Between the lines

Delilah

THE MINUTE HIS MOTHER LEAVES, EDGAR turns to me. “This,” he says, wide-eyed, “is wicked awesome!”

I immediately sit down at the computer, furiously typing THE NEW END to the altered fairy tale that will allow Oliver out of the story-but the cursor leaps upward and begins to erase the words I’ve already written. The word NEW is the last to go, leaving THE END just the way it used to be.

“No.” I gasp, and I turn around to confirm my suspicions: Oliver’s body, which has been gradually appearing before our eyes, has vanished.

“Where did he go?” Edgar asks, looking underneath the bed and in the closet.

I don’t know why I can’t make the simple changes on the computer. Maybe it’s a strange firewall the author installed for protection; maybe it’s just some crazy virus. But this is a physical manifestation of what Jessamyn Jacobs told me: this particular story lives in the minds of its readers. It can’t be altered, because it already exists in its original form.

It is just like the time Oliver tried to rewrite the ending of the book from within its confines, just like the time he summoned me into the pages. If something isn’t part of the original version of the story, the change can’t sustain itself. Once you call something a story, it’s set in stone. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end that can’t be transformed, because by definition, if you do that, it’s not the same story anymore.

“It’s happened before,” I explain to Edgar. “It’s like the story has a mind of its own.”

He thinks for a moment. “How good a writer are you?”

“Why?”

“Because I have an idea.” He sits down on the bed, placing his hand on the cover of the book. “You can’t change a story once it’s been told. But what if you create a new story?”

“I don’t understand.”

Edgar leans forward, excited. “Right now, Oliver is the only one who wants to change the plot. Imagine if all the characters inside that book are given a whole new play to perform. If they all buy into it, maybe the story will allow the change.”

I grab the book and open it to page 43. Oliver-white-faced and exhausted-stares up at me from the rock ledge. “You’re all right,” I whisper.

“I’m what I always am,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”

“Edgar has an idea.” I explain the concept to Oliver.

“I don’t see why this is any different,” he says when I finish. “I’m still a character in the story.”

“But at the end of the new story, you leave,” I tell him, “and all the characters are expecting it to happen.”

Oliver sighs. “At this point, I suppose I’m willing to try anything.”

I sit at the computer, because I’m the faster typist. I look at Edgar. “So,” I say. “How does it start?”

We all get quiet. As it turns out, it’s a lot harder than any of us imagined to create something from nothing.

“How about a dog that meets a cat and falls in love even though their families are against it?” Oliver suggests.

“Okay, Romeo,” I reply. “Would you like to come out of the book as a poodle or a pit bull?”

Oliver shakes his head.

“No, I’ve got one.” Edgar’s eyes gleam. “It’s a dark and stormy night, and a zombie ax murderer is on the loose-”

“You really are your mother’s son,” I murmur.

Edgar shrugs. “Well, I don’t see you suggesting anything.”

And then, all of a sudden, it comes to me. “There’s this prince,” I say. “And he’s stuck in a fairy tale. Until a girl on the outside can hear him.”

Bending toward the keyboard, I begin to type.