Waving them away, I hop off the tree branch and land on the ground just as Frump skids to a stop at my feet.
“Hey, buddy… you got a minute?” he asks. The look on his face is one I’ve seen before—mostly when he’s under the table begging for scraps.
With reluctance I tuck the book beneath my tunic. He leads me out of the forest, away from the keen ears of the fairies. As soon as we clear the woods, Frump breaks into a run. I have to sprint to catch up to him.
We race past the cliff walk and the turnoff for the trail to where Orville the wizard lives. “Is there a reason we’re in a hurry?” I pant.
“We have to get to the unicorn meadow in time,” Frump shouts back to me.
“What’s in the unicorn meadow?” I ask as we break into its center. The field is full of snowy, horned creatures grazing on lush silver grass.
“You are,” Frump admits, coming to a stop. “I told Seraphima you’d be here.”
“Why?”
He looks down at the ground. “So she’d come. If it had just been me, she’d never bother.”
Frump was, according to the backstory we all know by heart, once human. My best friend, as a matter of fact, until Rapscullio stole some herbs from Orville, intending to kill the young prince (namely, me) he saw as an obstacle to his love for Maureen. The draught into which he mixed the herbs, however, was mistakenly drunk byFrump. He would have died without Orville’s intervention. The wizard couldn’t reverse the curse, yet he managed a transfiguration: Frump would live, but in the body of a different creature. In this way, he’d be safe from Rapscullio’s wrath.
This, anyway, is what the text says during the course of our story. But I have known Frump only as a dog, because that’s what he is when the fairy tale begins. He’s a boy only in flashbacks, and flashback characters don’t exist the way the rest of us do, flesh and blood even when we’re offstage. It’s why I’ve never met King Maurice; it’s why Frump is a hound… with the heart and mind of a young man.
One who is utterly, incomprehensibly, madly in love with Seraphima. Who wouldn’t give him the time of day, even if hedidn’thave fleas.
“Aw, Frump.” I scratch behind his ears. “You don’t need me to get a girl interested in you.”
“Oh yeah? Then how come she lit up like a firecracker as soon as I mentioned your name?”
I wince, thinking of Seraphima. “Doesn’t it bother you to know she can’t tell the difference between when the book is closed and when it’s open?”
“Not really. I keep telling myself that’s why she isn’t interested in me. To her, I’m just a dog.”
I suppose it could be argued that Delilah doesn’thave the best track record either, when it comes to telling reality from fiction. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“How do you know she’s the one for you?”
Frump wags his tail. “Well, she’s got that beautiful, shiny blond coat… er… I mean,hair… and there’s that little space between her front teeth… and did you ever notice how, when she’s nervous, she sings? Off-key?”
“Youlikethat?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Frump says. “I think her flaws make me love her even more. She’s not perfect, but she’s perfect to me.”
I think about Delilah—how she snorts when she laughs, how she bites her nails when she’s thinking hard about something. How she doesn’t seem to know the simplest things—like that if one has an ache of the head, a leech—not some small round white candy—will do the trick. How she makes wishes on eyelashes and stars or when her clock reads 11:11. “Yes,” I say softly. “I understand.”
Frump lets out a painful yowl. “You love her too?”
“Seraphima? No. A million times no.”
He gives me a look that betrays just the slightest doubt.
Even if I didn’t want to kiss Seraphima, the book would pull me into the embrace. And she’s prettyenough. So kissing her isn’t really a hardship, and if Ihaveto do it, I might as well pretend I am having fun.
Still, my intimate moments with Seraphima always leave me feeling guilty. Not just because of Frump, but because I know she is putting all her passion into that kiss since she thinks it’s real, when for me, it’s a day’s work… with some pleasant benefits.
“Then you’ve got to help me, Oliver,” Frump begs. “How do I get her to notice me?”
For a moment, I let myself consider this. Delilah saw me all on her own, and I doubt that even if Frump mowed the wordHELPinto this field, it would do anything but annoy the unicorns. “What about a gift?” I suggest.
