In the morning, I didn’t tell any of the other bois that Pan had come. It would have been too hard for them, to know he had been so close but hadn’t said goodbye. Besides, they were already so immersed in this new world. There was no sense in complicating things. That’s the good answer. I was also selfish, and I wanted to keep something of Pan for myself.
Growing up is so easy for bois; it’s remarkable we were able to resist it for so long. The pressures are everywhere: on the internet, in classrooms, in conferences. “Grow up,” everyone says, if you are acting foolish, if you don’t have a regular job or a long-term date, if you aren’t interested in politics and activism, if you haven’t read the right books, if you watch the wrong TV shows. It didn’t take long for all the magic and wonder to be forgotten as we saved for top surgery, applied to colleges, submitted proposals to teach workshops. I didn’t even realize what was happening to us. The grownup world is so busy, bookended by late-night philosophical debates in bars and buzzing alarm clocks to get to work in the morning.
I had forgotten Pan’s promise to come for Wendi in a year’s time, but she hadn’t. At the end of the first year, everything had changed. John Michael was away at college, studying to be a doctor. Slightly had met a grrrl at a conference, married her, and was living in London. One of the Twins was on a break from college and in rehab; the other joined the military and had just made it through boot camp. Curly was in love with a boi he’d met while working as a security guard at the mall.
Wendi and I had a small one-bedroom apartment. She was in school and writing her stories and I was working overnights at the homeless queer youth shelter. Work was almost like Neverland, except with boundaries. I was still Wendi’s boi, and she still tucked me in. She had just finished doing so the night Pan came for her. I don’t know how he knew where to find our rundown apartment in the middle of the most bland complex, but there he was, sitting on our balcony, as handsome and cocky as ever, peering through the sliding door, waiting for Wendi to notice him.
Mommy spent the weekend with him. I took on extra overnights, working around the clock. It was too hard to be home alone. On my breaks, I sat in the park, eating my sandwich and throwing pieces of bread to the pigeons. I looked for Washington but couldn’t find him. The pigeons wouldn’t get close. They stayed on the ground, waiting for me to throw crumbs. They didn’t know who I was. They didn’t care who I was. It had been a long time since I had last spoken to pigeons. I was worried Pan would keep her, that Wendi would realize what she’d given up. I was also scared that I would remember who I had been and chase after them, trying to catch what we once had. But Mommy came home on Sunday, just like she’d said she would. She cooked dinner for us. I helped chop vegetables for salad. I let the silence sit between us and didn’t try to fill it. I’ve done enough poly to know the coming together again can be strange and disorienting. I let her open up. I waited for Mommy to tell me that she had changed her mind about us, that she was leaving.
“It was strange to be back,” she finally said, stirring the mashed potatoes. “Neverland looked just as I remembered from when we left, yet I couldn’t figure out how to fit in anymore. It’s like the magic was gone, and even though I know nothing has changed, but Neverland was covered in a layer of dust, instead of glitter, like how I used to see it.”
Mommy kept stirring and talking. “I tried to ask Pan about Hook.” I instinctively sucked air through my teeth.
“He seemed confused, like he didn’t really know who I was talking about. I know you told me that when people went away or when they died, Pan wasn’t able to remember them, but I didn’t think it would be like this. I didn’t think he could forget someone whose leather he still wears like another skin!”
I didn’t know what to say. I knew all of this, and yet couldn’t let myself think too much about it, because I knew what it meant about me and how he wouldn’t talk to me, even when he sat on our balcony next to the pots of tomatoes and herbs that Wendi and I planted in the early spring. Wendi and I have built a life together, a cute little life, and Pan didn’t ask how I was doing. He didn’t even say hello.
“Will you go again next year?” I asked, head down, focused on helping to prepare dinner.
“Of course,” Wendi replied, wiping her hands on her apron.
That week, one night after work, Wendi told me to meet her at the mall. She bought me a cinnamon roll at the food court and then led us into the jewellery shop. From her purse she pulled a black handkerchief, laid it on the counter, and carefully unwrapped it. She held out Pan’s green glass “stone” to the jeweller.
