Forever Neverland(32)

*****

The sixteen-year-old boy who once went by the name Tootles was now tucked safely away between two very tall stacks of books, in his favorite part of this rather dusty level of the library. It was quiet here, but for the occasional hum-buzz of the overhead lights and the clatter of far-away footsteps or book bags being dropped.

There was one small, very old table at the far end of the aisle, near the wall. That table had only one chair, and he sat in it now, listening to the solitude.

Every time that he turned a page in his book, the sand-paper sound of his fingers against the sheet echoed in the hushed atmosphere. It felt as though the books all around him were listening. He liked that about them; they seemed more than two-dimensional. They had lives of their own.

On one side were the medical journals on osteopathy from the early twentieth century. On the other side were books on neurology and macroangiopathy. He’d gazed at their titles a hundred times, but had never cracked their spines. He wasn’t here to read those particular books, though he was certain they were interesting enough, in their own ways.

No, he was here to read something of a far, far different nature. And, because not many people actually came to the library to read about macroangiopathy, he knew that this was the one place where no one would find him and give him grief about what it was he did love to read.

Romance. Love stories. His favorite author was Judith Ivory. But he’d read many others. He loved how they all had happy endings. They all got married and, usually, they had kids and made happy families. Love, happiness, family. Those were the things he liked best.

Those things seemed to be either rare, or so overshadowed by other, bad, things in this world that they were as hard to find as a needle in a hay stack. So, Tootles came often to the library – and hid between these two stacks of books – and disappeared in a world where violence was short and justified and the good guys always won.

Even in Neverland, where it was infrequent compared to the real world, Tootles had disliked violence. He’d always made it a point to attempt to be away – gathering berries or visiting the Piccadilly tribe – when his fellow Lost Boys and Peter Pan decided they needed to go to battle. He was certain that they believed it to be strange luck that he always missed the fighting. He knew the truth, however. The truth was, fighting made him sad. He never wanted to be sad around his Lost Boy brothers and, especially, around Peter Pan. So, he kept himself out of the aggression whenever possible.

Just as he did now, tucked away from the rest of the world in his private space. No one could find him here. No one-

“Tootles!”

Tootles leapt out of his chair, knocking it over behind him and losing his balance in the process so that he landed on the floor in front of it. “Wha-what –” He stammered, trying to right himself.

“Tootles, it’s me! I need your help!”

Tootles scrambled onto his feet and peeked over the table. A teenage girl, perhaps a tad bit older than him, was making her way hurriedly toward him. She wore blue jeans and a green t-shirt and had shoulder-length blonde hair. Her eyes matched her t-shirt almost exactly.

Tootles blinked.

“Who-who are you?” he asked, his eyes wide. “No one calls me by that name – my name is Jason now,” he insisted, shaking his head. “Jason Carmichael!” The girl drew nearer and he noticed that she appeared vaguely familiar.

When she reached the other end of the table, she stopped, her hands on her hips. She shook her head. “Tootles, don’t you recognize me? It’s me! Tink!”

Tootles stood up so fast that he caused the chair behind him to skid back a few feet and it crashed into the wall noisily. From somewhere several aisles down came an irritated “Shhh!!”

“T-Tink?” He stammered. His whole body began to tremble.

Tink smiled broadly, but her expression was also slightly admonishing, and there was something troubled in her green eyes. “Yes, it’s me. Tootles, I need your help. Peter needs your help.”

“Peter?” Tootles looked around, standing on his tip-toes to peer over Tink’s shoulder. “Is he here too?” he asked in an excited whisper.

“No,” Tink shook her head. Her troubled expression deepened. “He’s hurt, Tootles. Pretty bad. I can’t move him and he can’t fly. I need your help to get him back to the cottage, and the sooner the better.”

Tootles frowned. “Peter’s hurt?” He looked utterly confused. “That’s impossible. This has got to be some strange dream.” He glanced surreptitiously at the book he’d dropped on the table. The cover portrayed a wounded man standing victorious over his enemy. A beautiful woman clung to the hero’s arm. “I must have fallen asleep reading-”