Humphrey leaps to his stubby feet, waddling into the kitchen behind them in the hopes of catching a dropped scrap. Meanwhile, I carry the albums back to the shelf where Delilah’s mother found them. As I return them to their spots, I notice one thin slice of an album labeledHALLOWEEN. Inside it, Delilah changes from a pumpkin to a gypsy queen, to a monkey, to a bunch of grapes.
On the next page, I pause.
Delilah is young—maybe six or seven. She is wearing a blue ball gown, long white gloves, and a jeweled tiara.
This is what she might have been like had we met as children in the middle of my world instead of hers.
With a grin, I slip the photograph out of its protective sleeve and into my pocket.
She would have made a lovely princess.
On Saturday, I run out of clothes.
Unlike in the fairy tale, where there’s always a fresh tunic and hose whenever I need them, in this world one is left to one’s own devices to ensure a clean wardrobe. For the first month or so, I didn’t even notice the difference—Jessamyn would simply disappear with my hamper full of worn clothes and they would magically be returned, pressed and folded, to my bureau. But today, when I pull out the drawer, there’s a single folded shirt. I check my closet and realize my dirty clothes are still in the hamper.
Perhaps Jessamyn has forgotten. I call out for my pseudo-mother, but there’s no answer. Jessamyn told me she might go grocery shopping today—another extraordinary inconvenience in this world. In the book, our pantry is always full. But I’m not in the book. I’m not a prince. I have to learn to take care of myself. How hard could this possibly be?
Cheerfully I carry the hamper down the stairs into the laundry room, where I’ve watched Jessamyn go through the motions at least a dozen times. I know it involves pouring a liquid soap and pushing a series of buttons. I dump the tangle of laundry into the belly of the metal beast and pick up the bottle of detergent to read the directions.
FILL CUP.
What cup?
I wander into the kitchen and stare at the glasses we use at the dinner table. There are two sizes—a tiny one for juice, and a large one for water.Well, the cleaner, the better,I think, reaching for the larger glass. In the laundry room I fill it to the brim with blue detergent, then add an extra splash just to make sure I have enough. I close the lid and press the big green start button. The machine shakes to life, grumbling and gurgling as it fills with water.
I lean against it, awfully pleased with myself. Wait until I tell Delilah what I’ve done all on my own.
That’s what I’m thinking, anyway, when the back of my shirt suddenly grows sopping wet. I spin around, my eyes widening at the washing machine, which is foaming at its mouth. It spews bubbles at an alarming rate, froth cascading to the floor. I try to scoop it up in my arms, hastily shoving as much as I can into the empty dryer, but I fail spectacularly to keep up. By now, my sneakers are hidden in a white sea, and the bubbles have leaked out of the small laundry room into the hallway.
I run to the phone, slipping and falling three times on the way. By the time I reach it, I am wearing a suit of bubbles, and I have trouble holding the receiver without it sliding from my palm. I wonder if perhaps I will be the first person to die by drowning in soap.
Delilah answers on the second ring. “Thank God,” I say. “I’m having a crisis.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“The washing machine has exploded.”
“Wait,” Delilah says. “What?”
“I tried to do my own laundry and—”
“I’ll be right there,” she interrupts.
The phone goes dead in my hand. I turn, looking toward the laundry room. A river of foam oozes from the doorway. I trudge through it, kicking at the bubbles, and climb on top of the machine, which bucks beneath me like a spirited stallion. Maybe if I can just keep the lid shut, the bubbles will diminish.
This is how Delilah finds me fifteen minutes later, huddled on top of the washing machine, clutching it for dear life.
“What the—” Before Delilah can finish, she slips in the bubbles and goes completely under. She surfaces with a white beard and hat. “Oliver,” she says, laughing. “How much soap did you use?”
“It said a cup?”
“Was it theStanleyCup?” she asks.
“I don’t know Stanley, or his cup. It was a regular glass from the kitchen.”
She puts a hand to her forehead, then reaches for the detergent, its blue bottle only dimly visible in the catastrophe of bubbles. She unscrews its tiny cap and holds it out to me. “Thisis a cup, Oliver.”
It holds roughly one-eighth the amount of soap I used.
