“I . . . I don’t know. I’ve never done that before. . . .”
“Trust me. You’ll be a natural.”
I can hear the lines being recited on the previous page, and I know my entrance is coming. Rapscullio slides effortlessly from the previous scene into this one, and I open my mouth, intending to ask Delilah what on earth she’s doing. But Rapscullio gives me a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, and when I look up at the Reader, it’s not Delilah at all.
It’s her mother.
We are rusty. But we are professionals. I feel the words pulled from my throat, as if they are a ribbon.Save who?I say, scowling.
Surreptitiously I glance at Mrs. McPhee and I see her eyes widen as she squints at my face. Oh God. She’s going to recognize me as Delilah’s boyfriend.
It takes all the effort I can muster to angle my head against the illustration’s will so that she can only make out my profile instead of my full features.
“What is inside this book that you can’t live without, Delilah?” Mrs. McPhee murmurs absently. She finishes the page and turns to the next. Suddenly I stand with Queen Maureen, trying to explain to her why I am about to embark on a mission to save this princess. Maureen’s lips tremble as I speak; I can register the fear on her face as she channels what it must be like as a mother to say goodbye to her son. She is doing anacting job better than I’ve ever seen, but then, so is everyone else. They are all bristling with energy, delighted to be read for the first time in months.
All but me, that is.
I am reliving a nightmare.
I gallop through the Enchanted Forest and outwit the fairies, I nearly drown in the ocean, I cheat the trolls to ensure a safe passage, and all this I do while managing to keep my face turned away from the Reader. By the time I am on page 43, scaling the cliff wall, my body is shaking from exertion.
When Rapscullio locks me in the dungeon, it’s almost a relief, because my face is drawn in shadow.
Finally I am pulled to the white sand of Everafter Beach. Humphrey is trying to eat the wedding rings attached to his collar. The mermaids wave from the breakers; the trolls hold the poles of the bridal canopy; the fairies have twined ribbons around them. And Seraphima, as always, is in my embrace, wearing her silver wedding gown.
And a pair of jeans underneath.
As Mrs. McPhee’s eyes skim the last words of the fairy tale, I am drawn inexorably toward Seraphima.
I think of Delilah, kissing Edgar.
And just as Delilah said aboutthatkiss, all I can think about is how Seraphima is the wrong size, the wrong shape, the wrong everything. How she isn’t Delilah.
But my lips stay pressed to hers, glued by a happily-ever-after, until the back cover is closed.
Around me, the other characters start to cheer.
Well done! Bravo!
That was excellent.
Did you see the part where I—
Oh, how I’ve missed performing. . . .
I fall to my knees as if I’ve been punched, gasping for breath. Rapscullio claps me on the shoulder. “Just like old times, right, Oliver?” he says, smiling widely.
His words are the match that ignites the fire within me. Staggering to my feet, I start to run as fast as I can. I move across the pages so quickly that the scenes blur behind me; I don’t stop to see where I am. I run until I pass my first scene, and the one before it, through the dedications, skittering past the copyright, until I skid into the great white morass of the title page. There, I hesitate, momentarily dizzied by the empty expanse.
There’s nowhere else to go.
But that isn’t going to stop me.
I hurl myself headlong into the margin, bouncing back. I beat myself against the cardboard cover, over and over, until my hands come away bruised. And still I force myself upright again, launching my body against the boundaries of this book.
Finally, battered, I fall backward on the frontispiece.
My fists leave smudges of blood on the vast white surface.
