Lost in the Never Woods

by Aiden Thomas

“What?” Wendy asked, getting annoyed.

  “Get ice cream,” he said, beaming at her with a wide grin.

  Wendy stared at him. He couldn’t be serious. “Come again?”

  Peter pointed across the street and Wendy turned to see that the Frite & Scoop across the street had captured his attention. The front window displayed a picture of an ice cream cone and fries wrapped in paper.

  “Peter, no,” Wendy objected. How could he be thinking about ice cream at a time like this? Even if it did sound nice, especially with the summer sun beating down on her bare shoulders.

  “Wendy, yes,” Peter said, nodding fervently.

  She placed her hands stubbornly on her hips. “We can’t just go get ice cream and sit in the grass making daisy chains all day!” she snapped.

  “Sure we can!” He took her hand in his and started walking backward, pulling her along with him. A huge, mischievous smile was plastered across his face. “It’ll only take a few minutes!” he coaxed.

  Wendy reluctantly let him pull her along. “No!” she whispered harshly, glancing around at the people carrying on with their perfectly normal days and errands. “We need to figure out how to stop your shadow from stealing kids.” She tugged back on his hand.

  “It’s not going to take that long,” Peter said dismissively. He quickly stepped behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, guiding her toward the door. “I promise,” he said into her ear. His breath tickled her neck.

  She could hear the smile in his voice.

  “You’re a nuisance, Peter Pan,” Wendy told him.

  He pushed open the door to the café and steered her inside. He was a pain in the ass, but she still had to purse her lips together to hold back a smile.

  The shop was pretty small but quaint, lined with warm wood paneling. There was a bar along the windows that overlooked the pier and rivers, lined with teal stools. The flavors of the day were written on a chalkboard behind the counter. A cooler to the side had an array of old-school soda bottles. The walls were filled with art from local artists, along with local awards the ice cream shop had won. The patio area was right on the pier, with some weather-worn picnic tables to sit at and silver dog bowls filled with water. The air smelled of sweet cream and greasy fries.

  As they stood in the entrance, the cool air-conditioning washed over them. Peter closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in the chilly breeze, a small grin curling his lips.

  Wendy couldn’t help letting out a pleased sigh. She tilted her head down to let it cool the back of her neck. Sweat trickled down the middle of her back from their walk. She didn’t even want to look at what kind of sweat spots were forming under the arms of her tank top.

  When she looked up, Peter was giving her a sidelong glance, an eyebrow arched. “You sure you don’t want to stay for a bit?” he asked, looking far too smug for Wendy’s liking.

  She scowled at him. “I really hate it when you do that,” she told him.

  “Do what?” he asked, feigning innocence.

  “You know exactly what.” Wendy’s stomach growled loudly. She hadn’t eaten since dinner with her mom the night before. “Fine,” she said. “But only because I need to eat something.”

  Peter walked up to the counter and stared down at the huge tubs of ice cream, his nose practically pressed against the glass while his fingertips tapped out an erratic rhythm.

  “What kind of ice cream do you like?” Peter asked, his breath streaking across the glass, not peeling his eyes away from the brightly colored tubs.

  “I’m not a huge fan of ice cream,” Wendy said, stepping forward to stand next to him.

  Peter balked, looking downright insulted. “What kind of person doesn’t like ice cream?” he asked incredulously.

  “Not everyone likes ice cream!”

  He gave her an intensely disapproving look. “Okay, well, when you do eat ice cream, what kind do you have?”

  “Vanilla.”

  “Vanilla?”

  “What!”

  “Vanilla is the most boring flavor of all the ice creams!” he argued, dramatically throwing his arms in the air. “Jeez, you sound like an old lady,” he said, giving her a bump with his shoulder.

  “Vanilla is classic!” Wendy shot back, returning his bump with a nudge.

  Peter threw his head back and let out a loud, forlorn sound of disgust.

  Patrons sitting at the bar turned their heads.

  Wendy’s cheeks flared with heat. She shoved Peter’s side. “Shh!” she hissed.

  Unperturbed, Peter shook his head slowly. “You really need to branch out—broaden your horizons,” he told her.

  “There’s nothing wrong with vanilla,” she muttered darkly.

