Chapter Delilah #3
“There’s an Ultima salon on the second floor,” the employee suggests, and I link my elbow with Seraphima’s to drag her away.
“Come on, Princess,” I say.
There are two types of little kids you see at the mall.
The first kind shuts down from overstimulation, like when I brought Oliver to the mall and turned my back for a moment and found him crouching behind a bench where an elderly man had fallen asleep.
The second kind of kid thinks she’s landed in Disney World—she runs straight for the gumball machine and asks for a hundred quarters.
That’s Seraphima.
“Where should we take her first?” Oliver asks.
“Victoria’s Secret.”
“You can trust me,” he says earnestly. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“No, it’s a store—” I glance around and realize Seraphima has wandered away. Through the milling crowd I catch a flash of silver-blond hair. “That way,” I say, and we rush toward her.
We round the corner and find Seraphima on top of the miniature plastic castle that’s part of the children’s play zone. She stands atop a turret, shoving away toddlers. “Begone, trolls,” she yells. “This is my kingdom!”
“Oh God,” I groan.
I step forward, but Oliver puts his hand on my shoulders. “I’ve got this,” he says. He falls to one knee, hand on his heart. “Princess, oh, Princess,” he calls. “Come down from your tower!”
Seraphima’s eyelashes flutter. “Oh yes, my noble knight. I’ve been waiting all my life for you.”
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. “Who are you?”
Oh God. “Seraphima’s an exchange student from Iceland. She’s staying with me for a little while.”
One of Allie’s clones leans toward Seraphima. “You have the most beautiful hair!”
Immediately Allie’s eyes flash and she turns around. “Chloe!” she hisses.
Seraphima smiles. “It’s quite all right. My hair is beautiful.”
My jaw drops. I’m actually enjoying this. It’s like watching Clash of the Titans.
I can practically feel a force field of anger bristling around Allie. She purses her lips, considering Seraphima’s corn dog. “You really should watch what you eat,” she says sweetly. “You wouldn’t want to lose your figure.”
Seraphima blinks innocently. “It’s the funniest thing! No matter how much I eat, it all goes to my breasts!” She peers at Allie and then turns to me. “Is it normal here for girls to have a mustache like boys?”
I practically spit out my drink.
Oliver stands up and grabs Seraphima’s arm, hauling her upright. “We’re going to go before someone loses an eye.”
Seraphima frowns. “I’m not done eating.”
“Delilah will bake you a cake when we get home.”
Allie and her clique float into our places, like an heirloom linen being spread across the dining room table and settling all at once.
“Well,” Seraphima says. “Looks like we must move along. It’s been so lovely meeting you common folks.
” She leans closer to Allie. “And this really is a perfect location for you. The only other people are five tables away, and you look so much better from a distance!” She tosses her a perfect, genuine white smile, leaving Allie speechless.
I walk off beside Seraphima and Oliver, knowing that Allie is staring at us as we go.
Maybe having Oliver’s ex around has its perks.
The minute we step through the door of my house, Frump starts barking. He circles Seraphima in her new outfit, sniffing her jeans and biting at the tail of her T-shirt. “Stop!” she cries. “Frump, you’ll rip it!”
He barks and sits back on his haunches.
“Well, I think I look rather fetching,” she argues, crossing her arms.
Oliver intervenes. “Frump, she can’t flounce around here in a gown all day without drawing attention to herself.”
“And,” Seraphima adds, “look at what I can do in this outfit!” She lunges and stretches, as if she’s about to run a marathon.
Frump shakes his head so hard his jowls flap. He lets out a pitiful yelp.
A tiny frown mars Seraphima’s flawless face. “I don’t care. I love this place. I love what I’m wearing. And I’m staying forever.”
“You can’t,” Oliver says immediately. “You don’t belong here.”
“And we need to get Jules back,” I chime in.
“You don’t belong here either,” Seraphima tells Oliver. Her eyes fill with tears. “I’ve never gotten to be myself. I’ve always been the princess everyone expected me to be. Even the prince in my story didn’t love me. For once, don’t I deserve to be happy?”
Frump starts barking so loud that I’m certain the neighbors can hear him. “What’s he saying?” I whisper to Oliver, but neither Frump nor Seraphima is paying attention to us.
“What was wrong with being ourselves in the fairy tale? Everything!” Seraphima wails.
He bares his teeth, growling low in his throat.
“Maybe I’m not becoming someone different,” Seraphima says to Frump. “Maybe this is who I always was.”
He yips and turns in a circle, looking pleadingly at her.
“But we are talking,” she answers. “We’re talking right now.”
Frump goes very still, and his head hangs low, the tips of his ears dragging on the ground. His tail is tucked between his legs.
The fight goes out of Seraphima. She sinks to the ground, lifting his snout in her hands. “No,” she admits. “I guess you can’t talk to me. But what would you say to me there that you can’t say here?”
Frump raises his nose to the ceiling, his white throat bare. He howls, his long tongue looping awkwardly around the vowels, in a way that almost sounds like human speech. “Iiiiirrrruvvvvvvooooo!” he howls.
Stricken, I watch this scene unfold before me.
There was a time, briefly, when Frump was a boy again and Seraphima was the girl he loved, and he didn’t muster the courage to tell her how he felt.
And now it’s too late. What would happen if the people we were meant to love were in the right place at the right time?
What if we told each other before it was too late? How come love is never simple?
I watch emotions flicker over Seraphima’s face: shock, pain, regret. And love. I know she loves him. And I know what it feels like to think that no matter what, you’re never going to get the chance to be together the way you want to be.
I feel Oliver’s hand reach for mine, and I know he’s thinking the same thing.
Tears streak down Seraphima’s face. Caught in a storm of feelings, she stumbles to her feet, opens the front door, and begins to run.
No matter how fast she goes, I know she won’t be able to outdistance her own thoughts.
Frump leaps to his feet and dashes out the door, following Seraphima before Oliver or I have the presence of mind to grab his collar. He barks, and then he barks again, trying to get her attention.
Finally she stops and faces him. He pauses in the middle of the street, panting, just staring at her—and in that moment, it doesn’t really matter that there are no words.
None of us sees the car coming.