by Jodi Picoult
When I reach my room, I slam the door and open to page 43. Oliver is still shimmying into position on the rock wall, clutching at his chest. When he sees me, he lets go of his tunic, and several rolls of bright-colored streamers fall from the folds of velvet, unrolling to the edges of the page. “Why are you interrupting me?” he asks. “I’m in the middle of planning my own birthday party.”
“I know,” I tell him. “I just wanted to make sure everything was going all right.”
“Well, it rather was. Until you interrupted me.” He smiles as he’s saying this, though, so I know he’s not really upset to see me. “And your preparations?”
“They were going fine until I temporarily lost you,” I say. “My mother moved the book.”
“Ah, right. I forgot to tell you, with all that’s been happening and Jessamyn’s illness—but your mother, she read us the other day.”
“She what?”
“It was when you were at school, presumably. I thought it was you, opening the book as usual—except it wasn’t.”
“Are you serious? What is she doing in my room? Snooping?”
“Maybe she just wanted a good story to read.” Oliver looks up. “We are a book, you know. Believe it or not, we do have day jobs. It’s been so long since we were able to act the fairy tale out; everyone was quite delighted. Everyone except me,” he confesses.
“But what if something went wrong? What if she recognized you?”
“I did the best I could to keep her from seeing my face,” Oliver admits. “She didn’t seem to think anything was amiss.”
“This time,” I point out.
“Well,” Oliver says, “if it all goes well tonight . . . perhaps there won’t be a next time.” He grins up at me broadly. “I truly do adore talking to you, Delilah, but I can’t leave this page unless you’re gone.” He holds up two rolls of streamers. “And I have an entire kingdom to decorate.”
I hide a smile. “I love you too,” I say, and very gently, I close the book.
It takes a considerable amount of planning and effort to get dressed in my costume. The first layer is a hoop skirt and a corset, followed by a petticoat that gets tied—and knotted—around my waist. After that comes the gown, draped with satin and lace. The cherry on top is a tiara, a little comb that gets wired into my hair and twinkles with fake gems.
I keep my Converse sneakers on underneath, because no one will see them.
Then I step up to the dreaded full-length mirror inside my closet door, where I usually take one last glance at myself before I leave for school, always finding something to criticize—my hair, my hips, my freckles.
But this time, I just stop and stare.
I look . . . pretty.
The pink gown makes my cheeks look rosy, and the way the waist nips in makes me seem like I actually have a figure. My hair, for once, doesn’t look like a bird’s nest. It’s twisted up partway to hold the little crown, and the rest cascades in curls, thanks to the humidity of Hurricane Harvey.
I wonder what Oliver will think when he sees me.
If he sees me.
Shaking my head clear, I force myself to think positively. “When,” I say firmly out loud.
If Jessamyn is right—if wishes are all it takes for a dream to come true—then it’s at least worth trying. So although I feel silly, although I am not in the habit of talking to myself, I close my eyes, clasp my hands, and hope.
“Please,” I whisper. “Bring him back to me.”
At that moment, there is a crack of thunder so loud it rattles the house, and a flash of lightning fills the room. The next moment, the power goes out, and everything goes dark.
It just doesn’t seem like a great omen.
If any party were suited to a lack of electricity, it would be a Halloween bash. My mother and I have set candles all over the house, on every available saucer we own—so many that I suggested inviting the fire department, just so they wouldn’t have to make an extra trip. The flames flicker and cast shadows on the walls, making everything look ten times creepier. The raindrops that race down the glass panes of the windows are illuminated by the candlelight, and maybe because there’s nothing else to do—no TV or computer—the turnout is huge.
There are kids dressed as pirates and cowboys and cops. James and his boyfriend are salt-and-pepper shakers. Raj is wearing a milk carton on his head with the face cut out of it, and the word MISSING across the top.
“Really?” I ask, when he first comes inside.
“It’s clever,” he tells me. “Chicks dig clever.”
“But . . . really?”
