by Beth Hautala
I wished Charlie and I were talking so that I wasn’t doing this alone. What would he say if he were here? What would he do?
What would Peter Pan do?
Peter Pan wouldn’t stop looking until he found what he was looking for. Until he’d saved whoever it was that needed saving.
And just like that, I knew what I needed to do.
25
Working on Rhythm
“OLIVIA . . . OLIVIA? IT’S your line.”
“Oh! Sorry. Um, where are we?” I couldn’t focus. My mind was lining up every clue I’d collected. Every possible trail. Looking for a lead. Looking for Jacob’s ostrich. But here onstage, Amelia—Wendy—was waiting for me to say my lines.
“I say, ‘Mother and Father have decided it’s time for me to grow up. This is my last night in the nursery!’” Amelia raised her eyebrows at me, waiting.
“Your last night? Absolutely not!” I said my line and stomped my foot on the stage. “Wendy, I will not allow it! You shall never grow up! You shall come with me to Neverland!”
“Neverland? What is Neverland?”
“Why, Neverland is the most wonderful place, full of pirates and mermaids and Indians and animals—beasts of all kinds. We have adventures every day, and no one ever tells us what to do, or where to go, or when to brush our teeth, or comb our hair, or go to school, or mind our manners, or eat our vegetables, and most importantly, there is no growing up allowed.”
“No growing up?”
“Never.”
I leapt across the stage and over to the giant window frame that stood in the middle. Fortunately, my foot was feeling much better. It had taken a week and a half, but the cut was healing over nicely. Before long there would just be a little scar, pink and shiny where the new skin would grow in.
But even though my foot was feeling better, and even though the bruise on Mom’s face was gone, underneath those healed-over places, things still hurt a little. Maybe that was how it felt when someone you cared about hurt you.
“Where is this Neverland?” said Wendy.
“Second star to the right and straight on till morning.” I pointed out over the audience. When people were actually sitting out there, I hoped they’d turn and look to see if there really was a star.
“But how shall we get there?” Amelia came to stand beside me just inside the window frame.
“We fly, of course!” And I’d show Wendy how.
I wore a harness under my costume, kind of like the harness rock climbers wear when they’re climbing walls and mountains. But instead of attaching it to a rope, I’d be hooked to a very thin, very strong wire that wound up into a pulley system. A stagehand would sit on the other end of that pulley, raising and lowering me across the stage during all the flying scenes.
We weren’t using the harness system yet, but on opening night, after I said that line, I’d leap through the window and fly across the stage. It was one of my favorite parts in the whole play. Everyone knew there was flying in Peter Pan, but I had a feeling the audience wouldn’t expect to see someone soar over the stage in a children’s production.
Performances were just one week away, and I was trying not to be nervous, because things were going really well. Every part of the play was awesome. My lines. The sword fighting. Flying. I loved being the leader of the Lost Boys.
At home, with help twice a week from Ryan, Jacob’s new aide, and a few new communicating and calming techniques that Dr. Kathy had suggested, things seemed a little better. But here at rehearsals was different. Jacob was actually doing well—better than I expected—as long as he could follow someone around onstage in each scene. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and he was more talkative than usual, too. The other kids didn’t always know what to say to Jacob, but they didn’t laugh as much anymore when he said weird things or acted a little strange.
He only has to say one line all on his own, without copying his twin.
“Peter! You’re back!” That’s what he says when I return to Neverland with Wendy, Michael, and John. But if something happens and Jacob can’t play his part, one of the other kids can just as easily say that line. Or, if everyone forgets, and no one says it, it doesn’t really matter that much.
Most of the cast knew their lines. Everyone knew where they were supposed to be, and where to stand. There was singing and dancing, and we all knew the choreography. We knew where and when to exit the stage, and when to come back on again. From now until opening night, we would be polishing scenes and working on pacing.
“We need to think about the rhythm, you guys!” Stephen was watching from the third row in the audience. “It’s getting there, but I want you to think about how you’re saying your lines, not just what you’re saying. You need to think of this as a conversation. You’re not just talking to each other onstage, you’re talking to every person sitting out here.” He stretched his arms to include the whole auditorium, and I felt the butterflies swirl around in my stomach.
“Amelia, can you take it from the top of that last scene?” Stephen looked at the script in his hand and shuffled his papers. “Take it from, ‘Mothers are the most wonderful thing in the whole world!’”
Amelia nodded and sat down onstage. The Lost Boys resumed their places around her, some lying onstage, one resting his head on her shoulder, some sitting expectantly in front of her. Even John and Michael. They were all listening to Wendy remind them of what they’d forgotten.
“Mothers are the most wonderful thing in the whole world,” Amelia said, clasping her hands in front of her and looking around at the boys.
In character as Peter Pan, I harrumphed and crossed my arms.
Being in Neverland makes everyone forget who they are or where they came from before. Except Wendy—she hadn’t quite forgotten because in her heart, she did want to grow up . . . someday. Peter Pan never forgot, either—at least, he never forgot his mother, because she was the reason he had come to Neverland in the first place. She was the reason he never wanted to grow up. Because grown-ups forget what it’s like to be a child.
