Maybe the reason I’ve never died in this story is that I’ve never had something worth dying for before.
“We just need to think of a different escape method,” I suggest. “There has to be another way.”
I hear Delilah’s mother calling her name, and all of asudden the book is slammed shut. I wait a few moments, in the hope that Delilah might come back.
When she does, it’s on page 43 once again. “Sorry,” she says. She is hurrying around her room, locating a rucksack and stuffing a towel inside. “I have to go to swim practice.”
“I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it quickly,” I reply. “I did.”
“Iknowhow to swim,” Delilah says. “It’s a sport. I’m supposed to be doing it for fun. But when you come in last place every time in the individual medley, it’s hard to find the joy.”
“Then why do it?”
“My mother thinks it will help me fit in.”
“You should just tell her you’d prefer not to.”
She pauses and looks at me. “Why don’t you tellyourmother off when she gives you a hard time?”
“That’s different. I was written that way.”
“Well, believe me,” Delilah says. “Being a teenager isn’t all that different from being part of someone else’s story, then. There’s always someone who thinks they know better than you do.”
I offer my most charming grin. “You could stay with me instead.”
“I wish.” Delilah sighs. “But that’s not going to happen.”
“Then take me with you.”
“Water and books don’t mix very well.”
“DELILAH!” Her mother’s voice booms in the background once again.
And so she closes the book, more gently this time, and abandons me.
I sit down on the edge of page 43, already missing her, as Queen Maureen wanders into the edge of the margin. It’s like that when the book is closed—any of us can wander anywhere; there’s no privacy. “Oh, I’msosorry!” she says, backing away. “I didn’t realize anyone was on this page!”
“No, no,” I say, getting to my feet. “It’s quite all right. Really.”
Queen Maureen isn’t really my mother, of course. Technically, the author of this story is the woman who gave life to all of us. But like two actors in any long-running play, Maureen and I have become so comfortable with each other and our roles that she is the closest thing I have to a parent inside the pages of this book. I like the way she always saves me one of her fresh-baked ginger cookies from the castle kitchen when she’s in a cooking mood. And from time to time, I’ve turned to her for advice when Frump and I have had a disagreement, or when Seraphima is so delusional that she’s chasing me nonstop during our time off. I respect Maureen’sopinions. In this way, I guess, my character has started to blend with the real me.
“Have you got a minute?” I ask.
“Of course.” She walks closer and sits beside me on a stubby boulder. “You look like you want to kick a wall.”
I exhale heavily. “I’m just sofrustrated.”
“Who spit in your porridge?” she asks, raising a brow.
“If we’re all just make-believe, are the emotions we feel still real?”
“Well,” Maureen says. “Someone’s philosophical today—”
“I’m serious,” I interrupt. “How am I supposed to know what love really feels like?”
“Dear Lord, please tell me you haven’t suddenly become smitten with that ditzy princess—”
“Seraphima?” I shudder. “No.”
