That makes me think about my mom, and what Oliver said happened to her. Delilah assured me she’s totally fine now, but I want to see for myself. “It could be anything.”
“Then I’ve definitely found it,” Jules tells me, and she holds up a handful of squirrel poop. “Thisis totally going to get me back home.”
“You’re right. We’re not going to find anything here.” Iknock against one of the tree trunks. “Hey, Glint,” I say, and she pops her tiny bright head out from the knothole. “You guys are free to go.”
The fairies zip away, leaving a trail of light behind them, like the phosphorescent glow of a Fourth of July sparkler.
“Now what?”
“The ocean,” I suggest. “Warning: the mermaids are major hoarders. Who knows what we’ll find in there.”
“My aunt’s a hoarder,” Jules says. “I swear, when I was there this summer, I had to army-crawl to the bathroom. And I’m pretty sure Amelia Earhart’s body is stuffed somewhere underneath piles of newspapers in the living room.”
“Why were you at your aunt’s?”
“My parents told me it was so that I could experience the joys of country living, like hauling slop buckets to the pigs and cleaning out the chicken coop. But in reality they were just trying to ditch me.”
“Why?” I ask.
Something in Jules seems to shut down. “They thought it would begoodfor me or something.”
I dig my hands into my pockets. “That’s why my mother wrote this book,” I tell her. “After my dad died, I was kind of terrified. Of everything.”
“Your dad died?”
I shrug. “I guess neither of us lived up to our parents’ expectations, huh?” I was never going to be the kid my mother hoped I’d turn out to be—namely, Oliver. I could only be myself, but that didn’t seem to be good enough.
I turn the corner at the edge of the last paragraph and find myself at the page break. Jules, I realize, has stopped walking. “What’s up?”
She shakes her head. “I’m still getting used to this.”
I grin. “Someone’s got a fear of gaps. . . .”
“Cut me some slack; I’ve only been here a day.” She takes a deep breath, trying to look cool, but I can see how red her cheeks are and how she’s working hard to calm herself down. It’s kind of weird to see Jules—who could probably survive a tsunami or face down the entire Taliban—get so shaken by a page break.
Finally,something I can do better than she can.
I reach for her hand. “Try not to overthink it,” I say, and I leap onto the next page.
We land in the unicorn meadow. I’m still holding on to Jules. I look down at our linked hands and feel a shiver run the length of my spine. Suddenly Jules pulls her hand away from me. “I could have done it myself,” she snaps, and she walks off.
“That seems about right,” I mutter to myself. It’s not the first time a girl has looked at me like I’m pond scum.
I catch up to her halfway across the meadow. For a moment we just walk side by side, silent. “Hey,” I say, trying to break through the awkwardness. “What’s a hipster weigh?”
Jules doesn’t respond.
“An Instagram.” I pause. “Get it? Instag—”
I break off when Jules stops dead, staring at a unicorn that’s munching on silver grass. “Am I in a drug dream?” she asks.
“Oh, wait. It gets better. This is the unicorn meadow . . . and they’re eatingmoon grass.”
“How high was your mom when she wrote this book?” Jules asks.
At that, I laugh. My mom doesn’t even like to take Tylenol. “There’s an outhouse behind that tree, and I’m pretty sure it’s where Elvis died. . . .”
Jules grins, and just like that, any weirdness between us is gone again. “So . . . if we’re headed to the ocean,” she asks, “how come we’re landlocked with a bunch of mythical creatures?”