Amelia kept going. “Mothers give you kisses and hugs and tell you bedtime stories. They tuck you in at night and greet you every morning. They wipe away your tears and soothe you when you’re sick. They are the first people in the world to love you when you’re born. And they love you exactly as you are—”
I jumped up and stomped across the stage, interrupting her story.
“Oh, really? Mothers love you exactly as you are?” I rolled my eyes and acted all tough, pretending I didn’t need a mother, or anyone for that matter, when truthfully, I did. A lot. That was one of the reasons Peter invited Wendy to Neverland in the first place. And the audience knew it. “Mothers only want good boys and girls who never make mistakes or fly away! Why do you suppose any of you are here in the first place?”
I laughed at them as they went from enjoying Wendy’s story to fearing the worst. Wendy stomped her foot and took control amid the rising panic of the Lost Boys, gathering them close and comforting them as a real mother would do. She glared at me as the Lost Boys sniffled and whimpered.
“Fine!” I said, waving my arms around. “Don’t believe me! But one day you’ll see! One day you’ll fly back to your own house and your own window and there will be another boy sleeping in your bed! Your mother will have replaced you!” Then I stomped offstage as the Lost Boys erupted into fresh tears and wailing.
In the next scene, Wendy decides to return home with her brothers and take the Lost Boys with her. They make plans and pack their things, and I do some more stomping around and harrumphing, convinced of what they’ll find. Warning them. And while they’re busy getting ready, I fly back to Earth, back to my home and the window I flew out of years earlier to see my own mother. She’s tucking children into bed. Other children. My siblings. The children I’m convinced she replaced me with. But my mother doesn’t see me. She doe
sn’t see that I’ve become Peter Pan. And just as I fly away toward Neverland, the audience sees my mother turn and look out the window at the empty night sky.
“Oh, Peter,” she says, so sad. “Wherever have you gone? Come back to me . . .” But I never hear her and I never see, and I never know how much I’m wanted by the people who love me.
When we first acted out the scene in practice, I didn’t want to do it. It felt out of place in such a happy, silly play about a boy who never grows up. It actually made me cry a little bit, though I tried not to let anyone see. But Dorothy explained that the scene was probably the most important one in the whole play. It shows the audience that Peter wants to be loved exactly as he is, more than anything in the world—even more than never growing up. It shows the audience that everyone makes mistakes, but that love never, ever gives up.
After that I decided I didn’t want to take that scene out of the play after all. Instead, when we got to that scene and a real live audience was sitting out in all those chairs, I wasn’t going to hide it if I started to cry. I wanted Charlie out there in that audience. I wanted to make things right with him. I needed him to know that I liked him exactly for who he was, and that I wasn’t looking away.
* * *
• • •
After rehearsal, Jacob was in good spirits. Mom saw it, too.
“‘Peter, you’re back!’ That’s my line,” he said to Mom on the ride home. He told her this after almost every rehearsal.
“It’s a great line,” she said.
“I like that I am in a play,” said Jacob.
“Me, too!” Mom smiled. “Are you excited for opening night, Jacob?”
Jacob didn’t answer.
“Or maybe a little nervous? It’s perfectly okay if you are.”
Still no response. It was raining and Jacob was busy pressing his fingers against the window, tracing the wavering trail of water droplets across the glass.
“How about you, Olivia? Are you nervous?”
“A little.” I shrugged. “I just don’t want to mess up.”
“I think you’ll be just fine. Better than fine. I think you’ll be wonderful.” Mom smiled and I knew she meant it. But I wasn’t nervous for the reasons she thought I was. Being onstage and having people watch me say my lines, fly around, sing, dance, and pretend to be something that I wasn’t was exciting. Because at least when I was onstage, everyone would know my pretending was on purpose. They would know I was someone else underneath the pretending—under the costume and stage makeup.
But in real life, all my pretending—that everything was fine, that I wasn’t still looking for Jacob’s ostrich, that I didn’t know about latent autism—felt like a lie. And that made my stomach twist around in a way that being onstage never did. No one knew what I might be underneath all my neverdos. And I needed to keep it that way.
26
A Good Apology
A FEW DAYS later, I was eating breakfast, still nervous about opening night.
“Did you know the stirrup is the smallest bone in the human body?” Jacob asked.
He was sitting at the kitchen table, too, and Ryan sat beside him, flipping through the newspaper. When he found the funny pages, he pulled out the comics and handed them to my brother, who was waiting patiently, his hands folded in his lap.
I pushed a lonely Cheerio around my cereal bowl.
I’d heard Jacob’s question, but I wasn’t in the mood to answer. I was thinking about Charlie. He hadn’t come around all week while I was working at the zoo. Not once. If he didn’t show up today, I would go knock on his door until he answered.
“Did you know that, Olivia?” Jacob asked again. He didn’t look at the comics. He was still waiting for me to answer.