  “Whatever you say, Wendy.”

  Wendy huffed, doing her best to ignore his stupid face and that damn smile. “What’s your favorite ice cream, then?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

  “Bubblegum.”

  Wendy scoffed. “What are you, eight?”

  Peter shrugged his shoulders as his eyes drifted to the handwritten menu. “Sometimes.”

  Wendy narrowed her eyes, unsure whether or not he was joking.

  “Whoa,” Peter said, suddenly pointing at something behind the counter. “I want that.”

  He was pointing at a picture of what looked like three scoops of chocolate ice cream with swirls of dark chunks, topped with caramel drizzle, whipped cream, and a cherry. The lettering below it read, TRY OUR NEW TRIPLE CHOCOLATE MOCHA ICE CREAM! MADE WITH REAL STUMPTOWN ESPRESSO BEANS!

  Wendy snorted. “The last thing you need is sugar and caffeine,” she told him.

  “I’m getting it.” Peter turned to the cashier. “Can I order one of those things, please?” he asked.

  Wendy recognized the girl behind the counter from school, but she didn’t know her name. Her light brown hair was pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head, loose strands framing her face. She had on dramatic eyeliner that accentuated her brown eyes. A purple rhinestone nose ring sparkled in her nostril.

  Wendy pushed her hands through her own short, blunt hair, suddenly feeling very plain.

  Not unlike vanilla ice cream.

  “Sure,” the girl said. She leaned on the counter and flashed Peter a smile. “How many scoops?” she asked.

  “THREE!” was Peter’s enthused reply.

  “Two,” Wendy cut in. When Peter jutted out his bottom lip, she added, “I’m the one who’s paying, remember?” She turned back to the girl. “And I’ll take an order of fries and a cup of ice water.” Wendy glanced at the ice cream again. “And one scoop of London Fog,” she added.

  Peter’s smirk was knowing and triumphant.

  Wendy rolled her eyes. “I happen to like Earl Grey.”

  The smile the cashier gave Wendy was markedly less warm.

  Wendy slid her debit card across the counter to the cashier. When she looked down, she saw Benjamin Lane, Ashley Ford, and Alex Forestay smiling up at her. They had taped the missing posters to the countertop. HAVE YOU SEEN ME? was written in big, bold letters at the top of all three.

  Guilt cramped Wendy’s empty stomach.

  When they got their order, they sat down at one of the picnic tables outside, where a cool breeze rolled in from the Columbia River. In the distance, sea lions crooned from the piers. She sucked down large gulps of ice water. The cold in her throat was refreshing.

  As soon as he sat down, Peter swept a finger through the whipped cream and popped it into his mouth. “Mmm,” he hummed, eyes rolling back and lids fluttering in euphoria. He held out the paper bowl to Wendy. Waggling his eyebrows, he asked, “Wanna try?”

  “When was the last time you washed your hands?” Wendy asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “You don’t want to know,” Peter told her, grinning around the stem of the cherry he’d popped into his mouth.

  Wendy shook her head at him, but she loved whipped cream. Leaning onto her elbow, she got a dab of the whipped cream on the tip of her finger a
nd licked it off. It was real whipped cream, the thick, heavy stuff. Not the kind that came out of a can and tasted like an oil slick.

  Peter dug in with his plastic spoon. He hummed to himself and Wendy wondered if he always did that when he ate.

  Wendy went for her fries first. They were fresh and piping hot. She had to blow on a golden brown fry before taking a bite. The outside was crispy, the inside soft and fluffy. It was perfectly salty. They were the best fries in town by far. She cooled off her tongue with a taste of ice cream. The cool sweetness of the London Fog, with a nice balance of bergamot and vanilla bean, was the perfect mix.

  “How is it?” Wendy asked as she bit into another fry.

  Peter’s lips pressed together but his smile was still big enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. “So good,” Peter said through a mouthful of chocolate and espresso beans.

  Wendy laughed and shook her head. “Gross.” He clearly was no ace at table manners. She ate another scoop of her own light gray ice cream.

  “Did you come here with John and Michael?”

  The question jarred Wendy, causing her hand to hover mid-air, ice cream dripping from her spoon.

