Oliver
The way my story is told, at the moment my father was battling with a dragon, my mother was giving birth to me, attended by three fairies who were there to bestow gifts on her baby.
The first fairy gave me wisdom. The second gave me loyalty.
But just before the third was going to give me courage, my mother had a vision of the king’s impending death and cried out, Save him!
The third fairy, mistaking her plea, did not give me bravery after all.
Instead she breathed life into me, so that at the very moment my father died, I was born.
I’ve always thought maybe that’s what made me so restless between the lines.
I was the only character in the book who had literally been given life—it was only natural to want to experience it to its full potential, not inside the confines of someone else’s story, but rather in a tale of my own making.
I chafed at my boundaries; I dreamed of bigger things.
What was the point of having a life if you never had the chance to live it?
When you are on the inside looking out, though, you picture that other world as perfect. You never peer at the dark corners where there are cobwebs; you never flip over the cloud with the silver lining to see the storm beneath; you never imagine what might go wrong.
Here is the truth about things that are real: they can be broken.
At first, when I open my eyes and swat the alarm clock on the nightstand, I am blissfully, completely unaware. I’m still lost in that foggy zone between sleep and consciousness. I don’t remember yesterday. I don’t remember what’s to come.
But then, all at once, memory collapses on me, knocking the breath from my body.
Frump. The car. Digging a grave.
Leaving Delilah.
Each recollection feels like I’m being stabbed, but that last one, it’s the twist of the knife.
I rub my hand over my face, wondering how I’m supposed to go through the motions today—put on my fake American accent and teenage persona, pretend to listen to my high school friends’ problems as if they matter, act like a typical student.
I can’t even imagine facing Delilah and pretending that I’m not counting down the minutes we have left together.
I pull the covers up on my bed (something I won’t have to do when I’m back in that blasted book—somehow my bed always manages to make itself). Then I stumble into the bathroom, brush my teeth, strip off my boxers, and step into the shower, letting the water cascade over me.
The moment I close my eyes, though, I see Frump. How long will it be before that doesn’t happen? And if it stops, does that mean I’ve forgotten him? Once Delilah and I are separated, will it be the same?
No, I tell myself, because she can always open the book and talk to me, just like she used to.
But what happens when she finds someone else—when she goes on a date and comes back with her cheeks flushed, thinking of a boy who isn’t me? When she gets married, and has children, and grows old, while the whole time I stay sixteen, and a prince, forever?
It wouldn’t matter to me if her hair went white and wrinkles lined her face.
I know I’ll love Delilah till the end of time, which, in my experience, is infinite.
But that’s not the case for her. I have nowhere to go, no way to move on, but Delilah’s life will evolve.
Her world will force her to forget me, even as mine forces me to remember her.
Turning the faucet so that the spray stops, I stand in the shower stall with my hands pressed against the tile for a moment, trying to prolong the inevitable.
Then I wrap a towel around my waist and pad into my bedroom, pulling on clothes that I haven’t worn long enough to find familiar.
Packing up my satchel, stuffed with books and homework I didn’t complete, I hurry downstairs for a quick bite of breakfast before the bus comes.
Jessamyn is in the kitchen. She has already set out a bowl of cereal that I assume Edgar likes but that rather tastes like earth to me.
When she turns around, I realize that there are dark circles under her eyes and that her face is unnaturally pale.
Has she been sick again? Have I once again been too wrapped up in my own drama to notice?
“Are you feeling all right?” I ask.
Jessamyn shrugs. “I didn’t sleep well last night. It must be a full moon or something.” She reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of orange juice. I expect her to reach for a glass and pour me some, but instead she leans over my bowl of cereal and fills it with the juice.
“Jess—Mom! What are you doing?” I grab her arm to stop her. “That’s not milk.”
“Of course it is, Edgar,” she argues.
I point to the bowl. “It’s orange.”
She blinks, staring down at the bits of cereal floating in the liquid as if she is seeing it clearly for the first time. “Oh…” She forces a laugh. “I guess I’m more tired than I thought.” She smiles faintly. “Maybe it’s time to turn me in for a newer model.”
I suddenly realize that this might be the last time I see Jessamyn Jacobs.
That, if Edgar has done his job well, I could be gone by nightfall.
