Delilah
WHEN I WAKE UP, I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE I AM.
The sheets aren’t the ones on my bed at home; the walls of this room are painted a different color. I can’t hear my mother singing off-key as she fries bacon downstairs in the kitchen.
Then it all comes rushing back to me.
Running away from home.
Being grounded till I die.
Jessamyn Jacobs.
Edgar.
The revised story.
Failure feels like a punch. All I have to look forward to today is four hours ofWhat the heck were you thinking?from my mother during a long, painful car ride back home, and the knowledge that I finally found someone who understands who I am and likes me for it—only to realize that he’s a figment of my imagination.
I pull the covers over my head, wishing I didn’t have to wake up. At least in my dreams I can be with Oliver.
Oliver.
I feel around under the pillows, but the book is missing. Jumping out of bed, I look beneath its frame, and on the dresser. I rip the blankets and sheets off. I know I fell asleep with the fairy tale in my arms last night. I just know it.
“Whereisit?” I mutter, and at that moment there is a knock at the door.
It swings open, and Edgar is standing on the threshold, book in hand. “Looking for this?” he asks, grinning.
“Yes!” I grab it out of his hands, angry. “You shouldn’t steal other people’s property.”
“Well, it’s not technically yours, is it? You stole it from your school library.”
“I’m the only person who ever checked this book out of—” I break off, my eyes narrowing. “How doyouknow that?”
“Because I listen,” Edgar says, coming closer. He takes the book from me and sets it on the bed, then holds my hands. “I listen to everything you say, Delilah.”
He’s staring at me as if he can see right inside me,and that’s creepy, because this is Edgar, after all—Edgar, who locks himself in his room to play video games all day. Except his eyes are different. I can’t really describe it, but they look softer around the edges. Wiser. And maybe, a little amazed.
“Delilah,” he whispers. “It’sme.”
“Of course it’s you, Edgar. Who else would it be?”
“Oliver. Itworked,Delilah. It actually worked.” He smiles, and for a moment, I almost believe him. The way his mouth tips up on one side. The way his voice has the gentlest hint of a British accent.
But itdidn’twork. I saw that with my own eyes. I take a step backward, shaking my head.
“I can prove it,” Edgar says, and he picks up the book. Pinching one page with two fingers, he slides his palm across the sharp edge, giving himself an inch-long paper cut.
“Stop that!” I grab his hand, but it’s too late. The book drops to the bed again, closed, as I turn his palm over to see how deep the cut is.
He’s bleeding, but the blood isn’t red.
It’s black as ink.
