“You know what? You don’t get to decide that. It takes two people to make a friendship work, and these days, I’ve been doing more than my fair share.”
“Jules,” I say. “Come on.” I reach toward her, but she steps away.
She looks at me. “Just remember—I had your backwhen the whole world hated you. I thought that counted for something.”
She walks out of my bedroom and slams the door behind her. I let out a defeated sigh. I’ll make this right again, I swear I will, but first I have to finish what Oliver and I have started.
My mother sticks her head inside the door. “Is everything all right with Jules?”
“Fine…”
“Funny, she didn’t look fine when she ran out the front door.”
My eyes fill with tears. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell her. I’ve lost two friends in one day.
My mother sits down beside me on the bed. “Well, if it’s not fine, itwillbe,” she says. “And when you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here.”
It feels good to have her arms around me, to pretend, for a little while, that what she’s saying is true. To believe that in the end, everything works out. She drops a kiss on the crown of my head. “I have an idea,” she says. “Why don’t we watch a movie?”
I look up at her. “Like old times?”
“I’ll make the popcorn,” my mother says. “You getThe Little Mermaid.”
If I have any thoughts about why my mother would have a philosophical problem with me reading a fairytale but be perfectly fine with me watching a Disney cartoon, they vanish in the anticipation of an evening spent believing that dreams can come true. “Okay,” I whisper, and she hugs me a little tighter.
When she leaves, I go to the bookshelf to retrieve the story. I plan to just quickly pop to page 43 so that I can tell Oliver my brilliant idea. But then I think of my mother, downstairs, of how hard she’s trying to make me happy. For right now, anyway, Oliver can wait.
I keep the Disney movies in a cardboard box in my closet, on the upper shelf. I can’t quite reach it, so I drag my laundry basket closer, overturn it, and use it as a foot-stool. Reaching up, I grab the edge of the box. But suddenly everything around me grows brighter and silvery, the way the world looks when it snows overnight. I find myself squinting against all this light, and then suddenly I am falling, tumbling head over heels through a big, wide wasteland of nothing.
I start to scream. I’m falling so fast that I can hear the wind in my ears, and my eyes are watering. It’s as if I’ve been pushed out of a speeding plane. I can dimly make out black shapes as I streak by them. Then I am abruptly yanked to a halt. My T-shirt has caught on a hook, and I find myself bobbing, the wool bunched up around my shoulders.
Except it’s not a hook. When I look around, I realize that I am hanging from a gigantic letterJ.
Until the curl of theJsnaps beneath my weight and sends me free-falling once again.
As I tumble, color begins to bleed into the space around me—faint at first, and then growing darker and more full of pigment, until I am sure I’m going to smack against the ground at any moment. I cover my face with my arms and try to curl into the smallest ball possible, so that I won’t get hurt when it happens.
“Oomph!” With a blow that knocks the breath out of me, I land on a hard stack of something. A pile of books scatters, and a cloud of dust puffs up around me. I gingerly get to my feet, taking inventory of my bones to make sure nothing’s broken. From the corner of my eye, I see movement, and I whip around with my arms in a karate pose, as if I might be able to intimidate whoever else is here.
The intruder makes the same exact movement.
I take a step forward, and realize that I am looking into a mirror. At least, I think it’s a mirror—even if the reflection I’m seeing isn’t quite me.
Once, my mother took me to Montreal. We went to a town square, which had come alive at dusk with street performers and vendors. Artists sat beneath umbrellas, drawing sketches of fidgeting children. My mother had a portrait drawn of me just for fun. You could certainly see that there was a resemblance, but to be honest, thepicture kind of freaked me out. It made me look flat and two-dimensional, not really me at all.
The image I’m staring at in the mirror looks exactly the same way.
Slowly, I reach out a finger to touch this odd girl who might or might not be me—When there is a high-pitched shriek to my left. I am knocked off my feet and pinned down by a scarred, goateed man I’d recognize anywhere.
“You thief!” Rapscullio cries. “If you’re as awful as the prince says, you’ll be a dragon’s meal before nightfall.”
***
I am making this all up. That’s the only explanation I have for the fact that I am being dragged along by a fictional character through the Enchanted Forest. But if I am making this all up, then how come the rope Rapscullio has wrapped around my wrists is rubbing them raw? How come I can smell woodsmoke coming from Orville’s cabin and feel the fairies—the size of mosquitoes on steroids—tugging at my hair and pulling at my clothes?
I know I should be freaking out, but I’m too busy looking around at this world I’ve dreamed of for so long. Above me, where there should be sky, are distant, dangling bits of letters. Beyond them, I can barely make out colors and shapes, as if I’m looking at the sun from the bottom of a pool.
“Oh my gosh.” I gasp. “Is that the royal castle?”
