Between the Lines by Jodi Picoult, Samantha van Leer Page A

tray—backs out of my room. “That was close,” I tell him, and sigh.
    He grins. “What’s for dinner?”
    “Can we be serious here?” I say. “I don’t suppose you’ve taken any art classes?”
    Oliver laughs. “Those,” he replies, “are for princesses. ”
    “Oh yeah? Tell that to Michelangelo. Let’s say that someone painted over that magic canvas so it isn’t a portrait of Rapscullio’s lair… but instead a painting of my bedroom. And then you happen to start to paint yourself onto it. Logic says that—”
    “I’ll wind up in your bedroom!” Oliver’s eyes shine. “Delilah, you are amazing!”
    When he says those words, a shiver runs the length of my spine. What if he did show up right now, sitting on my bed? Would he high-five me? Hug me?
    Kiss me?
    At the thought of that, my cheeks burn like they’re on fire. I hold my palms up against them, hoping Oliver hasn’t noticed.
    “Ah, now I’ve embarrassed you,” he says. “All right, then. You are not amazing. You’re perfectly ordinary. Run-of-the-mill. Completely dismissible.”
    “Shut up,” I say, but I’m smiling. “I want to try an experiment. Have you got your dagger?”
    “Of course,” Oliver replies. He draws it from its sheath. “Why?”
    “Draw a picture of me. On the rock wall.”
    He blinks. “Right now?”

     
    “No, next Thursday.”
    “Oh, good.” Oliver starts to put the dagger away.
    “I was joking! Of course right now!”
    Is it my imagination, or does he look a little green? “Right,” Oliver mutters. “A portrait.” He poises the tip of the knife over the granite. “Of you.” He steps forward, blocking my view as he begins to etch on the rock. Twice, he looks over his shoulder to peer at my face.
    I think of all the beautiful paintings hanging in museums around the world—muses captured on canvas: the Mona Lisa, the birth of Venus, the girl with a pearl earring. “Voilà,” Oliver declares, and he steps aside.
    Carved onto the rock wall is a disproportionate figure with bug eyes, snake hair, and a flat line of a mouth. Apparently, to Oliver, I look like a Muppet.
    “Not bad, eh?” he says. “Although, I don’t think I quite captured your nose….”
    No wonder; he’s drawn it as a triangle.
    I hesitate. “No offense, Oliver, but you might not be the ideal choice to paint a picture of my room.”
    He frowns at the portrait he’s drawn of me, and then smiles. “Perhaps not,” Oliver says, “but I know just the fellow who is.”



page 31
     
    P rince Oliver dreamed that one of the mermaids was still kissing him. He was fighting to pull away from her, struggling to breathe—and then he opened his eyes. No mermaid was kissing him, just Frump, licking his face as Socks whinnied and stamped his foot a few feet away. Oliver sat up, damp and bedraggled, on the ocean shore. He had no recollection of the mermaids bringing him to the surface, and he might have considered it all a nightmare, except for the fact that in one hand he was clutching his compass, and in the other he was holding a sack that contained the flotsam and jetsam the mermaids had claimed to be treasures.
    One hour into their journey, Oliver and his faithful entourage reached the River of Regret, a mile-wide whitewater fury that hadclaimed the lives of many who’d tried to cross it. The only hope for passage was the Bridge of Trolls, which—it had to be said—was nearly as perilous.
    It is a well-known fact that trolls either always tell the truth or always lie. And that every day they build two bridges—one safe and one designed to collapse at the first hint of weight.
    Oliver dismounted, patted Frump on the head, and walked to the edge of the cliff. He could see three small, squat men shuffling about with hammers and nails on the far side. One of the bridges appeared rickety and weak; the other was strongly fashioned—but Oliver knew that looks could be deceiving.
    “Helloooo?” Oliver called, but the trolls continued