“I would like to have this emerald set into a pendant. That setting right there would look nice, don’t you think, Tootles?” Wendi asked, pointing to a necklace in the case.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said quietly as the jeweller held the stone up to the light and began to inspect it.
Wendi said to the jeweller, “This stone is a priceless family heirloom, it’s irreplaceable.”
I hadn’t known she still had Pan’s stone when we left Neverland and was surprised she hadn’t done this earlier in the first days of growing up, when she cried out for Pan in her sleep. Wendi must have known what I was thinking because she whispered, “I needed to know he would come back for me.”
The jeweller looked up from the stone, flushed, and seemed to struggle with his words. “Miss, I hate to break this to you, but this is nothing more than some cheap cut glass. It’s not worth setting into a necklace, but if you like emeralds, I have some nice ones over here.” He had carelessly set Pan’s stone on the glass counter and walked away toward a display case filled with gemstones.
“You are mistaken,” said Wendi. “If I say this is an emerald handed down in my family, then that’s what it is, and I would like to have it set in that setting right there.” Wendi tapped the display case counter with her red fingernail before continuing. “Do you understand? If not, I believe another jeweller will be happy to take care of my family heirloom.”
The jeweller stammered an apology, and I tried to swallow a laugh. In that moment, Wendi sounded just like Pan, daring anyone to tell her the world was not just as she said it was. The jeweller managed to compose himself. He carefully picked up the stone and began to examine it again. “I’m sorry, Miss, I must have been mistaken, it’s just as you said; it’s an emerald, and a very nice one at that. We will be happy to set it for you. It will be ready on Friday. Will you be paying with cash or a credit card?”
I had to work overnight on Friday, so Wendi went alone to the mall to pick up her pendant. She was asleep when I got home on Saturday morning, clutching Pan’s emerald at her throat, which hung from a braided silver chain.
Pan didn’t come the next year. I was not surprised and secretly a bit relieved. I worried when Wendi was away, and I was jealous too that I couldn’t go back, that I couldn’t have a Neverland visit with Pan. He stopped coming, and if Wendi was sad about it, she didn’t tell me, but she never took off her emerald pendant. Years passed. Wendi graduated from college but couldn’t find a job, so she worked at a coffee shop. She stopped looking for other work, and spent more of her time writing poetry. I got promoted to manager of the shelter. We had a lot more time, a lot more money. Wendi and I moved to a bigger apartment, a loft downtown. We were sellouts, Pirates in our own funny queer way. I didn’t see us that way, but I knew Pan would. Ultimately, I learned there aren’t “good” or “bad” decisions. Sometimes, decisions are just … decisions. All bois grow up. We get jobs, we work in non-profits, we get married or have civil unions. We are artificially inseminated, or write grants to keep our jobs. We go grocery shopping. We build lives out of the choices that we’ve made. We make the best lives we can.
I worked my way to the top at the shelter. Now I’m the boss, the manager who gets woken in the night when something has gone wrong. But I still know how to break up a fight, to talk a kid down, to call 911 when someone is overdosing. I never knew how hard it would be. I left Pan to save you
th in a different way, to work within systems, to create infrastructure and understanding, to rewrite failed policies. I wanted to do something bigger than Neverland, to give more youth more choices. Maybe Pan had the right idea after all. He’s been saving kids every day for decades, giving them home, family, and purpose. I know how much that can mean to someone, how it can be the difference between life and death, how it was for me.
What am I really doing now? Sitting in an office. Making mandated reporter calls to child protective services every time a baby queer kid runs away from some grownups who the law says owns them. I’m turning these kids over to the most evil grownups because some bureaucrat in a suit thinks that’s what’s best for them, because some researcher who goes “home” every Thanksgiving decided that kids who don’t reunify with their biological families are doomed to be depressed or drug-addicted or suicidal.
