Between the Lines Read online

  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