This woman has taken care of me for nearly four months, giving me the benefit of the doubt when I said or did something out of character for Edgar.
I may have known her in person for only a short time, but she created me, and because of that, she still feels like a parent.
“You’ve been a really great mom,” I blurt out. “I just thought you ought to know.”
Jessamyn blanches, and then, just as quickly, seems to recover. “Wow. And it’s not even Mother’s Day,” she jests, pouring me a fresh bowl of cereal—this time with milk. “So serious before eight a.m.? You make it sound like today’s the end of the world.”
I dig my spoon into the bowl and force a smile.
It might as well be.
Delilah is waiting for me when I arrive at school.
I stare at her face for a moment—her golden eyes, her chestnut hair, the freckles that dot her nose and cheeks.
Her lips, pink as ribbon candy and just as sweet.
I commit every feature to memory, locking each one into my mind so that I can keep it forever.
This may be the last time I step off the bus, the last time I walk through the halls holding Delilah’s hand, the last time I get to hear the music of her voice.
Today is full of lasts.
“How are you doing?” she asks quietly.
“I’ve had better days,” I confess. “Where’s Seraphima?”
“She wouldn’t stop crying, so I locked her in my bedroom with a box of tissues and enough Twinkies to fill a Hostess truck.”
I take her hands. “It’s not too late to reconsider this,” I say. “To come up with another plan.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “I can’t lose you.”
And yet that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
“So what do we do?” I ask.
“Well,” Delilah says softly. “I suppose we have to talk to Edgar.” She unzips her backpack, revealing the fairy tale.
It feels as if I swallowed lead for breakfast. I don’t have the energy to move, or the resolve. Stiffly I follow Delilah through the halls, trying to smile as other students pass and mumbling responses when my friends and acquaintances say hello. Can they tell that I’m already a ghost?
Raj grabs my shoulder and shakes me. “Man, any day now! I’m freaking out!”
I stare at him, wondering how the devil he knows that I may not be here for long.
“I mean, all I dream about is my SAT score,” Raj continues. “It’s going to totally determine the rest of my life. I heard a guidance counselor talking to Mr. Elyk, and he said we should be getting the results this week.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to fake enthusiasm. “It’s going to be crazy. Look, I have to go….I’m late for…” I let my voice trail off, unable to even think of a good lie.
“I wonder how you would have fared at college,” Delilah murmurs.
Suddenly Chris walks up to us, his face troubled. “Hey, guys. Look, this is kind of awkward, but has Jules said anything to you about me?” he asks Delilah. “I mean, I thought we had a pretty awesome night, but she hasn’t responded to any of my texts.”
Delilah exchanges a glance with me. “She’s really sick….”
“Oh man. That sucks. But I’m kind of glad it isn’t just me,” Chris confesses. “Maybe I’ll stop by her house with some soup later.”
“Um, don’t,” Delilah blurts out. “There’s no way she wants you seeing her like that. Especially after just one date.”
Chris nods. “Okay, then can you at least tell her I was asking about her?”
“Absolutely,” Delilah says, and as soon as Chris is out of sight, she lets out the breath she’s been holding. “How do you feel about cutting first period?”
“I doubt it will make a difference, given that I’m leaving.”
She takes my hand, hers small and cool around my own, and leads me out the door by the gymnasium to the football field behind the school. There she ducks beneath the bleachers, where we will not be seen.
Delilah unzips her backpack and reaches for the book, but I still her with a hand on her wrist. “Promise me one thing?” I ask. “I get to say goodbye to you.”
I am thinking of Frump. I am thinking of how hard forever is, when you don’t see it approaching.
Delilah meets my gaze, her eyes steady. “I promise,” she says.
Together, we flip open the book, landing on the final page. The cast is assembled haphazardly on Everafter Beach. “We did it,” Edgar crows, holding up something tiny I can’t quite make out.
I frown at him. “Why are you wearing my hose?”
“Why do you even have hose?” Edgar replies. “Believe me, it’s not by choice. The book apparently doesn’t like my writing quite as much as my mom’s. I figure we only have a matter of hours before I start talking in a British accent and Jules here starts spinning straw into gold.”
“Wrong fairy tale,” I mutter.
“What did you find?” Delilah interrupts.