  No one ever asked her about her brothers, especially in public, especially something so … normal. When John’s and Michael’s names came up, it was in hushed tones and whispers, usually when people thought Wendy couldn’t hear them. Or, like the past couple of days, in reference to something terrible happening.

  But Peter asked it so casually. He patiently waited for her reply, his tongue chasing melted chocolate down the side of his hand.

  Wendy cleared her tight throat and put her spoon back into the bowl. “Yeah, actually … All of us used to go along the Riverwalk during the summer.” She gestured to the path that went along the edge of the river, lined with piers. “We’d get fries and ice cream.” Wendy toyed with the straw in her ice water. “You know, bubblegum is Michael’s favorite flavor, too,” she told Peter.

  He paused from scraping his spoon along the bottom of his bowl. “Michael’s got excellent taste.” Peter’s soft smile encouraged her to keep talking. He was the only person who didn’t give her that look of pity, like she was some wounded dog, whenever her brothers came up.

  Wendy smiled and shook her head. “Whenever we came here, he picked out all the gumballs as he ate and saved them in a little paper cup,” she explained. “After he finished all the actual ice cream, he’d shove this pile of slobbery gumballs into his mouth all at once.” Wendy crinkled her nose. “It was disgusting.” She let out a small laugh. “He would crash so hard from all the sugar, my dad would have to carry him back to the car.”

  Wendy remembered Michael’s small body draped across her father’s strong arms, brown curls bobbing with every step, completely knocked out. She and John would follow behind, holding their mother’s hands and dancing along dusk’s shadows as the sun set behind the hills.

  Peter laughed. “That seems like something he would do,” he mused. “Michael was always sucking all the nectar out of the honeysuckles in Neverland. Really pissed off the hummingbirds.”

  Wendy put her spoon down and listened intently, eager to hear stories about being on the magical island with John and Michael.

  “You gathered up all the flowers and strung them into a canopy over your bed,” he explained. “You said you liked how the light shone through the pink petals. Do you remember that?”

  Wendy gave her head a small shake. “No. Not really, anyway,” she confessed. “All I ever get are flashes of Neverland, short glimpses of it in my dreams sometimes. I remember you, though you were a lot younger looking.”

  Peter made a sound of acknowledgment. Clearly, the fact that his body was aging was weighing heavily on both their minds.

  “The jungle,” she continued. “And a beach?”

  “John really liked the beaches,” Peter told her. “We had to beat some sea lions at a game of tug-of-war to get dibs on the nicest one.” He said this like it was a completely normal, run-of-the-mill, everyday occurrence.

  Wendy’s brows furrowed. “I’m still having a hard time with all this,” she confessed, dropping her voice low so no one could overhear. “It still sounds like a children’s book or something. A story.” And it had been. Several stories, ones her mother had told her, and Wendy had told her brothers, and now the kids at the hospital. “Like it’s all make-believe.”

  “That’s the point, though, isn’t it?” Peter said. “Whatever you can imagine, you can do.” His tone sounded nostalgic as he stared off toward the river, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips.

  Wendy wondered if he ever got homesick.

  “I wish I could remember it,” she said, picking at her paper cone of fries. “Maybe, after we get your shadow back and save John and Michael, and the other kids, I’ll get my memories back?”

  Peter’s smile faltered. “Probably,” he said with a small shrug as he toyed with his cherry stem.

  Wendy looked down at her dry, cracked hands. Thinking about the missing kids being held hostage by that shadow made her insides twist. She couldn’t stand the thought of them being afraid and lost. Hopefully, they at least had each other, someone to lean on in a situation that seemed hopeless and terrifying.

  Wendy hadn’t given up yet, and she still wouldn’t. She was determined to bring her brothers home.

  When she and Peter finally rescued them, would they still look the same as when they’d disappeared? Or had they continued to age, too? The thought of John now being sixteen and Michael being thirteen was jarring. Would she even recognize them? Would they recognize her?

  Wendy pressed a finger to one of the red lines on her hand and winced.

  Peter’s shoulders sank and his auburn hair fell into his eyes. He squinted, a small grimace playing across his face. “Does it hurt?” Peter asked.