“Brains over body,” Raj insists. “So, where are the hot girls?”
I watch him scan the crowd, his eyes lighting on Claire, who is trying to channel “sexy nerd” with her costume but seems to simply be wearing what she had on yesterday, with a pair of hipster glasses. “Score,” Raj says, and he moves off in her direction.
Everyone seems to be having a decent time—except Chris, who’s moping by himself in a corner. I sidle up to him, as best as someone can sidle wearing a giant petticoat. “Hey,” I say.
He glances down at me from beneath the brim of his red Super Mario hat. His lips twist beneath his fake mustache. “I’m guessing you heard.”
I reach up and pat his shoulder. “I’m really sorry it didn’t work out. But seriously, you’re not going to have any trouble finding someone else.”
He tries to smile but doesn’t quite manage. “Did she tell you why?” Chris asks. “Was it something I did?”
“Trust me, it’s not you. It’s just . . . really bad timing right now.”
He looks down at me, his expression pained. “I don’t want things to get weird now, you know? I mean, you being Jules’s best friend and all . . . ?”
“It’s only weird if you make it that way,” I promise.
Just then a car drives up, its headlights cutting across the room as it pulls up to the curb. I’m expecting Jules with the guest of honor and his mom—but to my absolute shock, when I open the door, there stands Allie McAndrews and her entourage.
Her minions are all dressed like sexy cats.
And Allie? She’s wearing a gown that looks identical to mine.
“I didn’t expect you to come,” I say.
Allie raises a brow. “Please. I’m the one who’s going to make this party. You should be honored.”
I am not going to let Allie spoil this night. “Well, clearly you have good taste in costumes,” I say amiably, gesturing at our matching dresses and trying to make a lame joke. “Two princesses in a pod . . .”
Allie looks horrified. “I am not just some stupid Disney princess,” she says. “I’m—”
“Princess Peach!” Chris finishes, grabbing her hand and bowing over it, in his blue overalls.
Allie beams. “Thank you for rescuing me, Mario!” she twitters.
Chris laughs. “I didn’t peg you as a Super Mario fan.”
“Are you kidding me?” Allie says, animated, in a way I’ve never seen her before. “It’s the best game ever. What else would I do while waiting for my toes to dry?”
I stifle a laugh, wishing Jules were here to see this. The cats standing behind Allie look at each other, completely confused. I guess that makes sense. It’s not every day you learn that your Queen Bee is a gamer.
Allie turns on them. “Oh, please. Brittany, we all know you still watch My Little Pony. And, Chloe, your hairdresser’s not the only one who knows you’re not a natural blonde.”
She sounds like Allie—mean, that is—but there’s something different about it. She seems annoyed, as if she’s sick of having to live up to an audience 24/7.
It’s almost as if she’s . . . well, human.
“Thank God Super Mario 3D World upgraded Peach,” Allie adds. “I mean, how lame was it that when New Super Mario Brothers came out for the Wii, Nintendo couldn’t afford the extra programming for her dress, so she wasn’t a playable character?”
Chris’
s jaw drops. “Marry me,” he jokes.
She slips her arm through his. “How about we start with a Diet Coke?”
As they walk into the crowd, the door opens again. Jules is holding an umbrella over herself and Jessamyn, who is dressed in scrubs, with a surgical cap covering her hair and a mask obscuring half her face.
Jessamyn catches me staring at her costume. “I used to be a writer,” she explains, her eyes dancing above the mask. “I like irony.”
“And I like dry clothes,” Edgar mutters, standing in the rain behind them. “Any chance we could move inside?”
For a moment, when he first steps in wearing a full prince costume that matches Oliver’s, I can’t breathe. They look that much alike.
Which is why, I remind myself, this is going to work.
“Happy birthday,” I say.
“Not until nine-fifteen,” Edgar replies. “Remember?”
Not wanting to leave anything to chance, we have arranged with Oliver to blow out the candles on his own birthday cake at the exact moment of Edgar’s birth.
