Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
Indeed, sometimes when Peter returned, he did not remember them, at least not well.
Iwake with a start and a headache. “Ow.” I reach behind me and feel my back, a sore spot along my ribs.
“I told you not to sleep there.” A twin sits on the bed, his eyes on me.
Wiping my mouth, I realize I’d been drooling—and more likely than not, snoring.
“Did a toddler make this chair?” I stand and stretch, my back aching and my tailbone equally sore.
“I think maybe Tootles made it when we were still little. He’s not much good at making things, though.”
“No shit.”
He snorts a laugh. “You talk like a mainlander.”
I glance around, making sure it’s just the two of us. “Is the mainland the real world? That’s the impression I’m getting here.”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘real’ I guess.” He stands, too.
How can you explain what real is to someone who lives on an imaginary island? “Okay, let me rephrase. Is the mainland where I live? Where I came from?”
“Yes. I think we all came from there at some point.” He puts his hands on his hips and taps his fingers. “I mean, I guess that’s how it works. Maybe for everyone except Peter. I don’t know where he came from.”
“Do you remember the mainland, then? Before you came here?”
He looks up. “Ah. Well, it’s fuzzy, to be honest. And Peter says we shouldn’t worry with things that happened before Neverland.”
“Why not?”
“Because Neverland is all there is for us. This is our home, and we love it.”
“Do you, though?” I try to peer deeper inside him, to suss out where he fits into this crazy menagerie my hotdog-addled brain has created.
“What?”
“Do you love it here?”
At that he cracks a smile. “Yeah. No one tells me what to do. Well, no one except Peter. That’s different. It’s not the same as having a parent bossing you around, saying you can’t do this or can’t do that. Here, I do what I want.”
“Don’t you miss home though?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I can’t even remember it. Not really. Come on, breakfast is waiting.” He swipes a hand through his red hair. “I’m Coy, by the way.”
“Moira,” I say stupidly.
“I know.” He gestures toward the door. “You have to be hungry. I think Slightly’s making pancakes.”
“Bathroom?” I ask.
“First door on the right. This way.” He shows me down the narrow hall and into a bathroom. It seems to be roughly hammered from the granite, but there’s a shower, a sink, and a toilet. The whole room is nice, pristine even, as if none of the men even use it.
When I walk out, Coy’s still waiting.
“That was Wendy’s. She demanded it.” He mimics a young Wendy, waggling his finger as if berating a child, his voice rising an octave. “A lady needs her own washroom!”
“So you knew her?” I follow him through the halls and caverns.
“I was here when she came. Yeah. I wanted her to be my mother so badly. I don’t even remember why. Seems an odd thing for me to want. Anyway, I still think about her every so often.” He sounds almost sad. “I’m sorry she’s gone.”
“I wish I could’ve met her. Then again, I may have had her committed after hearing her tall tales about Peter Pan and Neverland.”
“You remind me of her.” He guides me past the stalactites and a small waterfall I missed on my way through the first time. “Not the way you dress or even the way you talk, but there’s something of her in you. I know it.”
I look down at my now-grubby sweatshirt and even grubbier jeans. “Yeah, I can’t imagine she wore clothes like these.”
“No.” He pushes through a creaky door that leads into the kitchen from last night.
The men are crowded in again, some going in and out and carrying plates. Empty plates.
My stomach growls.
“Moira!” Peter slides a plate down the table, and it stops perfectly in front of where I’m standing. “I made an extra-big stack for you.”
There aren’t any pancakes. I sigh. “I can’t tell if you’re serious.”
“Why wouldn’t I be serious?” He walks over to me, his brown eyes curious.
“Because, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there aren’t any pancakes.” I wave my hand at the stove where Slightly is flipping nothing into the air. “There isn’t any food.”
“What?” He cocks his head to the side.
“There’s no food, Peter.” I sit at the table and press my palm onto the empty plate. “See? Nothing.”
Slightly makes a low grumble from his place at the stove. “Didn’t have to ruin ‘em, Moira.”
Guilt tries to rise in me, but I bat it back down. Because it’s ridiculous. There are no pancakes! “I didn’t ruin anything,” I snap back, admittedly crabby from the lack of caffeine and food. “There’s nothing here.”
The firefly is back, flitting around the kitchen and ringing its odd little noises. It comes closer to me, and I swipe it away.
Peter goes preternaturally still as do the others.
I look up at him. “What?”
A flash of light blinds me, and from nowhere, a woman stands in front of me, her skin sparkled with gold and her eyes of an even more brilliant hue. “You almost hit me, you stupid bitch!” she yells, her voice like a shattered bell.
