She paused as if in deep thought.
“How aboutThe Wizard of Oz?” she continued. “Although you hate the ending of the film, where it was all a dream. They should’ve stuck to the book’s ending, where the magical world is real.”
Suddenly…I felt something shift in me. Yes, I did loveThe Red Shoes,that glorious Technicolor spectacle about the ballet dancer torn between worlds—heart versus art, but now…now…yes,The Wizard of Ozhad moved to number one in my heart. But why did they have to make Oz a dream?
“How do you know that?” I demanded. “Can you read minds?”
“I’m not reading your mind. More like…writing your mind.”
“You’re scaring me,” I said, taking a few steps back.
“It’s going to get worse before it gets better.” Just then a small round table appeared covered in the classic red-and-white checkered tablecloth. On the table sat a cup of tea and a black-and-white Little Debbie Zebra Cake.
“Which would you prefer first? Tea or cake?” she asked. “And no, they are not poisoned.”
“I can’t eat in a story world. It’s too dangerous.”
“You’re not in a story world,” she said.
For some reason, I believed her. “Guess I’ll have cake then?”
“Good choice.” She held out the cake on a dessert plate. On top, someone had written in dark icing,Eat me.
I took a bite, and it was delicious as usual. Pure sweetness.
In a flash, I shrunk to the size of a doll. I shouted up to Maxine, “You said it wasn’t dangerous!”
“Don’t be afraid,” Medda/Maxine said. “Just proving a point. Here’s your tea.”
She set the teacup down in front of me, and it was the size of a hot tub. On the side of the white cup in elegant cursive were the wordsDrink Me.
I climbed onto the rim of the saucer and leaned over, drinking from it like Koshka with his water bowl.
Instantly I was myself again. My size, my height.
“Why did you do that to me?” I demanded.
“So you’ll believe me when I say I know you better than you know yourself. I know you’re in love with Duke, but you can’t bring yourself to ask him to stay with you since you know his book series would cease to exist. And a little part of you is afraid that if he stopped being fictional, you might not love him as much since he wouldn’t be the hero of story and legend anymore but an ordinary man taking the garbage out every Thursday night and forgetting to put his dirty socks in the hamper. You’d rather live in his world, helping him with his cases…but you can’t leave your grandfather. You’d feel too guilty.”
I only stared at her, speechless.
She took a deep breath. “One more,” the woman said.
From behind her back she pulled a book, a hardcover.
The dust jacket was white with a black umbrella in the center.
Two words were printed on the jacket.
READ ME.
I hesitated.
“Go on. If you’re afraid to read a book, it’s probably because you know it has something to say to you that you don’t want to hear.”
Slowly, I opened the cover to the title page.
THE MARCH HARE MYSTERY
