I stare up at the sky, at nothing.
After a moment I come up on my elbows, still panting. I flex my aching fingers. I watch the bruises fade. I watch my blood vanish, as if it never existed.
As ifInever existed.
All the world’s a stage, but actors aren’t the only ones who play roles.
Even when you’re not following a script, you might as well be. You don’t behave the same way in front of everyone. You know what makes your friends laugh, and what makes your parents proud, and what makes your teachers respect you—and you have a different persona for each of them.
Given all these performances . . . how do you ever know who you really are?
Well, you have to find that rare someone for whom you’re not putting on a show. Someone who shines a spotlight in your direction—not because you’re who they need you to be, or who they want you to be . . . just because you’re you.
DELILAH
The really crappy thing about being a teenager is that even if you have a legitimate, monumental problem—the sky is falling or the zombie apocalypse has begun or you’ve contracted the plague—you still have to do your geometry homework. So in spite of the fact that I am having possibly the worst Tuesday of my life, and my boyfriend is trapped in a fairy tale, and my best friend is hooking up with his clone, I have to prove that two triangles are congruent.
The way I am selling this to myself is a promise: if I finish this proof, I will let myself take an hour to talk to Oliver before I have to drag myself away to write an essay about the fall of Troy.
Suddenly the door of my bedroom slams open. I turn, scowling, ready to lace into my mom again about privacy—but it’s Jules. “I can’t find him,” she says, completely on edge. “He’s notat home; he’s not answering his phone or his texts; it’s like he’s totally vanished.”
“Who?”
She blinks at me. “Edgar? Oh my God. Did you not even notice he wasn’t in school today? Seriously? You’re supposed to be his fake girlfriend.”
“Maybe he’s just sick. He’s literally been in a bubble for the past three months.”
“Or,” Jules says, her eyes flicking to the fairy tale on my dresser, “maybe he’s back in the bubble.”
“What? No he’s not.”
“Did you check?”
“I don’t have to. Oliver’s in there, which means Edgar’s out here.”
“When was the last time you talked to Oliver?” Jules asks.
A cold panic settles over me. If Oliver had sprung from the book again, he’d come straight to me. I know he would.
Wouldn’t he?
Jules and I both scramble for the book at the same time. I fling it open to a random page—one where Oliver is riding Socks to Orville’s cottage, with his trusty dog trotting along beside them. But I do it so fast that the saddle is facing backward with Oliver in it, and Humphrey has a turkey leg clamped in his jaws that Socks is hissing at him to hide. As soon as they all see my face, however, they relax.
“Thank goodness it’s you,” Oliver says.
“Who else would it be?”
“You’d be sur—”
“Is Edgar in there?” Jules interrupts.
“Unfortunately not,” Oliver mutters. “Why?”
“Ughhh,” Jules groans. “You’re useless.”
“I beg your pardon. . . .”
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I lower my voice to a whisper. “She’s having boy problems.”
