Wordlessly, Jules holds up her right hand for a pinkie swear.
I start, well, at the very beginning. I tell her how I got a shock the first time I touched the spine of the fairy tale, and how even though it was a kids’ book, I couldn’t manage to put it down. I tell her about Oliver, the prince who grew up without a dad, like me. I explain how, one day, the illustrations changed before my eyes, and how without even trying, I could hear Oliver speaking to me—words that weren’t written for him but that came from the heart.
I tell her about the spider and how the book caught fire and how I wound up getting sucked into it and then ejected.
I tell her that I might just be in love with Oliver.
When I’m done, Jules keeps staring straight at the road, completely silent.
“So?” I say.
Jules doesn’t respond.
“You think I’m crazy.”
Jules shrugs. “No.”
“That’s it?” I ask, incredulous. “You believe me?”
“Well,” she responds, “I believeyoubelieve it. And I’m your best friend. So that’s good enough.”
For the next few hours, everything seems almost normal. My best friend is my friend again; I don’t haveto pretend that this book means nothing to me. It’s like old times. Jules and I play I Spy and eat a whole bag of Cheetos that she’s brought along from home. Finally, the GPS tells us we have arrived at our destination. Jules pulls over on the side of the main street of Wellfleet, Massachusetts, hitting the curb with her tires.
“You just failed your driver’s test,” I joke.
“But think of how many hours of practice driving I’ve got under my belt now,” Jules says. She looks into the rearview mirror. “So where are we going?”
Well. I haven’t quite figured that part out yet. I don’t have a street address for Jessamyn Jacobs, just the town in which she lives. But this much I know—I have to go by myself. Jules has already done enough for me; I’m not going to drag her into this mess. “Not we,” I say. “Me.”
“I’m not leaving you down here by yourself.”
I shake my head. “Jules, your parents are already going to kill you for stealing your father’s car.”
She laughs. “That’s my master plan. I’d rather be in reform school over the summer than with Aunt Agnes.”
She unhooks her seat belt and gets out of the car as I grab my backpack. “Are you okay driving home by yourself?” I ask. “It’ll be dark soon.”
“Piece of cake,” Jules says.
I give her a tight hug. “Thank you,” I whisper, and I watch her get into the car and put on her signal inpreparation for pulling out of the parking spot.
Before she does, though, she unrolls her window. “I hope you find him,” Jules says with a smile. “Your prince.”
***
There’s a tiny coffee shop in the center of town. A bell rings when I walk through the door, and a waitress looks up at me. “Is there a restroom I could use?” I ask.
“Sure.” She points down the hall, and I lock myself into the small room and pull the book out of my backpack. I suppose I could have talked to Oliver in the car, but it was nice to spend some time with just Jules. I’ve missed that.
As soon as I open to page 43, Oliver starts yelling. “Where have you been? You left me hanging in the middle of a very important conversation. This Jessamyn Jacobs woman—”
“Lives here,” I interrupt.
I see Oliver peeking over my shoulder, taking in the scenery behind me. “Whereareyou?”
“Well, in a bathroom. She doesn’t livehere.But I’m in her town, and I’m going to figure out how to get to her house. If anyone knows how to get you out of the story, it’s going to be the woman who wrote it.”
Oliver scowls. “You can’t very well walk up to her and say, ‘I’ve fallen head over heels for one of your characters.’”
