Delilah
WHATIS TAKING HIM SO LONG?
I’ve been waiting for an hour and a half, and still, zip. Nada. Nothing.
I could open the book.
I told him I wouldn’t open the book.
The minute I do, of course, any headway he’s made with Rapscullio will be erased, and they’ll all be performing the story again.
“Oliver,” I say out loud, “this is ridiculous.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
I nearly jump a foot when I hear my mother’s voice. She is standing in the doorway, looking worried.
“Delilah, it’s after midnight. And you’ve been talkingto yourself the whole night—don’t try to argue with me, I’ve been listening through the door—”
“You’ve beeneavesdroppingon me?”
“Honey,” my mother says, sitting down on the bed, “I think maybe you need someone to talk to.” She hesitates. “Someone real, I mean.”
“Iamtalking to someone—”
“Delilah, I know what depression looks like—and I know what it feels like. When your father walked out, I had to drag myself out of bed every day just to get you to school, and to pretend for you that everything was okay. But you don’t have to pretend for my sake.”
“Mom, I’m not depressed—”
“You spend all your time alone in your room. You say that you hate swimming, that you hate school. And your only friend looks like a vampire—”
“You’rethe one who told me not to judge a book by its cover,” I argue, immediately thinking of Oliver. “I’m fine. Honestly. I kind of want to be alone right now.”
From my mother’s face, I can tell this was exactlynotthe right thing to say. “On Monday, I’m going to see whether we can get you an appointment with Dr. Ducharme—”
“But I’m not sick!”
“Dr. Ducharme’s a psychiatrist,” my mother says gently.
I open my mouth to argue, but before I can speak, I notice something shimmering beside my mother’s left shoulder.
It’s a hand.
A disembodied, floating, translucent hand.
I blink, and rub my eyes. I have got to get my mother out of this room now.
“Okay,” I say. “Whatever you want.”
Her jaw drops. “You mean, you’re not going to fight me on this?”
“No. Dr. DuWhatever. Monday. Got it.” I pull her to her feet and walk her to the threshold. “Gosh, I didn’t realize I was so tired! Good night!”
I slam the door and turn around, certain that the hand will have disappeared—but there it is, and now there’s an arm attached too.
Except the arm is flat and two-dimensional. Like a cartoon arm. Which is exactly what I was afraid would happen if Oliver were to come into this world.
I’d rather have him stay the way he is than change. I just wish other people—like my mom—felt that way about me.
