Off the Page Read online

  Then I notice someone waving. It’s Allie, from my English class, seated with her ladies-in-waiting, who all look unnervingly similar.

  “Edgar,” she says as I walk over with my tray. “You can sit with us.”

  I glance over my shoulder to see Delilah standing on the periphery, looking for me. “I’m so sorry, I already have plans for Lunch Period.”

  Allie’s gaze follows mine to light on Delilah. Her hand touches my arm. “Just so you know,” she says coolly, “I’m kind of a big deal at this school. So when you’re done geeking out with the village loser, text me.” She pulls out a sparkly pink pen and writes a series of numbers on my forearm, punctuating it with a fat heart.

  I walk back to Delilah and tap her on her shoulder. “Looking for me?”

  She grins. “Always.” Delilah leads me to a table where Jules sits, trying to sculpt her mound of food with her utensils.

  “Nice artwork,” I say.

  “Does it look like those Easter Island heads to you? ’Cause that’s what I’m going for,” Jules says.

  I try to pull Delilah’s chair out for her, because that’s what princes do, but the chair is oddly attached to the table and doesn’t budge. “It was a nice gesture, Oliver,” she murmurs, putting her hand on my arm—and then her fingers slide down to my wrist, pulling my hand up so she can read what’s written on my skin. “What’s this?”

  “Allie requested a text from me,” I say. “I’m thinking she might enjoy Beowulf.”

  Jules spits her chocolate milk across the table as Delilah’s eyes fly to mine. “Why do you even know her?”

  “She’s in my English class. Which, by the way, I stoned.”

  “You mean rocked?” Jules corrects me.

  “Were you flirting with her?” Delilah says.

  “It was nothing more than a conversation,” I explain. “Why would I be interested in Allie McAndrews?” I wait for her to meet my gaze. “I’ve got you.”

  Jules puts down her fork. “I’m barfing rainbows.”

  “Do you know Snow White?” Delilah asks.

  “Not personally . . .”

  “Well, that apple might look pretty on the outside, but just remember, she’s poison at the core.”

  “Mind if I sit down?” a voice says, and I turn to find Chris standing behind us.

  “Please do! You already know Delilah. And this is Jules. Jules, Chris. He just moved here from Detroit.”

  “Welcome to hell,” Jules says. “I hope you got your complimentary brimstone cocktail when you checked in.”

  “And my free hundred dollars in chips,” Chris replies smoothly. “Or is the casino on the fourth floor just a prank they play on the new kids?”

  “There’s no casino,” Jules laughs. “But don’t miss the Olympic-sized pool up there.”

  I nudge Delilah’s shoulder. “There’s no fourth floor,” I whisper.

  “It’s a joke,” she answers.

  I reach for her hand, and as I do, I notice the numbers crawling up my forearm. Twisting it so that they can’t be seen, I thread my fingers through Delilah’s. I’ve held her hand enough times now that it shouldn’t feel like electricity running up and down my skin, but just touching her, there are still sparks. “So,” I say quietly. “You and I . . . are we okay?”

  She looks away. “Sure,” she says, but her smile doesn’t quite light up her eyes.

  I smile back. Or try to, anyway. Because if there’s anything I know, it’s when someone’s acting.

  When I get home from my first day of high school, the woman who is not my mother—yet who created me—is waiting. “How did it go?” Jessamyn asks. “Scale of one to ten?”

  “Five hundred,” I reply. “It was spectacular.”

  She seems surprised. “Is it that much better than school on Cape Cod?”

  “Infinitely.”

  She folds her arms. “You’ve never been such a big fan of school before.”

  “I never had a girlfriend there before.” As the words escape, I hope they’re true.

  Jessamyn purses her lips. Delilah didn’t make the strongest of first impressions on her. In fact, she came off as a little insane—a crazed sycophant who’d run away from home and traveled four hours to beg a reclusive ex-author to change the ending of her book. When Mrs. McPhee arrived to pick Delilah up, she was not amused. It took weeks of apologies before her mother even let her out of the house. Luckily, in the brief hours between our realization that I was really, truly, wholly free from the book and her mother’s arrival to drag her home, Delilah created a magical portal for us, so that we could communicate even from afar.

  She calls it Skype.

  Those first few weeks were terrifying. Not only was I missing Delilah, but I had to impersonate a boy I had only just met, and do such a cracking job that his own mother would be fooled. It was exhausting being someone other than myself.

  I wasn’t expecting to be released from a book in which I spent every moment pretending to be a person I’m not only to wind up doing it all over again.

  In my favor, Edgar had been somewhat less than chatty. He spent a great deal of time in his room with his video games, which gave me time for Delilah’s daily lessons on how to act like a teenager. For example, in this world, an adolescent is supposed to do the opposite of what his parents ask him to do. Grunting is an appropriate form of communication before noon, and eye-rolling is acceptable at all times. Also, thinking before acting is a sure way to be sussed out as an imposter.

  It was the little things, though, that were the hardest—a lifetime of moments Edgar had with Jessamyn Jacobs that I did not. Until she mentioned it, I did not remember the vacation she and Edgar took to Belize, where they both got so sunburned that they had to sleep sitting up; I didn’t know that Edgar used to roam the beach with her, looking for coral shaped like the first letters of their names. I didn’t know Edgar’s favorite color or food or book. I had to re-create a life I’d never lived.

  “And how is Delilah?” Jessamyn asks.

  “She was the perfect welcoming committee,” I say diplomatically.

  Jessamyn laughs. “Oh, to be young and in love.”

  I grimace and turn away. Even when I was a prince, I didn’t want to hear about my faux parents’ love affair.

  “I didn’t just create you out of thin air, you know.”

  “Go figure,” I murmur.

  She follows me into the kitchen. One thing I’ve noticed is that in this world, I seem to want to be either sleeping or eating all the time. I take a box of cereal out of the cabinet and stick my hand inside, pulling out a fistful of small yellow puffs. I stare at the insane cartoon on the box. Cap’n Crunch. Honestly, it’s as if whoever drew this has never met a real pirate.

  “So,” Jessamyn says, sitting on a stool at the counter. “What are your classes like? Who’s your favorite teacher so far?”

  Every time we have a conversation, I get flustered. I feel as if I’m being interrogated. As if there are right and wrong answers and I am bound to fail. I take a deep breath and paste a smile on my face. “I was gobsmacked by my English teacher,” I tell her, pulling a carton of milk from the refrigerator and nearly drinking from the spout before remembering that seems to be one of Jessamyn’s pet peeves. “She was brilliant.”

  “Gobsmacked,” she repeats. “Brilliant. You know, you’ve been picking up a lot of slang lately that seems a little out of character for you.”

  You have no idea, I think. “I’ve been reading Dickens. . . .”

  “How interesting, since I couldn’t even get you to read Shel Silverstein.”

  “Delilah gave it to me,” I say quickly.

  “Of course. Delilah.” Jessamyn nods. “I suppose she’s responsible for your new look as well.”

  I glance down at my jeans and sweatshirt, which—yes—Delilah chose for me so that I would better fit in on my first day. “People reinvent themselves all the time,” I say. “Look at that picture of you and Dad on the mantel. Your hair was