Jodi Picoult - Between the lines

I open the window and stretch a leg out. I swear the tree has moved. Like, three feet away.

Taking a deep breath, I jump from the windowsill, and to my great shock wind up hugging the trunk tightly. I shimmy down, thinking of Oliver, who has to climb a cliff wall every day.

With a thump I hit the ground and tiptoe down the block, to the cul-de-sac where Jules is parked and waiting, just like we’d arranged. She looks weird sitting behind the steering wheel of a car. When she sees me, she grins and lowers the power window. “You owe me big-time,” she says.

I never would have guessed it based on her personality, but Jules drives like an old lady. She putts along ten miles below the speed limit and puts on her turn signal miles before she actually veers off the exit. “So,” she says, when we have been driving for ten minutes on the highway, “when are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Wellfleet,” I say. “On Cape Cod.”

Jules nods, flexing her hands on the steering wheel. “Okay,” she says. “ Why are we going?”

I take a deep breath. “What I’m about to tell you isn’t going to make a lot of sense,” I say. “But I need you to listen to the whole story and not judge me, okay?”

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 believe you believe 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 have to 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 in preparation 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. “Where are you?”

“Well, in a bathroom. She doesn’t live here. 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.’”

I smile. “Oh yes, that Socks is a sexy beast.”

He laughs. “I’ll tell him you said so.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I tell him. “And I don’t really have a plan yet.”

“And that’s supposed to inspire confidence?” Oliver says.

“No,” I tell him. “It’s supposed to inspire trust.”

I start to close the book, but I’m stopped by the sound of Oliver’s voice. “Delilah?” he says. “I never really got a chance to say thank you. For everything you’re doing to help me.”

I look at the hope written across his face, as clear as any of the words on the page. “Don’t thank me yet,” I answer.

After I return the book to my backpack, I flush the toilet and wash my hands, so as not to seem too suspicious. The waitress is still wiping off the counter when I walk back into the coffee shop. “Party of one?” she asks.

“Actually, I’m just looking for directions,” I say. “This is totally embarrassing, but I’m here to surprise my aunt for her birthday-I came in on the bus-and I can’t remember how to get to her house.” I offer my brightest I’m-not-a-psychopath smile. “Jessamyn Jacobs? Do you know her?”

The waitress looks at me uneasily. “She doesn’t much like visitors.”

“Visitors!” I say. “I’m family. ”

The girl frowns. “Well, she’s the last house on Wilson Street. It’s the purple Cape that overlooks a cliff.”

“Right!” I slap my hand against my forehead. “Duh. Wilson Street.”

The waitress goes back to work.

“Can I ask just one more question?” I say, and I wait till she looks up. “How do I get to Wilson Street?”

Jessamyn Jacobs’s house perches on the edge of a cliff overlooking the water, like a swimmer afraid to jump in. It’s painted the color of a plum, and all the windows have curtains drawn down to their black trim. For a long moment I stand on the porch, running through possible introduction scenarios in my head.

Hi! I’m selling Girl Scout cookies-

No, too eager.

I’m doing a voter survey…

Nope. I don’t look old enough to work for a political action committee.

I’ve lost my pet cat. Have you seen him?

No. What are the odds it would be hiding in her house?