I slap my hands over my ears and try to lean away from her. She’s small, but she came out of fucking nowhere, and she has wings on her back and a vicious black scar running down one side of her face.
“I could kill you right here, right now. I could end you with nothing more than a snap of my fingers!” She lifts her hand, her finger and thumb poised, a vicious glint in her golden eyes.
“Tink!” Peter barks harshly.
“Tinker Bell?” I sit up straighter and drop my hands from my ears. “You’re the fairy in Wendy’s story. I remember you!” I was under the impression Tinker Bell would be beautiful and sweet, forever helpful to the Lost Boys.
“I’m going to be the foot up your ass if you ever raise your hand to me again!”
My impression is decidedly incorrect.
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
She sneers. “Mainland trash, no wonder. First Wendy and now you.” She spits on the floor at my feet, her saliva a sparkling gold.
“Tink, that’s enough!” Peter grabs her shoulder and pulls her back, but with another flash of light, she’s gone. the firefly has returned, the bell ringing incessantly as she flits around the kitchen then disappears into a side room.
“What the hell?” I stare after her, wondering if she’s going to show back up and knife me.
“Tink is kind of wild,” Slightly says apologetically. “And very possessive of Peter. She can be—”
“Psychotic?” I fill in.
“Bold,” Peter offers.
I sit back in my chair and take a deep, steadying breath. “Great. I have no food, no way home, and now a fairy hates me.” Despite myself, tears begin to prick at my eyes. I don’t want to cry, but sometimes there’s nothing for it.
“Hey.” Coy takes the seat next to me. “Hey, it’ll be okay, Moira. Don’t cry.”
I can’t help it. Big, hot tears begin to slide down my cheeks, and I shove my plate away and bury my face in my arms.
Peter sighs. “This isn’t how I wanted it to go.” He grips my shoulder and squeezes lightly. “I’ll talk to her. Don’t worry. She’d never hurt you.”
That’s not what it sounded like to me, but I don’t bother responding. Instead, I let the tears go and sob, my face thankfully hidden as I keep my forehead pressed to my arms on top of the table.
I keep crying until it’s all gone. Until my tears dry up, and I’m left with the sound of my sniffling breaths and the same headache I woke up with, but now with more sinus pressure. Wonderful.
Clearing my throat, I sit up.
Seven men stare at me, their faces vacillating between concern and horror.
“What? What’s the problem, guys? Aren’t you going to eat your breakfast?” An admittedly hysterical laugh rips from me as I survey their empty plates. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I say through rogue chuckles. “Sorry.”
Peter leans over and whispers something in Coy’s ear. He takes off, leaving the kitchen at nearly a run.
“I’m fine.” I sigh and wipe my sleeve down my face. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”
“You really can’t see the food?” Peter peers down at me.
“No!” My irritation returns. “There’s no food.”
He shakes his head slowly. “But Wendy always ate with us.”
“I’m not Wendy!” I stand, knocking my chair over as I back away from the table. “I don’t belong here. Just let me go.”
Peter holds out his hands, palms toward me. “It’s not safe out—”
“I don’t care!” My back hits the wall, my breaths coming in sharp and short bursts.
“I want to go home. I have class. I-I have an assignment due for creative writing. I have papers to grade. I-I-I—” I stop to catch my breath, but I can’t seem to.
Bending over, I grip my knees and try to breathe. Black spots dance in my vision.
“It’s okay, Moira. Everything’s okay.” Peter stands next to me, his presence like a sturdy earthen root, grounding him while I’m still adrift. “Finally,” he snaps as I hear footsteps.
“Moira, can you see these?” He passes a plate in front of my eyes.
I’m still trying to breathe, and I sink down onto the hard floor.
“Yes. Berries. Purple but with silver stems.” I see them, but what does that even mean?
They could be poison. Or I could be joining their ridiculous hallucination.
‘Confused’ doesn’t even begin to cover what I’m feeling at the moment.
“Neverberries, yes.” Peter sighs with relief and plops down next to me. “These are delicious. I promise. Eat these until we can figure out why you can’t see the food.”
“Maybe I should try to make her pancakes with neverberries in them?” Slightly asks.
“Let’s start slow,” Coy cautions, and he sits on my other side, his legs crossed.
“See if you like them. Then we can go from there. Nibs, hand me a napkin.” He holds his hand out, and one of the men slips a rough canvas bit of fabric into it.
“Here you go.” He drapes it across my knees as Peter offers the plate. “Try one, okay?”