“Only inside your book,” Delilah says. “In the real world, you can’t just turn a page and feel better.”
I gingerly touch the bridge of my nose and wince. “Pity,” I say.
I must admit, this is not quite the start I was expecting. I’ve been rather excited about the idea of going to school, in spite of all that Delilah has told me about it. She makes it sound like being chained in a dungeon, but to me, it’s anythingbutthat. I’ve been chained in a dungeon before. Over and over and over again, in fact. Even getting walloped by a stranger is new and exciting and unexpected anddifferentfrom the same sixty pages I’ve repeated my whole life.
“You have to get to class,” Delilah says. “You’re already late. Just say you got lost—no one will question a new student on the first day. You remember what we talked about?”
I begin ticking off the points on my fingers. “Don’t bow when I meet someone. Don’t refer to myself as royalty. Take notes in class as if I am interested, even when I am not. The teacher’s the king of the classroom, and I am not allowed to get up and leave unless granted permission. Oh, and no knives, ever, in school.”
Delilah smiles. “Good. And one more . . .” She points to my face. “Don’t say or do anything that might makethathappen again.”
She pokes her head out the door—we have ensconcedourselves in a privy that is only meant for the teachers to use. When Delilah sees that the hall is empty, she pulls me out beside her and pushes me in the direction of my potions class.
“Remember,” she says. “Just follow your schedule and I’ll meet you at lunch.”
I nod and turn but am called back by the sound of her voice.
“Oliver,” she says. “You can do this.”
I watch her walk away. When Delilah talks like that, it’s easy to remember why I gave up everything I knew in order to be with her. She believes in me, and if someone believes in you wholeheartedly, you start to believe in yourself as well.
I take a deep breath and forge ahead into the great unknown.
I’ve been performing all my life; this is just another role.
I have a sudden flash of Frump, my best friend in the fairy tale, his tail wagging as he yelled at all of us to take our places as a new Reader cracked open the spine of the book. I wonder if Frump is rounding up the cast even now.
I wonder if they miss me.
But. I have my own work to do, here.
Whatever butterflies are swarming in my stomach are not the result of fear. Just excitement.
I push open the door of the classroom and offer my most charming smile to the tutor standing in front of the seated pupils. “So sorry I’m late. My deepest apologies, Your Majesty.”
The students snicker. “Mr. Zhang will do,” the teacher says flatly. “Take a seat, Mr. . . .”
“Jacobs. Edgar Jacobs. Formerly of Wellfleet.”
“Fantastic,” Mr. Zhang intones.
There is only one open seat, and to my delight, it’s next tosomeone I know: Chris, whose locker is adjacent to mine. He looks up and cringes. “What happened toyou?”
“A miscommunication,” I say.
“Okay,” Mr. Zhang announces. “I’m going to hand out a little pop quiz to see how much you guys already know. Don’t panic, it’s not going to count toward your final grade.” He moves through the aisles, giving each of us a sheet of paper.
Chris hunkers down over the quiz, his pencil scratching vigorously. I glance at the page and frown.
“I beg your pardon,” I say, getting Mr. Zhang’s attention. “I think mine is written in the wrong tongue.”
“English isn’t your first language?”
Indeed it is. The Queen’s English, to be precise. But this writing is full of strange dashes and arrows and chains ofCs andOs that look like insects.
The teacher sighs. “Then just tell me three things you know about chemistry.”
I take a pencil from the leather satchel I’ve carried to school.
