Jodi Picoult - Between the lines

When I’m talking to Oliver, I wonder what it would be like if he held my hand.

In spite of what Ryan and my mother think about me and fairy tales-it’s not that I’ve been looking for a prince.

It’s that, without even trying, Oliver makes me feel like a princess.

Seventh period Jules and I have Driver’s Ed, the only class we share this semester. The third kid in our car, Louis Lamotte, who always smells like soup, is at the wheel. Which means that Jules and I are stuck in the back while Mr. Barnaby tries to keep Louis on the right side of the road.

“So are you going to tell me why you’re pissed off at me, or do I have to play Twenty Questions?” Jules says.

“I’m not mad at you!”

“Yeah, right. You don’t answer my texts all weekend, you don’t wait for me after school, and today at lunch when you were totally ignoring me and I told you I had an asteroid growing out of my butt, you said, That’s nice. ”

“I’m just a little distracted,” I tell her. “Really, I’m not angry.”

“Girls,” Mr. Barnaby says, “you’re supposed to be observing. ”

Jules totally ignores him. “When you accidentally tripped Allie McAndrews last year during the hundred-meter dash at Field Day and she broke her knee, I was the first one to know. You called me up hysterical and told me I had to run off to Mexico with you because you weren’t coming back to school. Today, I found out that you broke Allie’s nose from that kid who chews gum too loud in the library.” She looks at me. “I don’t even know that kid’s name and he knew something about my best friend that I didn’t.”

“Look,” I tell Jules. “I’m not hiding anything from you. And you’re still my best friend. Things at home are just… crazy right now. My mother wants to take me to a shrink.”

Jules shrugs. “Big deal. My parents take me two or three times a year. Just tell them you have deep-seated issues with your father and they’ll say you’re cured.”

“Girls!” Mr. Barnaby says, over his shoulder. “Louis needs to focus.”

“Louis needs a lot of things,” Jules says under her breath. “Starting with a shower.”

I can’t help it; I stifle a laugh. Jules glances at me sideways and bumps shoulders with me. “Don’t shut me out, okay?” And just like that, I’m forgiven.

I felt like I was in a sort of frantic fog, mentally retracing my morning steps to figure out where I could have misplaced the book. By the end of school, it still hasn’t turned up. I shuffle to the curb where cars are lined up to retrieve kids, and find my mother’s van.

“So,” she says as I open the door, “how was your day?”

I shrug. “The same as usual.”

“Oh, really? I thought you might have missed this.” She reaches beside her and pulls out Between the Lines.

“Where did you find that?” I shout, grabbing it out of her hands. I know it will send Oliver and Company into a tizzy, but I open the book quickly and flutter through the pages without reading it. Then I hug it to my chest. “Thank God! I thought I lost it!”

My mother shakes her head. “That’s exactly why we’re going to Dr. Ducharme, Delilah.”

“Now?” I thought at least it would take my mother a few months to get an appointment. And by then, she might have totally forgotten about the psychiatrist, and we could just not show up.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. He’s only going to chat with you for a little while. Help you get in touch with what’s making you sad.”

Angry tears spring to my eyes. I’m not sad; I’m tired of being told by someone else what I’m allegedly feeling. “You’re one to talk,” I say. “You’re taking me to a psychiatrist when you haven’t opened up for five years! I guess it’s perfectly normal to just work yourself to the bone, because then you don’t have time to realize how depressing your life is!”

My mother reels back as if I’ve slapped her. “You have no idea what my life has been like, Delilah. I had a daughter to raise on my own, with no income. I can barely cover the payments on my mortgage. Somehow, I have to find the money to send you to college. Someone has to be the grown-up here, and that means knowing the difference between what’s real and what’s make-believe.”

“I know the difference between reality and make-believe!” I cry out. But even as I’m saying it, I wonder if that’s a lie. If it makes a difference, when you keep wishing they were one and the same.

Oliver had lost count of how long it had been since Scuttle and Walleye locked him in the brig. The ship pitched and dove in the storm; every now and then, Oliver felt the timbers shake with the force of the lightning and thunder.

Whatever rescuing a princess entailed, he was pretty sure that becoming a pirate captain’s sacrificial slave was not part of the deal.

He tugged at his chains, but they held fast. On the floor was the dinner tray he’d refused-the one with crackers that were moving. Or rather, the crackers weren’t moving. Just the worms baked into them.

He wondered why they would bother to feed a prisoner who was ultimately being transported as a gourmet peace offering for a very cranky, very hungry dragon. The same one that Rapscullio had conjured sixteen years earlier-the one that had killed Oliver’s father-now nested on the Cape of Passing Tides, preventing the ship from continuing its journey. Maybe Oliver had to put on some weight in order to qualify as a tasty morsel.

He wondered what had become of Socks and Frump, whom he’d last seen on the shoreline as the shipmates dragged him into the brig. He wondered how long it would be before Captain Crabbe himself showed up to bring his prisoner abovedecks, to make Oliver walk the plank onto the waiting fiery tongue of the dragon.

There was a strafing of metal against metal as the door to his cell slid open. The pirate captain stepped inside and narrowed his eyes. “My boys tell me ye aren’t cooperatin’,” Captain Crabbe said. “Ye know what we do to slaves who don’t cooperate?”

He crossed to the table that was bolted to the floor so that it wouldn’t overturn as the boat pitched and tossed. From his spot chained to the wall, Oliver watched the captain take out a velvet roll. He untied it, spreading the fabric open to reveal pockets full of gleaming instruments of torture.

Except they weren’t daggers and thumbscrews and knives.

Last year, Queen Maureen’s tiara had fallen off while she was horseback riding through the unicorn meadow. Although it was retrieved, it was badly dented and in need of fixing. She put out a call for crown repair, and the man who came to the castle, to everyone’s surprise, asked her to take a seat in her throne and open her mouth wide.

Apparently, there were the sorts of crowns one wore on one’s royal head… and then there were the sorts of crowns that sat on one’s teeth when one had severe dental problems.

In Captain Crabbe’s velvet pouches were explorers, extractors, probes, and mirrors.

“You’re… you’re a dentist?” Oliver asked.

At first Captain Crabbe’s eyes bugged out, surprised. Then just as quickly he recovered. “Nay. I’m a fearsome pirate, and you, my lad, are an appetizer.”