Jodi Picoult - Between the lines

Ember landed on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. “But we make the rules.”

Glint settled on a branch in front of him, calling her sisters close. As they leaned in, their hair brightened, like combined flames. Finally Glint broke away. “You must try to cast a glow farther than any of us.”

Oliver didn’t miss a beat. “Done,” he accepted.

The fairies looked at each other. “Stupid humans,” said Ember. “They can’t shine.”

“What do we get if we win?” Sparks asked.

Oliver thought. “All my secrets,” he said soberly. “Every last one.”

The fairies clapped, creating a rain of glitter. “Me first,” Glint sang, and she shimmied so that a halo of silver light rose from around her body. The forest lit, six tree trunks deep, before fading into darkness again.

“Amateur,” Ember scoffed. She spun in a tight circle, holding her wings out like helicopter blades, and a warm bronze glow enveloped the area where Oliver was standing. Like that of the fairy before her, the circle of light grew and grew, this time ten trees deep, before snuffing itself out.

“Watch and learn, girls,” Sparks said. She curled tightly into a ball, growing so small she was only a pinprick, and then with a sudden pop let loose a corona of golden light.

The glow was fiercer, hotter, wider-but quicker to fade to black.

“Your turn,” Glint said, raising one arched silver brow.

“Wait. If I win,” Oliver replied, “I want safe passage.”

The fairies, blinking intermittently now, whispered to each other. “Safe passage,” they agreed.

Oliver reached into Socks’s saddlebags and took out the packed lunch that the royal cook had given him before he left. Inside were two hard-boiled eggs, some cheese, and a hunk of bread. There was also a tiny drawstring bag of seasoning.

Loosening the string, Oliver gently blew across the small heap of pepper, so that it created a cloud around the fairies.

Glint, Sparks, and Ember sneezed in unison, and as they did, flashes of light burst like fireworks to illuminate the whole of the Enchanted Forest.

“Well,” Oliver said, swinging himself back into the saddle. “I think it’s clear that I-”

Before he could finish his sentence, Socks let out an enormous sneeze too. He reared on his hind legs, inadvertently pawing at Glint, who then nipped him in self-defense.

Once again, Oliver held on for dear life as his runaway stallion bolted into the Enchanted Forest. Finally, they broke through the thick foliage, just in time for Oliver to notice that they were approaching a cliff. At an alarming pace.

“Whoa!” he cried, yanking on the reins.

There was six feet of ground remaining before the cliff edge. Three feet. One. Miraculously, Socks halted abruptly at the edge. “Thank goodness,” Oliver said.

Apparently, he spoke too soon.

Because although Socks stopped, Oliver didn’t. He tumbled over the horse’s head, past the edge of the cliff, and into the roiling ocean below.

THERE IS ONLY ONE PAGE IN THE BOOK WHERE I’Malone, where there’s no other character whose dialogue I have to prompt, or whose motion I need to follow.

Because of that, I sometimes test my boundaries in the moment before a Reader starts reading.

I might sing at the top of my lungs.

Or push the limits of the story, by sitting on the ground and waiting until the book pulls me up the cliff.

Sometimes I try to get to the edge of the cliff, to the spot where the rock has a crease in it from someone who dog-eared the page years ago.

Occasionally I climb to the highest point to see past the blurry edge of the illustration.

None of it matters, because no one ever notices what I’m doing anyway, and I’m pulled back into the flow of the fairy tale.

Until today.

As soon as I realized that Delilah had noticed the chessboard in the sand-something that has nothing at all to do with the story-I started to wonder if maybe she might be the one. The one who was able to notice other things that aren’t part of the story.

Mainly, me.

At the very least, I couldn’t let the moment pass without trying. So I scratched the words “HELP ME,” and she saw. I just know she saw.

I’m clinging onto the rock wall, and I’m holding my breath, because I’m so scared she is going to turn the page, just like everyone else.

Except she doesn’t.

“How?” she says, and very slowly, I turn so that I am looking right at her.

I clear my throat, trying to speak out loud. It’s been a long time since my voice was projected anywhere but inside a Reader’s head, and speaking takes great concentration for someone who’s not used to doing it. “Can you… can you hear me?” I ask.

She gasps. “You’re British?”

“Excuse me?”

“You have an accent,” she says. “When I was reading you, I never heard an accent…” Suddenly her eyes widen. “Oh my God, I’ve gone crazy. The book isn’t just changing, it’s talking back to me-”

“No-I’m the one talking…” My heart is racing, and my thoughts are coming fast and furious. This girl, this Delilah, just answered my question. She heard me.

She takes a deep breath. “Okay, Delilah, pull yourself together. Maybe you have a fever. This will all go away with a couple of Tylenol-” She starts to close the book, and with all of my strength I yell.

“No! Don’t!”

“You don’t understand,” she says. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are wild. “Characters in books aren’t real.” She smacks her forehead. “Why I am even explaining this out loud?”

“Because I am real,” I plead. “I’m just as real as you are.” I stare at her. “And you’re the only Reader who’s ever noticed.”

At that, Delilah’s lips part. I find myself thinking about those lips, which look soft and sweet and infinitely more interesting to kiss than Seraphima’s. She pulls away, so that instead of seeing just an up-close view of her face, I am able to see her dark hair, her pink shirt, her fear.

“Please,” I say softly. “Just give me a chance.”

I can see that she’s wavering, considering whether she should slam the book shut or actually listen. So I jump down from the cliff ledge.

“How did you do that?” she gasps. “Where are the batteries?”

“Battery? I can assure you, no one is getting a beating,” I say, crawling upright again.

“You moved,” she accuses, pointing a finger at me.

“So did you,” I say. I decide to test things a bit, and race to the side of the page so that I can run up its edge and do a standing flip. “Did you see that?”

“Yes, but-”

“How about this?” I grab on to the cliff wall and climb it like a monkey. When I reach the top, I take a flying leap and loop my arm around the tail of a letter g, swinging back and forth.

“Now you’re just showing off,” Delilah says.

I laugh. “Do me a favor,” I ask. “Turn the book sideways?”

She does, and I let go so that I drop lightly on the long edge of the page and slide down it to the illustration at the bottom.

“That’s amazing,” Delilah whispers, setting the book upright again. “How do you move?”

“The same way you do, I guess.”

Tentatively, she holds up her hand in front of the book. “How many fingers?”

“Three.”

“So you can see me too?”

“I’ve always been able to see you,” I say. “It’s a rather lovely view.”

I watch her face flood with heat. “I’ve read hundreds of books. How come this hasn’t happened before?”