There’s the cliff, and the sea in the distance. There’s the gravel that was beneath Oliver’s feet. But Oliver is missing.
It feels like a punch. Tears fill my eyes, and I wonder how I could be upset over losing something I never had.
Just then, Oliver pokes his head out from behind a boulder. “It was only a jest,” he says, laughing.
“Notfunny.” I start to slam the book shut.
“Wait! Wait, I’m sorry. Truly!”
I let the pages fall open again. “You owe me,” I mutter.
“I promise to make it up to you,” Oliver vows. “The very minute I get out of this book.”
“I really do have to leave, though,” I tell him. “If I don’t go to Algebra, I’m going to get into trouble.”
Oliver nods his head. “Of course,” he says, and then hesitates. “Is Algebra quite a distance away?”
I stifle a grin. “Light-years,” I say. “I’ll come back later.”
“And help me get out of here?”
“I don’t know—”
“Promise?” Oliver asks.
I can’t remember anyone else who’s ever been desperate for me to return. Most of the kids in school are desperate for me to leave, and the ones who aren’tare totally indifferent. There’s Jules, of course, but she doesn’t need me. Not the way Oliver does, anyway.
“Yes,” I say. “I promise.”
***
I suffer through Math and English and an embarrassing moment in Social Studies when Mr. Uwenga calls on me, asking for the name of the secretary of state, and I say “Oliver.” Then, finally, it’s my free period. Jules and I always meet at the same table in the cafeteria. It’s the one where the geeks congregate. Jules could probably announce she was the love child of President Obama and a cat and they wouldn’t look up from their Calculus textbooks.
She slides into a seat beside me with her hot lunch tray, sighing. “Four hours, thirty-six minutes, and twelve seconds till we’re out of purgatory for the weekend.”
“Maybe later,” I murmur, still distracted by the day’s previous events.
“So, let me show you how a conversation works. I say something, and then you say something back that actually relates to what I was talking about, as if you were even the least bit interested.”
“Huh?” I say, turning to her. I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m kind of out of it today.”
“What’s up?” She pops a grape into her mouth. “Did Uwenga spring another pop quiz on you guys? And if so, can you tell me what’s on it so I don’t fail?”
I desperately want to tell Jules the truth about what happened. I want her to see it for herself, because if she believes it too, then I’m not crazy. After all, if anyone’s going to hear me out and not judge me or call me a freak, it’s my best friend. So I turn to her. “Did you ever wonder what happens when you close a book?”
Jules stops chewing. “Um. It stays closed?”
“No. I mean, what about the characters inside?”
She tilts her head. “They’re just words.” She peers at me. “Is this an English major kind of thing?”
“No. They’re words, but they’re more than words. They come to life in your head, right? So how do you know that doesn’t keep going when you stop reading?”
“Like how little kids think their stuffed animals wake up and party when they fall asleep?”
“Yes—exactly!”
Jules laughs. “Once, I took my dad’s video camera and let it run all night long while I was sleeping because I thought I could catch my toys in the act. I was convinced my Tickle Me Elmo was a closet ax murderer.” She shrugs. “If he was, it never showed up on tape.”