I like to think that I’m better than those adults I ran away from all those years ago in NYC, but that might just be a story I tell myself. “Actions speak louder than promises,” Pan always said. I don’t talk about myself at work anymore. When I first started, I talked about who I’d been. When I first started, the kids loved me, and I felt like everything was worth it, like I was making Pan proud, even if he would never know what I was doing. The people I work with don’t always see it that way. Once, I accidentally saw a letter from my boss to some board members. She said all kinds of stuff about what a good worker I was, how in any crisis, I was the one that they wanted to call in. But then, the letter went on, she said they needed to be careful how high they promoted me; after all, I would always be a “street kid.” My eyes burned. I crumpled the memo and threw it into the trash. Fuck recycling.
I hid in the bathroom for a while, running my fingers along the faded star scars on my right shoulder. When I got home that night, Wendi knew that I wasn’t okay. That night, in our bed of fresh sheets, she held me and I cried. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I worked, I would never be good enough. What if everything, every sacrifice, had been a mistake? I cried harder when I remembered the way that Wendi would hold Pan, the same way that she now held me. It was right about then that we started going to play parties and conferences. It was Wendi’s idea. She was so busy with budgets and orders at her job running the coffee shop, but she knew that the magic was fading and we needed to do something.
I saw him first. I was at the coffee shop one night, helping Wendi to close up. The month before, we’d bought it from the old owner, and every night, when I got off work, I’d go to the shop and help Wendi: mopping floors, painting walls, hanging art, being her good boi, doing whatever she needed. Jane was there, too. She’s a good grrrl. When I got promoted, Wendi and I started spending more time at those Leather conferences, going out and trying to find community, trying to find more folks like us. We met Jane at one of those conferences and were smitten. Little pink pigtails and thrifted dresses, Jane reminds me so much of Wendi when we first met, so perverted and innocent all at once. I found Jane walking around the play space wearing a white dress and carrying a teddy bear cradled in her arms.
I’ve grown so much since we left Neverland. The world has aged me in so many ways, and I can’t always find the magic to be the little boi that Wendi first loved and brought home. We’re lucky that we’ve grown together in so many aspects, but I knew that Wendi missed that little magic. When I met Jane, I saw she was all magic. I felt lecherous, a little like Pan, when I first took her. Of course, she was no baby dyke; she was twenty-one and knew what she wanted, but she hadn’t grown up (yet). She still held all the magic, and I knew Wendi would love to Mommy the hell out of that little grrrl. I was right. It was a fast courtship into making Jane our good grrrl. Part of why we got the bigger apartment was to have room for her to move in, and now she works with Wendi in the coffee shop, taking orders and wiping counters.
So, I saw him first. There was so much grey in his red hair, but somehow it only made him look more charming. Pan chose a small table in the front, tossing his backpack onto the empty chair before going to the counter. I kept my head turned so he couldn’t catch my face. Jane was on register. Pan began emptying his pockets, smoothing out a crumpled bill, and stacking coins. He ordered a coffee with extra sugar and told Jane what a pretty little grrrl she was. Jane blushed; his charms were just as powerful as ever. The shop was quiet, with most customers busy on their laptops or in conversation. Jane took two of the day-old bagels from the container behind the counter and brought them to Pan with his coffee. We keep them there for the street kids who can’t get a bed at my work, the ones who spend all night in the coffee shop. Wendi can’t bear to see a baby queer go hungry and neither can I.
Pan nodded to the chair across from his and shrugged Hook’s jacket onto the back of his chair. It wasn’t worn in the way I might have expected it would be, but scuff-free and as clean as on that horrible night when he first put it on. All I could think was that he must have a boi good with leathers back at Neverland. Jane hesitated, looking up at me. Good grrrl, she’s such a good grrrl. I nodded my consent. I wasn’t sure how Wendi would feel about her sitting there with Pan, falling under his charm, but how could I say no? After all these years, if he had nodded to me, I would have sat in that little chair across from him. Fuck, I would have sat at his goddamn feet if he would permit it. But this isn’t about me now, it’s about Jane. Pan was talking big, his hands flying in wild gestures. I knew he was talking about Neverland, though I could only pick up stray words—“bois,” “pigeons,” “battle.”
