

  Or, perhaps, tied up in the dungeon of a tower.

  Falling to his knees, Oliver fumbled for the tooth and managed to roll over it. With careful, small movements, he started to saw through the ropes that were binding him. It felt like it would take forever, and Seraphima didn’t have forever. Any minute now, Rapscullio was going to take her as his own bride.

  Oliver felt something scramble up his boot and then along his leg. One of the rats. The rodent, hearing some movement, had decided to get in on the action. Amazed, Oliver held still while the rat chewed through the rope enough for him to use his own strength to burst free.

  The tower was too old to have formal cells, so Oliver only had to hoist himself out of the dank, fetid pit where he’d been dumped. Silently, he climbed the circular stone stairs, listening for the sound of Rapscullio’s voice. When he reached the tower room and poked his head inside, however, it was empty.

  Or so he thought, until someone leaped onto his back from behind and started beating him around the ears.

  In a cloud of tulle and taffeta, he wrestled Seraphima to the ground, pinning her by her wrists. “You’re not Rapscullio!” she gasped.

  He grinned. “Disappointed, are you?”

  Seraphima shook her head and smiled. She was beautiful when she smiled. Then again, Oliver thought, she was beautiful when she didn’t smile too. “I knew you’d come for me,” she said.

  Oliver stared down at her, suddenly convinced that he could slay a hundred men, if necessary. Was that all it took to be brave? Knowing that someone believed in you?

  “I have a plan,” Oliver whispered, pulling her to her feet. “But I need your dress to make it work.”

  OLIVER

  I’M NOT SO SURE I AGREE WITH DELILAH.

  In the first place, even if she manages to rewrite the story, that doesn’t mean the fairy tale won’t try to correct itself the way it’s done a hundred times before.

  Second, I feel a little uncomfortable watching Delilah sit at this computer box looking for the story in its contents. It’s like sifting through someone’s mind. Like stealing.

  “I think this is a bad idea,” I say out loud.

  Delilah sighs. “Then tell me, Oliver—what are we supposed to do? We’ve tried everything else.”

  “I thought you told us that the author herself said you can’t change a story once it’s been told—”

  “Which is exactly why this makes sense,” Delilah says. “We’ll be the only ones with this edited version.”

  I can feel this Edgar character staring at me intently. Every now and then he jabs a finger up against my face, bending my world, still finding it hard to believe what’s right before his eyes. “Did you see that?” he says. “He moved, right?”

  Delilah swivels in her chair and, just like that, is out of my line of vision. “I can’t see you,” I holler, and she turns, exasperated.

  “Edgar, can you prop up the book?” she asks.

  I cling to the rock wall as Edgar tips me sideways, jabbing the points of a sagging letter k into my back before righting me again.

  “Could we make this snappy?” he asks. “I kind of want to get back to my game.”

  I know Delilah has a computer too—she’s mentioned this word to me before, and I’ve heard the faint clicking of her hands doing something computer-related, but I’ve never actually seen the instrument. There’s a huge window with pictures floating on it, and it’s attached by some sort of umbilical cord to what looks like an open book, with all the letters arranged in neat rows in a foreign language I cannot read.

  Delilah’s hands move over this odd book, and letters appear on the window, as if by magic. “That’s amazing!” I cry out. “I must tell Orville about this!”

  Delilah doesn’t seem to hear me. “The file won’t open. There’s a password. It’s five letters.”

  “E-D-G-A-R,” I suggest.

  Delilah types the word and hits another key. There is a high-pitched beep, but nothing changes on the big window in front of her.

  “Can you think of anything else?” she asks Edgar. “Did you have a pet?”

  “I’m allergic to everything but naked mole rats….”

  “How about your dad’s name?” Delilah suggests.

  Edgar looks down at the ground. “Isaac.”

  I watch Delilah’s hands: I-S-A-A-C. Again, that high-pitched beep. Delilah bangs her fist on the computer table. “I can’t believe we’re this close,” she murmurs. “Is there any other password you can think of, Edgar?”

  He throws out suggestions: the street address of the house where his mother was born, the name of his mother’s childhood pet, the title of her first published novel. But nothing works. With each failed attempt, I feel heavier and heavier, as if I am physically becoming part of the material of this book.

  After a fruitless half hour, Delilah gets out of the chair and kneels down so that I can see her more clearly. “I’m sorry, Oliver,” she whispers, her voice thick with disappointment. “I tried.” She reaches her hand toward me, a five-fingered eclipse, and I raise my hand to hers. But it’s not like it was when she was inside the pages with me. Between our skin, once again, is the thinnest layer of paper.

  Orville once told me that people never really touch. That’s because we’re all just a bunch of very tiny atoms surrounded b