Between the lines

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.

OLIVER

THERE IS ONLY ONE PAGE IN THE BOOK WHERE I’M alone, 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?”

“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!