“Did you know the stirrup is the smallest bone in the human body?” Jacob repeated his question.
“No, Jacob,” I said. “I didn’t know that.” It was what he wanted me to say. It’s what he always wanted me to say. I looked up from my cereal bowl.
Jacob smiled. “It is also known as the stapes,” he said. “It is one of the three smallest bones in the human body. It is found deep inside the ear where the bone vibrates in response to sound.”
“That’s interesting,” I said, but I didn’t really mean it. I didn’t care.
I picked up my bowl, dropped it in the sink, and went to my bedroom to change into the jeans and T-shirt I always wore when I worked at the zoo. I could feel Dad’s eyes on my back, and Mom’s, too. They could tell I was being quieter than usual, but nobody pressed it.
When I came back into the kitchen, I put on my shoes. “I’ll be back after lunch,” I said.
“Have a good morning, sweetheart.” Mom kissed my forehead and stared into my eyes until I had to look away.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. Then I slid open the porch door and walked through the backyard, down the minimal maintenance road toward the zoo.
* * *
• • •
Bridget was off today, so I was helping Phil. It was very, very quiet. Even the monkeys weren’t chattering yet. Seeing no sign of Charlie only made things worse.
I was upset, and I was having trouble hiding it. Especially when I knocked over a bucket of grain by accident, spilling it everywhere.
Phil looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Tough morning, eh?”
“Whatever,” I said. I blinked hard as he handed me a broom. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
I started sweeping up the grain. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I asked Phil the question I’d been wondering for more than a week. “Do you know where Charlie, Vera’s son, is? I haven’t seen him lately.”
Phil stared at me for a minute and then shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “Is that what’s eating you this morning? You and your boyfriend have a fight?” He grinned like he had it all figured out.
I felt my face heat up.
“What? No! He’s not my boyfriend!” Charlie was my friend, and stupid Phil was just thinking up things that weren’t true. Besides, it was none of his business. 1-2-3-4 in . . . 1-2-3-4 out . . . “I just . . .” I took one more deep breath and let it out, nice and slow. “I said something to him last week, and I think I hurt his feelings. I just wanted to tell him I was sorry. But I haven’t seen him around.”
Phil looked at me, his face going serious and kind of soft around the eyes.
“Well then,” he said. “That’s different.” He nodded. “That’s brave.”
“Brave?” It reminded me of what Mrs. Mackenelli had said about Mom. “How is that brave?”
He shrugged. “Trying to right a wrong is always brave.”
I stared at him for a minute and then swept up the rest of the spilled grain.
* * *
• • •
As soon as I finished my work, I put away my tools and made my way to Charlie and Vera’s trailer. I didn’t know how to start. Apologies were hard. I thought I knew what I wanted to say, but now that I was standing at the bottom of Charlie’s front steps, none of the words in my head felt right. But before I had time to sort out a few that did, Charlie opened the door.
“Hey, Olivia.”
“Oh. Hi, Charlie,” I said. “How’d you know it was me?”
“You were talking to yourself again. The windows are open.”
“Oh.”
“Everything okay? It sounded serious.”
“Well, it is kind of serious. I think.”
Charlie frowned. Already this wasn’t going like I’d imagined.
“Not serious, serious . . .” I paused so I could gather my words. “More like important.”
“Okay.” Charlie waited.
“Um.” I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
“Yeah. You know, for that thing I s
aid, before. When you were at my house. Remember?”
“I remember,” he said.
Of course he did. I couldn’t see his eyes, but his voice told me he was still hurt.
“So . . . yeah. I’m really sorry.”
Charlie just stood there.
I rubbed my forehead. I needed to make him understand. I needed him to know I wanted to be his friend. No matter what.
“What I mean is, the stuff I said about wanting to be normal and wanting to have a more normal family, and normal things—that’s true. But I didn’t say it right. It’s not what I meant exactly.”
Charlie’s eyebrows were scrunched again. He sat down on the top step, and I went up and sat down beside him.
“You know when Jacob said that thing about the leaves, when you were at my house? About green and chlorophyll and disguises?”
He nodded.
“Well, I think maybe people are like that, too.” The words were just coming out of my mouth now, and I hadn’t practiced any of them. “I think maybe my family is all kinds of colors. And you’re all kinds of colors, and I’m all kinds of colors, too, and maybe everyone is. Like leaves. But we all wear green because that’s the color that seems easiest for everyone to understand. That’s normal. But maybe it’s not real . . . It’s sort of pretend, actually. Or a disguise. Like you said.”
Charlie was listening with his whole self.
“So . . . I think everyone is a little bit not normal in one way or another. And maybe if we all just told each other the truth about that a little more, it might be easier to be all different kinds of colors.”
I looked at Charlie, but I couldn’t read his expression.
After a minute, he said, “So, what kinds of colors am I?” His voice was low and small. We were sitting very close now, and I could see my face reflected in his glasses. It was a good question, and I didn’t need to think long before I knew the answer.