LOST BOYS
Her mouth tastes of berries and the faintest hint of sandy grit. She’s been helping Cook make jam to go with the scones, licking the spoon once all the stirring is done. It must be the sugar combined with the heat from the stove that’s left her so lightheaded.
She shakes herself, as if clearing away a sound on the edge of hearing. No. Of course. She isn’t in the kitchen. She isn’t even at home. She’s in N______. The name is just there, on the other side of the sticky muzz filling her head. Oh, why can’t she think straight? Jam and burnt-sugar caramel and the lingering sweetness in her mouth…
Neverland! She snatches the name from the air, like a butterfly caught in her net. She must hold the net closed tight so it doesn’t flutter away again. But when she reaches for her own name, it remains gone. The boy, Peter, called her Wendy, and he called this place Neverland.
Wendy. Her mother’s name. Does Peter know her mother somehow? She’s never heard her mother speak of Peter or a place like this, and she would remember a story as strange as this one, wouldn’t she? She must remember to ask Peter when he returns.
She sits up; it’s easier than it was before. Was it earlier today that Peter gave her the sweet drink meant to make her feel better? Yesterday? She remembers lying on the sand. She remembers being afraid, and then not, all her thoughts and worries washed away like the tide.
The smells of saltwater and damp wood reach her. Outside her makeshift shelter, birds squabble. Her head aches, but her limbs feel stronger than they did before. She gets to her knees, crawling forward to peer out between the shelter’s branches. The squabble of birds resolves into boy voices, then Peter calling her.
“Wendy! Wendy, wake up! I’ve brought everyone to meet you.”
“I’m not Wendy, I’m…”
Panic scrabbles in her chest, then Peter’s words sink in. Everyone? What does he mean? Who else is here? She crawls out between the branches, squinting against the light. Peter stands barefoot on the sand, hands planted on his hips, hair a copper flame. A half circle of boys stands arrayed behind him. The youngest looks no more than five, chewing on the ragged tail of his shirt. His eyes are wide, his cheeks dirty, and there are leaves caught in the nest of his hair. All the boys’ clothing looks in need of mending, in fact, and none of them are wearing shoes.
Her mother and Cook have been helping her learn how to sew. Cook even said that she’s a faster learner than her mother was at more than twice her age. Every time she practices, she does her best to make everything neat and even, thinking about her stitches like she’s making scientific notations. She blinks. Why is she thinking about sewing? What is it about this place that makes it so hard to keep her thoughts straight for more than a moment at a time? It’s endlessly frustrating. There was something she meant to ask Peter, wasn’t there?
The boys all stare at her, some shy, some gaping in curiosity, others with eyes narrowed in suspicion. She glares right back at them; they have no right to look at her that way when she had no choice in coming here. The youngest boy, the one with his shirt in his mouth, moves closer to Peter, sheltering behind him, and her bravado fades.
In the bright midday sun, the boys’ shadows trail away from them like spilled ink. All except Peter, who casts none. She knows for a certainty that all solid objects cast a shadow. Her eyes must be playing a trick, or…
“Say hello, Wendy. We’re going to play a game, but first we must have introductions.”
“I—” Before she can protest, Peter interrupts her, his voice sharp as a hand clapped over her mouth so that she finds she cannot say anything at all.
“We’ll start with you. You’re Wendy, and I’m Peter.” His smile flashes bright as the light reflecting off the water, dazzling her just the same.
She wants to object, but looking at Peter’s smile, it’s as if the earth and sky suddenly switched places, leaving her dizzy and breathless. When the world rights itself, she blinks, wondering at the circle of boys around her.
She feels exposed with all of them peering down at her. She gets to her feet, brushing sand from her nightgown as best she can. Peter was speaking, wasn’t he? What was it that he was saying?
She straightens, standing as tall as possible and putting her shoulders back for good measure. She remembers Cook, who is shorter than both her mother and her father, telling her that it’s the best way to stand up to someone trying to intimidate you. Just like animals in nature that make themselves look bigger to scare predators away. She can’t imagine anyone arguing with Cook when she gets that particular look in her eyes, not even her grandfather, though she’d like to see him try.
The thought almost makes her giggle, and with it, some of her fear vanishes. Now that she looks at them properly, she sees a good number of the boys, even the ones who look closer to her age or older, are shorter than her.
“I’m called Arthur, just like the king.” The tallest of the boys steps forward, nearly knocking over the youngest one as he does. He says his name like a challenge, daring her to contradict him, his expression hard.
He’s wearing the skin of some sort of animal—she can’t tell what—draped over his shoulders. The cuff ends of his pants are ragged, the waist held up by a length of tied rope. He carries a stick, almost as tall as he is, knife cuts evident where branches and bark have been hacked away. He plants one end in the sand and leans on it as
