last of the lights died out on the forest floor, right before they were plunged into darkness, Peter opened his hand and sparks jumped to life in his palm. The clearing was silent for a moment before, slowly, crickets began to sing from deep in the woods.
Wendy stared at the glittering lights. They were bright and danced around his fingertips. They gave off no heat and didn’t seem to burn him.
It was mesmerizing. Wendy stared and wiped her nose on her shoulder. “W-what is that?” She hiccupped into the fabric of her shirt.
Peter gave her a weak smile. “Would you believe me if I said pixie dust?”
CHAPTER 11
Old Friends
By the light of the pixie dust sparking in his hand, Peter navigated them through the woods. He told her they couldn’t stay any longer, in case the shadow came back. Wendy would’ve fought him, but he made a good point—they would be blindly searching the woods. Wendy’s body was so heavy and stiff with grief and exhaustion, she simply didn’t have enough fight left to object further. It took every ounce of energy she had left to walk back to her house.
Peter led the way, and, though it bruised her pride, Wendy held on to his arm as they wove between trees and ducked under branches. She had a hard time looking at where she was going. Her eyes kept getting drawn to the pixie dust in Peter’s hand.
The small flecks of light leapt and bounced on his skin. They looked like they were dancing, or shaking with welled-up excitement. It reminded her of how Michael often looked, sitting in bed and squirming with glee when she began telling a story before bed.
The light danced on Peter’s face, casting a warm glow across his cheekbones and the tip of his nose and sparkling in his already bright eyes. Some shot up higher into the air, making corkscrew swirls before fizzling out, like embers popping in a bonfire, but with more life. Wendy wondered if they tickled his hand.
The woods no longer whispered, but Wendy still felt like they were being watched. After what seemed like ages, they hopped the fence into her backyard. Just as she was wondering what he would do with the pixie dust, Peter simply clapped his hands and the lights went out.
Wendy didn’t want to be near the woods any longer. The crushing sense of loss threatened to pull her down a path she tried hard to stay away from.
With some coaxing, she was able to talk Peter into coming inside.
Mr. Darling wasn’t sleeping in the living room anymore, and, after checking that his car was gone, Wendy assumed her dad had gone to the store or something. He never left notes about where he went, so she could only guess when he’d be back. Either way, she knew she would be in trouble when he did. She’d told him she wouldn’t be out past dark.
But there were more pressing matters at hand.
“Pixie dust,” Wendy repeated, wiping her nose off on the back of her hand.
Peter nodded, drumming his fingers on the counter. “Yup.”
Standing in her kitchen, leaning against the counter, it struck her how weird this all was. She believed him now, that he was Peter Pan—her Peter—because how else could she explain what had just happened? She kept catching herself openly staring at him.
Peter Pan was in her kitchen. To her annoyance, she felt more nervous now, like she was meeting her favorite singer.
Under the fluorescent lights, she could see how much of a mess Peter was.
He’d found a new set of clothes again. This time, it was a pair of faded jeans with a hole in the left knee and a dark green T-shirt. She wondered where he had gotten them. Maybe he’d stolen them from someone’s backyard or nicked them from a lost and found.
Peter’s face was flushed and had a couple of small cuts. His hair stuck out in disheveled tufts and dirt was smeared across his cheek. Wendy was certain she didn’t look much better. Her own hands were filthy.
She quickly walked to the sink and ran her hands under hot water.
“As in the stuff that makes you fly?” she continued. In the stories her mom had passed down, Peter used pixie dust from the fairies in Neverland to help himself and the lost kids fly.
“It’s supposed to, yeah,” he said, lightly touching a cut on his temple that was caked in dried blood. He winced. A branch must have scratched