Peter’s been visiting me for about a month, and those precious few hours are the best parts of my week. He can’t come every day, though, and it’s super hard to get to sleep with my mind racing about why. Though I’ve learned more about the Lost Boys and where he lives, I think Peter’s careful not to give me the more sordid details. It’s sweet that he wants to protect me, but it’s almost worse leaving it up to my imagination.

Last night he didn’t come, and I’m worried he won’t show up again. Thanks to my stellar reputation as a good daughter, my parents never check on me after our bedtime routines. If they did, they’d find me not in my bed but sitting on the ground of my balcony with my legs tucked against my chest, searching the shadows and listening in the darkness.

Then I hear it. The soft call of a mourning dove. It’s the signal he uses to make sure the coast is clear. If I don’t answer back, he knows not to climb up to me. It hasn’t happened yet, and I hope it never does. I always want to be here for Peter.

I whistle back, and a moment of rustling ivy leaves later, he’s vaulting himself over the bannister. “Hello, Wen,” he says with a wide smile.

He’s taken to shortening my name on occasion. I almost objected the first time but stopped. Having a nickname that only Peter uses is just another one of our secrets; special things I only have with him. Crossing to me, he offers me his hand, causing my skin to tingle where our palms touch.

“Hello, Peter.”

“And how are you this fine evening, m’lady?”

Sometimes he likes to pretend we’re grown-ups and tries to speak proper like the fairytale characters I tell him about. It’s fun to act like we’re in our very own fairytale and can do whatever we want. I giggle and let him pull me to my feet. “I’m well, thank you, kind sir. And how are—” I gasp when he turns his face toward the light spilling out from my bedroom. “Peter, what happened?”

His eye is black and blue with a nasty cut that looks like its struggling to stay closed over the curve of his cheekbone.

“It’s nothin’, don’t worry about me. I’m fine, I promise.”

I capture my lip between my teeth and try not to fuss over him. “Is that why you didn’t come last night?”

He nods. “Wouldn’t stop bleeding and I didn’t want to upset you. Maybe I should’ve waited until it was healed. But I missed you, Wen.”

Gah! Sometimes the things this boy says makes my knees shaky. “Come on, get inside. I have stuff that can help that angry gash.”

“Wendy, I’m a man,” he grumbles on his way into my room. “I don’t need to be tended to like some kid.”

I’ve heard mom mention my father’s “fragile male ego” when he thinks he’s being babied. The irony is that he complains about it even as he gives her puppy dog eyes and waits for her to bring him soup and a cool cloth for his forehead when he’s sick. This must be how Mom feels.

I roll my eyes behind his back and order him to sit on my bed before getting the supplies I need from my bathroom. Arranging myself next to him, I use the warm washcloth to clean the dried blood from the cut, then gently hold it there to soften the skin with the heat.

“I’m going to apply this butterfly bandage. I don’t think you need stitches, but it’s going to take a long time to heal if the skin can’t stay together.”

He holds still and barely winces when I push the edges closer and secure the adhesive strip. “I’ll have to take it off in the morning or Croc will be suspicious.”

“Oh, right. Well, even having this on for eight hours or so should help.”

“What’s that?” he asks, watching me open a small jar.

“It’s a salve my mom uses for John’s bruises. He’s in Tae Kwon Do, and sometimes, the sparring gets a little out of control.” As I smooth the ointment over the discolored skin, a smile spreads across his face, and I can feel him staring at me. Now his cheeks aren’t the only ones with color. “What?” I ask self-consciously.

“You’d make a great mom, Wendy.”

“Oh, thank you. I mean, I hope to be, someday. I’d like lots of kids.”

Suddenly, he sits up straighter, and I can practically see the lightbulb floating over his innocently mischievous head. “Holy shh—” My left eyebrow arches at him like I’ve seen my mother do more times than I can count, and to my surprise, it works. “—oot,” he finishes. “I have an idea. You can be a mom to the Lost Boys.”

My mouth gapes open. “You want me to be a mom to you and the Lost Boys?”

“No, not me, I don’t want a mother. I’ll be the dad. Dads are the leaders of their families, after all, and that’s what I am—their leader. Except for Smee and Starkey, but whenever Hook’s not around, they follow me, too.”

“Peter, you’re not making any sense,” I say. “How can I possibly be a mother to the Lost Boys?”

“You can come with me sometimes at night. I’ll sneak you in, then you can tell us—I mean, them—bedtime stories, and tuck them in just like a mom does.”

“Are you crazy? You want me to sneak out of my bedroom in the middle of the night? What if I get caught? What if my mom checks on me, or Croc catches me at the school?”

“No, yes, you won’t, she won’t, he won’t,” he says, counting the super-fast answers on his fingers.

I’m speechless, utterly speechless. Wait, no I’m not. “You are crazy, Peter. Do you realize that I’ve never broken a rule in my life? Never! And something tells me there’s a certain amount of finesse needed for breaking rules without getting caught, and as a strict rule follower, I don’t have that.”

“But I do.” He pulls his shoulders back, stretching his T-shirt across his chest. Why am I noticing that? “I break rules all the time, and I never get caught.” Gingerly touching the bandage on his cheekbone, he frowns. “Well, almost never.”

Instinctively, I reach up and lightly trace the outer edge of his bruise. His hand encircles my wrist, and we both freeze. Those fairy wings are back in my belly, and I forget to breathe as a crooked grin spreads across his face. I stare into his blue eyes sparkling in the lamplight, promising unexpected adventures and stories untold.

I think about the other boys and Tinker Bell at the school, without anyone to care for them or look after them. Not properly like children should be. Would it be so horrible if I took a small risk to offer them some much needed nurturing? My parents have always raised me and my brothers to help those less fortunate than us, so they would probably even approve. You know, if it wasn’t for the whole “sneaking out of my room at night to go with a strange boy I barely know, to go to a city I’m not allowed, to sneak into a place run by a couple who takes pleasure in abusing children” thing. But besides all that…

“Okay,” I whisper.

Hope and excitement flash in his eyes. “Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Taking a deep breath, I utter the words that will begin our story. “I’ll go with you to Neverland, Peter Pan.”