Between the lines

slightest whimper escape from Frump.

That’s it. I am ready to say anything Delilah wants me to.

“I give up,” I cry out, and immediately, Delilah turns to the strange man.

“Did you hear that?” she says, and she lets the book fall open, mercifully to the page with Pyro instead of the one with Seraphima.

“You heard something?” the man asks.

“Didn’t you?” Delilah says.

Pyro is snorting small puffs of smoke.

It is the strangest feeling, to have words drawn out of your throat like water from a well, as if you have no control over stopping it from happening. I know these same words will float across the minds of Delilah and this man as they read the story. “Wait!” I cry, my mouth twisting into a conversation I’ve had a hundred times. “I didn’t come here to fight you. I’m here to help!”

The dragon’s scales shimmer in the strong sunlight. He pulls himself upright, to a full muscular height of twelve feet, and his teeth gnash as he takes a step forward. He belches, and sparks shoot from his nostrils.

I cannot take my eyes off Pyro’s mouth, the smoke seeping through his lips. One more line and he is going to shoot a fireball that sets a tree beside me into flames.

Suddenly I realize: this is my chance.

Pyro’s huge jaws open, and a blazing streak curls off the run of his tongue. I grab the fairy-tale book I’ve stolen from Rapscullio, hold it up to cover my face, and leap forward, setting myself on fire.

The last thing I remember is hearing Delilah scream.

Delilah

ACROSS FROM THE COUCH IN DR. DUCHARME’S office is a huge aquarium full of tropical fish. I know it’s supposed to be pretty, or relaxing, but it just makes me depressed. I’m quite sure they’d all much rather be doing the backstroke somewhere in the Caribbean.

“So,” the psychiatrist says, “tell me, off the top of your head, five places you’d rather be than here.”

I look up at him. “In England during the Black Plague, at the dentist getting a root canal, at a taping of Teletubbies, locked inside a Porta Potti, and… taking the SATs.”

He steeples his fingers together, considering these. “Teletubbies?” he says after a moment, wincing. “That bad?”

“That bad,” I say, but my lips twitch.

He has a nice smile, and all his hair, and he’s about my mom’s age. “Your mother says that you are somewhat less than thrilled to meet with me,” Dr. Ducharme says.

“Don’t take it personally. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“I’m glad to hear that. But that’s not why your mom is concerned.” He leans forward. “What worries her is that you seem to be isolating yourself lately. You’ve become dependent on-maybe even obsessed with-this book.”

When I don’t reply, he clasps his hands. “When I was your age, I used to watch A Christmas Story every Christmas at least ten times. ‘You’ll shoot your eye out!’” he quotes.

I stare at him blankly.

“Guess you’ve never seen it,” the doctor says. “My point is, I used to watch that movie over and over because it was easier than admitting to myself that Christmas is a really crappy day for a kid whose parents are divorced. Sometimes the things we treasure for comfort are just masking a deeper symptom.” He looks at me directly. “Maybe you can tell me why this story means so much to you?”

I don’t know how to respond. If I say Oliver speaks to me, I look insane.

“I don’t read it because I miss my dad or I hate my mother or any of the other juicy things psychiatrists always think. It’s really not a big deal.”

“Your mom seems to think it is a pretty big deal to you,” Dr. Ducharme replies. “I don’t know many fifteen-year-olds who spend their time reading fairy tales.”

“It’s not just a fairy tale,” I blurt out.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a one-of-a-kind story. The only copy in existence.”

“I see,” the psychiatrist says. “You’re intrigued by rare books?”

“No,” I admit, blushing. “The main character. I can relate to him.”

“How, exactly?”

I think for a second, watching the fish in Dr. Ducharme’s tank swim in trapped circles. “He wishes his life could be different.”

“Do you wish your life could be different?”

“No!” I say, frustrated. “It’s not about me. It’s what he’s told me.” Immediately, I panic-I’ve just admitted exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t.

“So… you hear him talking?”

The psychiatrist thinks I’m nuts. Then again, why would I be here if I wasn’t? “I’m not hearing voices. I’m just hearing Oliver. Look,” I say, “I’ll show you.”

I skim through the book until I land on page 43. There’s Oliver frozen, clinging to the rock wall, dagger in his mouth. “Oliver,” I demand, “say something.”

Nothing.

“Oliver!” I groan. “I don’t know why he’s not talking to me.”

“And how does that make you feel?” Dr. Ducharme asks.

Oliver knows I’m here. I can see it, in the way his eyes slide toward mine when he thinks the psychiatrist isn’t looking. Can’t he understand that I need him more than ever? That this isn’t the time to fool around? That our entire future together might be dependent on him actually emitting a sound right now? I lean in and press my nose to the book. “Oliver,” I grit out. “Speak!”

There’s no response.

Well, if he wants to play games, I’m perfectly happy to do just that.

“Fine, then. Let’s try this scene.” I turn to the last page in the book, where Oliver and Seraphima are locked together in a perfect kiss.

I think I see him squirm.

It serves him right.

“Do you ever have trouble telling the difference between… for example… a dream you’ve had the night before and reality?” the doctor asks.

“I’m not making this up,” I insist. “Hmm. Let’s look at that again.” Angry, I flip back and forth between a scene where Oliver is fighting the dragon and the final page. Is it my imagination, or is he actually kissing Seraphima as if he’s enjoying it?

Angrily, I open and close the book a few more times.

Then, faintly:

“I give up.”

“Did you hear that?” I cry.

“You heard something?”

Oliver. I heard Oliver, loud and clear. “Didn’t you?” I ask, but I already know the answer. Oliver told me that in all the years he’s been in this fairy tale, I’m the first reader who ever listened.

The psychiatrist gently pries the book out of my hands and places it on the coffee table between us, still open to the page where Oliver stands toe to toe with Pyro.

“Delilah,” he says quietly, “I know sometimes it’s easier to make believe than to have to deal with the