Tinkerbell shook her head, her hands on her hips once more. “Then this just makes no sense.” She blew out a sigh and walked over to a purse that was hanging on a hook on the wall. As she pulled the purse off of the hook, the hook gleamed, reflecting some distant light streaming through the window. It gave her pause. She studied it for a moment and shuddered. Then, with a determined set of her jaw, she shook off the strange feeling that had overcome her and looked away.
Tinkerbell turned back toward Peter and put the purse strap over her shoulder. “This world is a curse. I can’t think anymore without this horrible human caffeine stuff they have,” she huffed. “I’m going to Starbucks,” the fairy said. “Wanna come?”
Peter rolled his eyes, but he was already moving for his leather jacket, which also hung on a hook on the wall. Tinkerbell had made the jacket for him. Using fairy magic, she made everything they needed to survive in the human world, including the house they currently lived in.
Peter Pan shrugged on his coat and then followed Tinkerbell out the door. “Tink, why don’t you just magic up some coffee? It’s cold outside.”
“You never used to mind the cold, Peter,” Tinkerbell said over her shoulder. “Besides, this is more fun.” She skillfully jumped over a fallen log on their private, woodland path and then stepped out of the forest and onto a sidewalk.
Peter’s gaze narrowed at the back of Tinkerbell’s head. “You just like it when the boys flirt with you.” He followed her onto the sidewalk, leaving their secret path behind.
“Why Peter,” Tink smiled. “Are you jealous?”
“I never get jealous,” Peter insisted. “That’s a grownup emotion.”
At that, Tinkerbell blinked. “You look older, you know.” She took in his broad shoulders and the stubble of hair that shadowed his chin. “You’ve aged in this world.” And that’s an understatement, she thought.
Peter said nothing, but his green eyes flashed and his glare became a scowl.
“Maybe you can feel a grownup emotion after all, Pete.” Tinkerbell laughed and it sounded like pixie dust. And then she whirled around and skipped briskly down the street. Peter grudgingly followed.
Chapter Two
Wendy had long since managed to dry her tears by the time she’d walked all the way to Michael’s school. It was one of her many jobs, as an older sister, to pick Michael up every afternoon and walk him home.
Today, despite its horridness and humiliation, was unfortunately no exception. So, Wendy put on her best face for her little brother and smiled when he came running through the front door.
“Wendy! Did you finish it?”
Wendy blanched. “Umm. . . “.she stammered. “No, Michael. I didn’t have a chance to write today, after all. My teachers gave me boatloads of homework.”
Michael’s face fell, but it was obvious that he tried to hide his disappointment. “That’s okay,” he shrugged. “Want some Sour Patch candies?” He held out a clear plastic bag filled with sugarcoated, gummy people.
Wendy shook her head. “No thanks. They sting my tongue. But I’ll buy you a cocoa if you want.”
Michael shrugged again. He was still trying to hide his disappointment. “Anything’s better than going home and putting up with Dr. John.”
At this, Wendy smiled, somewhat bitterly, and hooked her arm in her brother’s. As they began walking away, the school doors opened once more behind them. A hand full of boys filed out into the play yard. “Hey, Darling boy!” one called out.
Wendy froze, bringing them both to halt.
“Gotta get big sis to walk you home ‘cuz you’re such a darling little baby!”
Wendy’s jaw tightened. Slowly, she turned around, letting go of Michael’s arm. Darling is such an unfortunate last name for a boy, she thought to herself. It was fine for her – but for her brothers. . . . Not so much. The only reason John didn’t get teased the way Michael did was because John was in an extra special school for extra smart kids – and because he had grown up big, like his father.
Michael, on the other hand, was still a rather small child. And utterly unlike any other ten-year-old boy Wendy had ever known. Where most boys that age were filled with a wrestling rage and foul language, Michael was calm and gentle. Inquisitive and quiet. The only thing he ever asked Wendy for was her stories.
She couldn’t bear that he was the brunt of other boys’ cruelty. “I’m sorry,” she said, softly so that the boys on the other end of the playground would have to be very quiet to hear her. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that. Can you come closer and repeat it?”