Between the Lines (16 page)

Now comes the hard part. Delilah and I have realized that if I’m to paint myself into this canvas, Rapscullio can’t be watching. It’s just too much to risk—what if I confide my plan to him and he tries to stop me, or tells Frump and the others that I’m attempting to leave the story? I could try to dupe him into simply painting me onto the canvas as part of the gift portrait, but what if he figures out, midway, what is happening and leaves me half in Delilah’s world and half in mine? I am not an artist by any means, but it’s all we’ve got.

Together we’ve devised a plan—with the help of something called Google and a search for rare species of butterflies. If I stick to the script we’ve written, Delilah is certain Rapscullio will leave me alone here—we hope long enough for me to pick up a paintbrush and create an image of myself on that canvas.

“Oh my goodness!” I cry, snapping my head toward the open window. “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

“I’m sure it was nothing. Just a butterfly.”

“Butterfly?” Rapscullio’s eyes widen. “What did it look like?”

“Tiny and electric blue… with a black-and-white border on its wings?”

He leaps toward the window. “An Adonis blue? You saw an Adonis blue? But they’re supposed to be extinct!” Rapscullio hesitates. “You don’t think it was just a Chalkhill blue, do you?”

“No, not a Chalkhill,” I say. “Definitely not a Chalkhill.” What the devil is a Chalkhill?

“Hmm.” He glances out the window again. “Are we all set here, then? Because if you don’t mind, I might take a poke outside with my net to see if I can catch the Adonis before we have to do our next book performance.”

“Go right ahead,” I say. “Perfectly understandable.”

I wave as he sprints out of the room. Then I look at the canvas again. It is a stunning, realistic representation of Delilah’s room. I only wish I had Rapscullio’s artistic talent.

“Here goes nothing,” I mutter, and I pick up the paintbrush that Rapscullio’s left on the palette. I catch my reflection in the window glass—Delilah and I both think with the subject right in front of my eyes, I may be able to at least make an adequate copy, even if I’m no artist. I touch the canvas, leaving a faint mark the same
color as my sleeve. I rinse the brush and mix a new color, one that matches my flesh.

But then I hesitate. Putting the brush down, I walk into the adjoining room, where the butterfly is still beating senselessly against the glass jar. I twist the lid, and watch it fly out the open window.

Just in case something goes wrong, at least one of us will be free.

WHAT
IS TAKING HIM SO LONG?

I’ve been waiting for an hour and a half, and still, zip. Nada. Nothing.

I could open the book.

I told him I wouldn’t open the book.

The minute I do, of course, any headway he’s made with Rapscullio will be erased, and they’ll all be performing the story again.

“Oliver,” I say out loud, “this is ridiculous.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

I nearly jump a foot when I hear my mother’s voice. She is standing in the doorway, looking worried.

“Delilah, it’s after midnight. And you’ve been talking
to yourself the whole night—don’t try to argue with me, I’ve been listening through the door—”

“You’ve been
eavesdropping
on me?”

“Honey,” my mother says, sitting down on the bed, “I think maybe you need someone to talk to.” She hesitates. “Someone real, I mean.”

“I
am
talking to someone—”

“Delilah, I know what depression looks like—and I know what it feels like. When your father walked out, I had to drag myself out of bed every day just to get you to school, and to pretend for you that everything was okay. But you don’t have to pretend for my sake.”

“Mom, I’m not depressed—”

“You spend all your time alone in your room. You say that you hate swimming, that you hate school. And your only friend looks like a vampire—”

“
You’re
the one who told me not to judge a book by its cover,” I argue, immediately thinking of Oliver. “I’m fine. Honestly. I kind of want to be alone right now.”

From my mother’s face, I can tell this was exactly
not
the right thing to say. “On Monday, I’m going to see whether we can get you an appointment with Dr. Ducharme—”

“But I’m not sick!”

“Dr. Ducharme’s a psychiatrist,” my mother says gently.

I open my mouth to argue, but before I can speak, I notice something shimmering beside my mother’s left shoulder.

It’s a hand.

A disembodied, floating, translucent hand.

I blink, and rub my eyes. I have got to get my mother out of this room now.

“Okay,” I say. “Whatever you want.”

Her jaw drops. “You mean, you’re not going to fight me on this?”

“No. Dr. DuWhatever. Monday. Got it.” I pull her to her feet and walk her to the threshold. “Gosh, I didn’t realize I was so tired! Good night!”

I slam the door and turn around, certain that the hand will have disappeared—but there it is, and now there’s an arm attached too.

Except the arm is flat and two-dimensional. Like a cartoon arm. Which is exactly what I was afraid would happen if Oliver were to come into this world.

I’d rather have him stay the way he is than change. I just wish other people—like my mom—felt that way about me.

I grab the book and rip it open to page 43. Oliver stands at the bottom of the rock cliff. As I watch, the blue
paint spattering his tunic vanishes, until he looks the same way he always does on page 43. “
What
are you doing?” he yells.

“Saving your life!”

“It was
working
!”

“Oliver, you started to show up in my room. But you started to show up flat as a pancake. Did you really want to live in my world that way?”

“Maybe I just looked like that because I wasn’t finished yet,” he says. “Maybe I’d puff up like a pastry at the very end.”

“Even so—how would you be able to finish painting yourself out of the story? At the very least, your arm or fingers or hand would have to stay behind to put those last brushstrokes on the canvas.”

He sinks down to the ground. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I know,” I say sadly. “I’m really sorry.”

Oliver is sitting with his knees drawn, his head bent. I wish I could tell him everything will work out in the end, but that’s only true in fairy tales—the very place he’s trying to escape.

“Maybe we should call it a night,” I whisper. I set the book, still open to page 43, on my nightstand and crawl into bed.

“Delilah?” Oliver’s voice drifts to me. “Do me a favor?”

I sit up again. “Anything.”

“Can you close the book, please?” He looks away. “I kind of want to be alone right now.”

These are the very words I just said to my mother. The same ones she insisted were signs of depression. I wish I knew how to help Oliver. I wonder if my mother feels this way about me.

But instead, I just nod and, as gently as I can, do what he’s asked.

page 32

O
liver eased his way inside the tiny cottage. There were piles of books and jumbles of glass bottles in all shapes and sizes. The old wizard led him to an adjoining room whose rafters were thick with dried herbs and flowers. He stuck a bony finger between his chapped lips and wet it with the tip of his tongue, then pressed it against the dusty page of a large leather book and flipped through it, scanning the spells. Finally he smiled, and his face creased into a hundred more wrinkles. “Ah,” said Orville. “Pass me that Rubicon flower, will you, my boy?”

Oliver had no idea what that was, but he pointed to a dried, crusted orange button on the stone worktable before him. When Orville nodded, Oliver handed it to the wizard, who rubbed the bud between his palms before letting the petals settle in a big wooden bowl.

“And the three bottles to your left?” Orville continued to mix and stir, to taste and test. “And the vial to your right—no, be careful with that!” Orville warned as Oliver realized how hot the glass was to the touch. He glanced down to find his fingerprint burned into a whorl pattern on its side.