My mother, wearing her witch costume, approaches when she sees Edgar enter. “You must be Jessamyn,” she says. “I’m Grace. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“Thanks for taking care of Edgar a few weeks ago,” Jessamyn replies. “I’ve had some health issues lately, and it’s really nice to know that he has people looking out for him.”
I follow her gaze as it lights on my mother, me, the crowd of Edgar’s friends. These are the people in whose hands she thinks she will be leaving her son, once she’s gone.
Gradually everyone notices that Edgar’s finally here. His name is chanted, echoing around the house, birthday wishes falling like confetti.
My mother turns to Jessamyn. “I’m just going to get the cake ready, if you want to come into the kitchen. Unless, of course, raging is your thing.”
She grins. “The kitchen sounds great.”
As they walk off, Jules, Edgar, and I huddle together. “Is Oliver ready?” Edgar asks.
“I guess so,” I tell him. “Are you?”
“Yeah. Jules has an extra set of scrubs in her bag for Maureen to dress in when she gets here. People might notice if my mom’s costume suddenly changes in the middle of the party.” His eyes flicker to the kitchen. “I’m just going to make sure she doesn’t need anything.”
As he heads through the crowd, I’m the only one who sees the pain written on Jules’s face. She turns away, and her eyes widen. “Allie is here? Who invited her?”
“Herself,” I say mildly. “But, Jules, there’s something you need to know—”
Just then Chris walks up to Allie, holding a can of Diet Coke. Their heads bend together, laughing, as they talk.
“And . . . now this night can’t get any worse,” Jules moans.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. He deserves to be happy,” Jules says, but she isn’t looking at Chris. She’s staring at Edgar as he weaves away from her.
The party plays out before me like a scene from a movie, like something I’m watching but not part of. Laughter and talking and dancing and movement; conversations full of gestures that look, at a distance, like charades. Edgar comes up behind me, close enough to whisper in my ear. “Who knew a hurricane could be so much fun?” he says.
I turn, and when I see other people watching us I thread my fingers through his, putting on a show. “I was just thinking,” I say, “about how it doesn’t rain in the book.”
He frowns, then nods. “You’re right. I guess I never really noticed.”
“When Oliver first came here and it rained, he asked who was crying. I think that’s the only precipitation he’d ever seen—a reader’s tears.” I look up at Edgar. “You know how nobody likes the rain here? How we duck out of it, or complain when our shoes get wet, or get pissed off if we forget to bring an umbrella? Well, Oliver loved it. He thought it was the most miraculous thing, that the sky could leak and fix itself again. That first storm, he ran outside, flung his arms wide, and just turned in circles, laughing as he got drenched.”
I glance out the window again. “The last week Oliver was here, it rained. I noticed when he came to school, he was carrying an umbrella. And I thought, Did I do that to him? Did I make him stop believing in magic?”
“Maybe we just adapt to where we need to be,” Edgar says. “Maybe that is the magic.”
I take a deep breath and nod as Jules approaches. She’s fixed her makeup, but I can tell she’s been crying—her eyes are red-rimmed.
“It’s past nine,” she says. “Should we get ready?”
I look from Edgar to Jules; they’re staring so intently at each other that I expect the space between them to spontaneously combust. “Can I have a minute with Jules?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say, but I’m pretty sure they don’t hear me.
In the kitchen, I find my mother and Jessamyn sticking eighteen candles in the cake. “One for good luck,” I tell her desperately. “You can’t forget that. It’s the most important.”
My mother looks at me oddly but heads into the pantry to find an extra candle.
Jessamyn puts her hand on my arm. “Thank you, Delilah,” she says. “For doing this for Edgar. And for me.”
I open my mouth to tell her that she’ll be celebrating many more birthdays with her son, but then catch myself. “Edgar loves you,” I tell her. “More than anything. He’d give up everything for you, you know.”
“I’m a very lucky woman,” Jessamyn says, and over her surgical mask, her eyes are too bright.
