Chapter 9 #2
Peter frowns. “Tinker Bell has very politely requested you keep her people’s name out of your mouth.”
“What is your problem?” I ask the tiny firefly.
The bell rings louder and faster now.
“All right. All right. Calm down.” Peter shakes his head. “Just let her tell us a story. If you have a problem with any of it, you can take it up with me afterwards, okay?”
She circles his head twice, then shoots out the door, her discordant notes echoing back at me from the hallway.
Peter runs a hand through his hair. “She’s sensitive.”
“Mmhmm. That’s a word.” I keep myself from rolling my eyes … barely.
“So maybe not a fairy tale. Could you tell us one of your own stories? The ones I used to see you working on when you were at school?”
My hands go cold. “What?”
“Tell us one of your stories. You said you’re doing creative writing. That’s telling stories, right?”
“Well, yeah, but no one reads them.”
“Good, because I don’t read.” Peter smiles and some of the others chuckle. “We don’t want anything to do with school or learning, you see? Learning to read is the first step toward some stuffy office where you’re chained to a desk and forced to do grownup things on the mainland.”
“If you don’t want to learn, then why do you want me to tell you stories? After all, all good tales have a kernel of truth in them.”
“Entertainment.” Coy pats my foot over the blanket.
Peter gives him a look I can’t read, and Coy pulls his hand back quickly.
“I’ll take any story, just don’t tell one about—” Curly glances down the hall where Tinker Bell disappeared. “—them,” he whispers.
“If you do, we’ll never hear the end of it.” Nibs, who I’ve learned is the pragmatic Lost Boy, shakes his head.
“What about the last story you wrote?” Peter asks, his brown eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Will you tell us that one?”
I fidget under the blanket. “That one’s kind of dark.”
“We like dark.” Slightly leaves his perch on the dresser and settles on the far side of the bed with Nibs and Tootles.
Peter gives me an encouraging look. “Go on, Moira.”
This isn’t something I do. I mean, yeah, I turn in assignments in my classes and write snippets for my classmates to read, but I don’t actually tell my own stories. Not out loud. And certainly not in front of other people.
My face begins to heat. “I’m not sure.”
“You can do it.” Peter lays sideways below my feet and props his head on his hand.
The weight of expectation settles on top of the room, pushing the stone ceiling down on me.
I could hide under the blanket again, or I could give this a shot.
I could tell a story—my story—in Neverland.
After all, none of this is real. How much pressure can there be if I’m just inside my own head?
That thought brings me right back to my mother.
She had plenty of pressure, all of it inside her, created by her own delusions and neuroses. I can’t let that be me. I won’t.
“Okay, here goes.” I clear my scratchy throat.
Peter gives all the men a look as if to say ‘no interruptions’, then trains his gaze on me. Something tightens low in my gut at the way he watches me, the way his eyes seem to bore right through me and search for everything I am.
I plunge ahead, beginning to weave my tale for the Lost Boys as they watch me with rapt attention.
“Clarissa was happily married with three lovely children and spent most of her days at the large estate she inherited from her parents. Her husband ran her father’s company and did all the things a good husband was supposed to do.
He worked hard, came home on time, took out the trash, and kissed her goodnight.
But Grant also did a few extra things, things he never told Clarissa.
Things involving late-night rituals and sacrifice. ”
The men seem to lean closer as I drop the volume of my voice. Peter’s lips start to turn up in a wicked grin as I continue.
“Her husband gave blood and promises to the old gods to keep their family in power. Clarissa doesn’t know about any of those things—at least not until one of the intended sacrifices escapes and runs screaming through her perfect home, past her perfect children, and right out into a perfectly bright beautiful day, leaving a trail of blood and disaster in her wake. ”
I settle in and tell them of Clarissa and the choice she has to make—keep her perfect life the way it is or destroy the only home she’s ever known to break the dark spell that’s kept her and her family on top for generations.
They listen to each word, devouring my story as I pull it out of me. Unwinding a spool of golden thread and casting it over them in never-ending loops.
When the story is done, the twist uncovered, some promises made and others broken, I sink back against the pillow and close my eyes. Exhaustion washes over me, and I fall asleep so quickly I don’t know it’s happened.
Not until I wake with another dull headache and flashes of nightmares that stalked my dreams like the ancient gods in my story, their bloody fingers digging deep, scraping bone, and demanding sacrifice.