OLIVER
THERE IS ONLY ONE PAGE IN THE BOOK WHERE I’Malone, where there’s no other character whose dialogue I have to prompt, or whose motion I need to follow.
Because of that, I sometimes test my boundaries in the moment before a Reader starts reading.
I might sing at the top of my lungs.
Or push the limits of the story, by sitting on the ground and waiting until the book pulls me up the cliff.
Sometimes I try to get to the edge of the cliff, to the spot where the rock has a crease in it from someone who dog-eared the page years ago.
Occasionally I climb to the highest point to see past the blurry edge of the illustration.
None of it matters, because no one ever notices what I’m doing anyway, and I’m pulled back into the flow of the fairy tale.
Until today.
As soon as I realized that Delilah had noticed the chessboard in the sand—something that has nothing at all to do with the story—I started to wonder if maybe she might be the one. The one who was able to noticeotherthings that aren’t part of the story.
Mainly, me.
At the very least, I couldn’t let the moment pass without trying. So I scratched the words “HELP ME,” and she saw. I just know she saw.
I’m clinging onto the rock wall, and I’m holding my breath, because I’m so scared she is going to turn the page, just like everyone else.
Except she doesn’t.
“How?” she says, and very slowly, I turn so that I am looking right at her.
I clear my throat, trying to speak out loud. It’s been a long time since my voice was projected anywhere but inside a Reader’s head, and speaking takes great concentration for someone who’s not used to doing it. “Can you… can you hear me?” I ask.
She gasps. “You’re British?”
“Excuse me?”
“You have an accent,” she says. “When I was reading you, I never heard an accent…” Suddenly her eyes widen. “Oh my God, I’ve gone crazy. The book isn’t just changing, it’s talking back to me—”
“No—I’m the one talking…” My heart is racing, and my thoughts are coming fast and furious. This girl, this Delilah, just answered my question. Sheheardme.
She takes a deep breath. “Okay, Delilah, pull yourself together. Maybe you have a fever. This will all go away with a couple of Tylenol—” She starts to close the book, and with all of my strength I yell.
“No! Don’t!”
“You don’t understand,” she says. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are wild. “Characters in books aren’t real.” She smacks her forehead. “Why I am even explaining this out loud?”
“Because Iamreal,” I plead. “I’m just as real asyouare.” I stare at her. “And you’re the only Reader who’s ever noticed.”
At that, Delilah’s lips part. I find myself thinking about those lips, which look soft and sweet and infinitely more interesting to kiss than Seraphima’s. She pulls away, so that instead of seeing just an up-close view of her face, I am able to see her dark hair, her pink shirt, her fear.
“Please,” I say softly. “Just give me a chance.”
I can see that she’s wavering, considering whethershe should slam the book shut or actually listen. So I jump down from the cliff ledge.
“How did you do that?” she gasps. “Where are the batteries?”
“Battery? I can assure you, no one is getting a beating,” I say, crawling upright again.
“You moved,” she accuses, pointing a finger at me.