All afternoon, I’d been training new staff at the shelter, who see it as just a job. Some of them are afraid of the youth and seem personally offended when they act like the fucked-up kids they are, when they don’t trust us, when they push against boundaries. This isn’t where these grownups come from. They don’t get these kids, they never were these kids, and they don’t understand why I care so much. Sometimes I just want to walk out the door and never come back. Right before I left the shelter for the night, I had to turn two sweet baby street punks away because we were already over capacity, with a wait list stretching into next month for an emergency bed. They didn’t even seem surprised. They’re used to getting fucked over, used to adults like me not coming through for anything. Sometimes I just want to bring all these kids home with me, but that would make me no different than Pan. I was snapped out of my memory then by Pan’s laughter. He looked so much less tired than I felt.
The bell on the door jingled, and Wendi walked into the shop. Her hair was up in a messy bun, but her lipstick was fresh. She carried a big stack of evening newspapers. Without thinking, I moved from my hiding spot in the back to help her. Pan’s eyes met Wendi’s, then travelled to her neck and the stone that rested in the hollow of her throat. He wasn’t surprised to see her. When we bought the shop, she’d changed its name to “Second Star,” a reference to Pan’s “second streetlight” directions to Neverland. Wendi wanted to be followed by Pan, always. I knew it wouldn’t take long. Pan’s relationship to Wendi is unique. He’s never forgotten her, the way he has forgotten everyone else. Wendi set down the newspapers and ran her fingers through the tendrils that had fallen loose from her bun. Pan’s attention had already returned to Jane, this little grrrl that looked so much like his Wendi had the day he first climbed into her window at the Darlings’. Jane had taken a tiny notebook from her pocket and looked as though she was about to read him one of her poems, but stopped and looked to Wendi. I could see Wendi’s eyes fill with tears, but she only nodded to our grrrl. We watched them talk and Jane read, and I held Wendi.
It was late when Pan stood to go, pulling on Hook’s leather. I heard Jane ask, “Will I see you again?”
A huge smile spread across Pan’s face as he nodded, holding her soft hand and closing his tattooed, scarred fingers around it. Pan turned toward the counter where I now stood next to Wendi, but he didn’t recognize me anymore. Everything we were, everything we had, everything we shared was gone. Pan’s eyes we
re not sad but distant, as though he didn’t quite remember who I was. Wendi walked toward them and pulled Jane in for a tight hug. Then she pulled Jane’s chin up so that Jane was eye-to-eye with her Mommy and whispered loud enough for Pan to hear, “My dear grrrl, I will always keep the window open for you.”
Jane smiled and walked out the door with Pan into the night, toward Neverland.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, thank you to J.M. Barrie who wrote the original Peter Pan, which inspired this book. Queering his work has been a tremendous honour and a great deal of fun. Thank you to the Lambda Literary Foundation whose ongoing support has been invaluable, and to my beta readers: Fureigh, Kestryl Lowrey, and Sophia Lanza-Weil, who read early drafts of the novel and whose insights were critical to its development, and to my copyeditor Gabrielle Harbowy.
Thank you to Linda Hummer for helping me to believe I had stories to be told. I wish you were here to see this book. Thank you to Auntie Kate Bornstein for dragging me onto the stage and for teaching me to harness the power of anger in my writing. Thank you to the MTA for your endless subway delays, which afforded me the time I needed to write this book. Gratitude to my fellow New Yorkers who offered me their seats after watching me precariously type while standing, and to the iPad I used to write the majority of this book. Also thanks to the bubble tea shop on St. Marks Place in the East Village, where the novel was edited on lunch breaks from my day job.
A very special thanks to Tom Cho, Amber Dawn, and Bear Bergman who introduced me to the amazing folks at Arsenal Pulp Press. A huge thank you to Brian Lam for believing in this story and the entire Arsenal Pulp team, especially Susan Safyan for your insightful editorial feedback and love of pigeons. Working with all of you has been a dream come true.
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