Jodi Picoult - Between the lines

“I’m not like most characters, I guess,” I say slowly. “Everyone else in here seems to be happy having their lives already planned out for them, and doing what they’re told to do. But I’ve never really fit in. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be someone… different.”

Delilah’s eyes widen. “I’ve always wondered that too.”

Brightening, I smile at her. “Look at how much we already have in common.”

She smirks. “Yeah. Like, for example, I’m talking to a book, and you think you’re alive. We’re both insane.”

“Or very, very evolved…”

“Maybe it was something I ate,” Delilah says, standing up and pacing in a circle. “Maybe the milk in my cereal was bad or I took an accidental overdose of vitamins and now I’m hallucinating-”

“Not this again.” I sigh. “Haven’t we established that I am not a figment of your imagination?”

“You can’t be real,” Delilah murmurs.

“Says who?” I ask. “Did you really think that a story exists only when you’re reading it?”

“Um,” Delilah says. “Well, yeah.”

I settle my hands on my hips. “When you go to sleep at night, do you cease existing?”

“Obviously not…”

“And how do you know that you’re not part of a book? That someone’s not reading your story right now?”

She looks at me, narrowing her eyes as the implication sets in. “But you’re part of a fairy tale.”

“Exactly. Part of a fairy tale. Which suggests that there’s more to me than meets the average Reader’s eye. Did you ever think that maybe what you see isn’t really what’s true? Take Socks, for example. Actually, please, do take Socks. He’s not a fearless steed-he’s a hopeless one. And Rapscullio-he’s actually a rather nice guy! He collects butterflies and is quite the pastry chef in his time off! And Seraphima-”

Delilah sighs. “I always wanted to be Seraphima…”

I snort. “You might want to revise your life goals, then. She has the brain capacity of a sea cucumber.”

I realize that I quite like this girl. It’s not just that she’s so pretty the words fly out of my mind before they can leave my mouth-it’s that when we’re chatting, I feel like I’ve known her all my life. It’s as easy to speak to her as it is to talk to Frump. It’s been a long time, I realize, since I made a good friend.

“Can I ask you something?” I say. “Why do you keep reading this story?”

“I-I don’t really know,” Delilah admits. “Because of that one line, I guess. About growing up without a father.” She looks away. “I liked the idea of someone else knowing what that’s like.”

I feel a twinge as I realize that whatever I’ve experienced in the story pales in comparison to what she’s had to suffer through in real life. After all, I’ve never even met King Maurice; he is just words on a page to me.

Delilah swipes a hand across her eyes. “I mean, I have nothing to complain about. A lot of kids have no one who cares about them. And my mom, she’s great. She loves me like crazy. She’d do anything for me.”

I frown. “But she doesn’t want you to read this book, even though it makes you happy.”

Delilah looks at me, confused. “Oh, no,” she says, shrugging. “She just thinks I read too much, in general. She wants me to get out more.”

“May I ask you something?” I say. “Why do you read books, when you could be outside, living a million different adventures every day?”

“Because you can always count on a book to stay the same. Everything else changes when you least expect it,” she replies, bitter. “Families split apart, and nothing’s forever. In books, you always know what’s coming next. There are no surprises.”

“Why is that a good thing?”

“You of all people ought to understand why I wouldn’t want to take a risk-”

I scowl. “That’s just a role I have to play in the story. If I had the chance, I’d do anything to not know what tomorrow’s going to bring.”

“People in the real world would kill for a happily ever after, and you’re willing to just throw it away?”

I look away from her. “It’s hardly a happily ever after when you wind up right back at the beginning. I’ve never experienced ‘after’ at all.”

Suddenly, I hear another voice in the Otherworld.

Delilah McPhee, what are you doing out of homeroom?

“What is a ‘homeroom’?” I ask.

“Shut up !” she grits out.

Excuse me, Ms. McPhee, did I just hear you tell me to shut up?

“No, Coach Farnsworth. I would never say something like that, Coach Farnsworth…”

“You just did,” I point out, grinning.

Immediately, she slams the book closed.

The dark is complete. It rather catches me off guard this time. Although I hear other characters climbing down from their scenes to mingle with each other and carry on their off-time pursuits, I narrow my eyes and wait.

Sure enough, she opens the book again.

“Now see here,” I command. “It’s downright rude to end a conversation without a proper goodbye. You may apologize. Now.”

She snorts. “ You can apologize first! What were you trying to do, get me detention?”

I have no idea what detention is. But I do know that never in the course of the story has anyone ever talked back to me like this. After all, I’m a prince. Which doesn’t seem to matter in the least to this girl.

And instead of being angry, I’m intrigued. “What’s detention?”

“It’s… not important,” she says. “Look, I can’t have you speaking when other people are around.”

“Believe me-they won’t hear me. No one ever does.”

“Well, they’re going to hear me, and normal people don’t talk out loud to books.”

I grin. “In that case, I’m glad you’re not normal.”

“You have no idea. Talking out loud to fictional characters is just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Fictional character?”

“Well,” she says. “You may be real, but you’re still stuck in a book.”

“That’s why I need your help.”

“I don’t understand…”

I stare very soberly into her pale brown eyes. “I want you to get me out.”

OKAY, FIRST OF ALL, THIS IS NOT HAPPENING.

My mother is right. I need more sleep. It’s bad enough that I’m talking to a book, much less entertaining the thought of how to get a character out of it.

“I don’t think it works that way,” I say. “It’s not like springing someone out of jail-”

“I’m hardly a felon!”

“No, you’re a two-dimensional, inch-high illustration,” I point out. “If you were to get out, what would you do? Live in a shoe box? Be Flat Stanley?”

“Who’s Flat Stanley?”

“Another fictional character,” I say. I have a sudden flash of second grade, when my teacher had us take our cutouts of Flat Stanley all around the world during spring break. My mother and I took pictures of him in Boston, eating clam chowder and waving at the seals in the aquarium.

So maybe Oliver isn’t the first fictional character with a hankering to travel.

“You don’t know that I’d stay this size. Perhaps I’d be scaled to fit your world, if I were lucky enough to reach it.”

“Why are we even discussing this?” I explode. “You can’t take a character out of a book!”

“How do you know? Have you ever tried?”

“No, but it’s not like Cinderella is working at Starbucks-”