  She shrugged. “A bit. It’s mostly sore.” Wendy sat up straighter. Her dry, cracked hands were a constant reminder. She couldn’t keep herself from scrubbing away at them. People stared at them and sometimes the kids asked how she’d gotten hurt. It was embarrassing and she felt like they outed her as being odd, but the feeling of her hands being dirty made her skin scrawl. She bit her nails down to nubs, but things still caught under them sometimes. The Burt’s Bees hand salve she kept in her bag did little to help the irritated skin.

  Wendy exhaled a deep breath and splayed her fingers on the table. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Here.” Peter leaned forward, picked up the plastic cup of water, and reached out for Wendy’s arm. Gently, he pressed the side of the icy cold cup to the cracks in her knuckles. Trickles of condensation ran down her wrist, making her shiver. “Does that help?” he asked, glancing up at her with those big blue eyes. His breath smelled like chocolate.

  “Yeah, actually…”

  Peter rested his elbow on the table, propping up his chin in the palm of his free hand. His smile peeked around the corner of his fist, and she couldn’t help smiling back.

  She hadn’t laughed or smiled this much in a long time. Her cheeks were starting to ache.

  “Wendy?”

  The voice came from behind her. Wendy looked over her shoulder to see Jordan standing in the entrance to the patio, her boyfriend, Tyler, at her side. Jordan wore a maroon tank top and khaki board shorts. Over it she wore a black apron with the silhouette of a girl sipping from a cup, circled by the words COFFEE GIRL. Her brown curls were tied back in a knot. Jordan’s mouth was agape, her eyes wide with surprise as they bounced back and forth between Wendy and Peter.

  Tyler thumbed through his phone with one hand, and the other held the leash to his husky, Bucky, who panted merrily at his side. Bucky was half blind, the fur around his snout a pale gray.

  “Jordan, Tyler—hey!”

  Tyler nodded in greeting, barely sparing her a glance. Meanwhile, Jordan’s eyes immediately snagged on her outstretched arm in Peter’s hand.

  Wendy jerked it back and jumped to her feet. Peter al
so stood, giving Jordan a curious look. Wendy pushed her fingers through her hair, uncomfortable laughter clogging her throat. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I’m on my way to work,” Jordan said with an awkward laugh of her own, gesturing down at her apron.

  “Right—obviously!” Dumb question, Wendy.

  “We grabbed lunch at the brewery before I had to start my shift. Tyler and Bucky are walking me down to the pier.” Jordan’s eyes went right back to Peter.

  Suddenly, he stepped forward. Wendy nearly grabbed him, anticipating that he might say or do something incriminating.

  “Hey, can I pet your dog?” Peter asked Tyler, looking hopeful.

  “Mm?” Tyler spared him a quick glance from his phone. “Yeah, go for it, man.”

  Peter sank on his heels and buried his fingers in Bucky’s golden scruff, his face splitting into a wide smile.

  Bucky, in kind, sat back on his rump, his tail sweeping back and forth as his tongue lolled to the side.

  As soon as Peter ducked out of sight, Jordan’s eye bulged as she emphatically pointed down at him and mouthed in silent exaggeration, WHO IS THAT?

  “Oh, uh, this is Barry,” Wendy said. “He’s from out of town, just visiting his relatives for the summer.” The lie was simple enough, as long as Jordan didn’t ask too many questions. She hated lying to Jordan. It didn’t feel right at all, but Wendy couldn’t just tell her the truth, especially in front of Tyler. “I’ve been showing him around town. Being neighborly and all that.”

  Wendy hoped Peter wouldn’t say anything strange, but, apparently, she didn’t need to worry.

  Peter sat cross-legged on the ground, distracted and chuckling as Bucky licked at his face.

  Jordan gave Wendy a knowing look. “Uh-huh, neighborly.” The smirk on her best friend’s face let Wendy know exactly what she was thinking. But, just to be sure, Jordan mouthed, He is SO cute.

  Heat rushed to Wendy’s cheeks. “Jordan,” she hissed. She felt silly and embarrassed under Jordan’s not-so-subtle interest.

  Jordan’s smirk only grew, but she kept her thoughts to herself. However, when she spoke again, her tone shifted. “My dad told me he saw you in town earlier,” she said, drawing her attention away from Peter to look at Wendy. A delicate crease appeared between her manicured eyebrows.