She blinks away her tears as my mother returns, holding not just the candle but also a box of matches.
I glance at my phone. It’s 9:10.
“Let’s do this,” I say, exhaling.
While my mother lights the candles, I go into the living room and turn off the laptop that’s playing music. Conversation trickles, drying to silence, as everyone turns to me. “Where’s the birthday boy?” I ask.
“Here,” Jules announces. She walks into the room, pulling Edgar behind her. I have no idea what transpired between them, but they both look like they’ve been through a war. Jules lets go of Edgar when he reaches the dining room table, and comes to stand beside me, across from him.
It’s 9:12.
“Happy birthday to you,” my mother starts singing, and everyone joins her.
Happy birthday to you . . .
Happy birthday, dear Edgar . . .
Happy birthday to you!
I look at my phone. It’s 9:13. Crap. Why is that song so short? Edgar stares at me, panicking. “Are you . . . one?” I call out. “Are you . . . two? Are you . . . three?” I clap at each number, and eventually the crowd chimes in.
By the time we reach eighteen, it’s 9:14. I watch the seconds tick.
“Okay,” I vamp, “I hope you’ve got a great wish!”
Ten more seconds. That’s our cue. I nod at Edgar, who leans down toward the cake. It casts a glow over his features as his brow furrows and he concentrates. I see his lips moving silently as he says the words that have been prearranged.
Right now, inside the book that is safely waiting in my bedroom, Oliver is saying the exact same sentence.
I wish for a life with the person I love the most.
The alarm I’ve set on my phone dings—9:15.
At the last moment, Jules rushes forward so that she’s close enough to Edgar to touch him. Suddenly there’s a crash as a burst of wind blows open one of the old, uninsulated windows in our house. The gust swirls through the room, stealing the breath of every candle. For a heartbeat, the room goes pitch-black.
And then, with a whir of machinery and electronic beeping, the power comes back on.
“Awesome wish, dude,” Raj calls out.
I blink, unaccustomed to the bright light. And immediately I feel sick—nothing happened. Nothing changed. Edgar is still bent over his cake, his eyes closed. Jules has her hand on his back.
“
Edgar?” Jules whispers.
His eyes open at the sound of her voice.
He turns toward Jules.
And walks right past her.
Staring straight at me, as if I am the only person in the room, he smiles crookedly. A smile I know; a smile I fell in love with. And then Oliver swings me into his arms and kisses me.
EDGAR
I wish for a life with the person I love the most.
All of a sudden my hair is blown back from my face by a powerful wind, and everything goes black. There’s a pounding in my head, and then so much brightness enveloping me that I squint, unable to see.
I feel a hand on my back. “Edgar?”
I turn, focusing on the doctor’s face. Then she pulls down her mask, and I see my mother.
I look up to find us on the sand at Everafter Beach. In a horseshoe surrounding us are all the characters from the book. I crane my neck and see the tangled tails of letters overhead.
My mother takes a step backward, gasping. “Am I . . . am I dead?”
“No,” I cry, throwing my arms around her. “No. You’re very much alive.” Over her shoulder, I grin wildly at the others. “It worked!” I cry, the words bursting from me like fireworks. “It really worked!”
A chorus of cheers rises from the beach. My mother, though, is panicked. She turns in circles, as if she is trapped, her eyes wide at the flat, two-dimensional oddness of the interior of the book, her body jumping slightly every time one of the characters speaks. She has a punishing grip on my arm. “Where are we?” she whispers.
I grasp her shoulder. “It’s okay, Mom. I’ve been here before. And so have you. You’re the one who wrote this.”
She shakes her head. “This isn’t . . . This can’t be . . .”
Rapscullio hesitantly steps toward us. He reaches for my mother’s hand, falls to one knee, and bows his head. “Your Majesty. It is an honor, and a privilege, to finally meet you.”
Captain Crabbe approaches next and kisses her hand. “I swear my allegiance to you, always,” he vows.