Chapter 1 - Dream a Little Dream of Me

It seemed ironic that, in the weeks leading up to her eighteenth birthday, Wendy Isla Lovett began dreaming about Neverland. 

It started as just that—Neverland. That very first night, she dreamt of lying on her back in the mermaid lagoon, crystal clear water sliding against her bare back as she stared at a sky so full of stars it illuminated the tops of trees above her. She thought she might have been a mermaid herself, then. They continued in that way. She woke up with the feeling of sand beneath her toes, of sea air blowing across her face, of fairies talking in her ear—twinkling like a bell. She lay there, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, and the memory of Neverland in her dream faded. It became especially difficult to remember her dream every time she checked her phone, which was typically soon after rising from bed. 

When her dad, shoveling scrambled eggs onto her plate, asked if she’d had pleasant dreams, she responded that she thought so, but she couldn’t remember them. So, that was how it went. Wendy spent her summer days languidly counting down to her eighteenth birthday. She completed several of the crafts she didn’t have time for during the school year, worked on her college applications—not that she was applying to many—and went for long walks on the trails behind her house. Her bike had broken last summer, and her dad had insisted that if she wanted another one, she’d have to get a job to pay for it. It was perfectly reasonable. 

It was also perfectly reasonable, in her opinion, that she wasn’t ready to work quite yet. She wanted one last summer to laze around, sew cool patches into her jeans, listen to music, and daydream about the ocean,though she wasn’t quite sure why it had been on her mind so much lately. 

Her dad didn’t push her to do anything. He was busy enough with work and didn’t ever pressure her very intensely. Her brother, recently returned from summer camp, went mucking about with his friends every day, or played himself to sleep on his computer every night. If they didn’t spend the time outside as they did, maybe their father would have told them to do so, but they did go out a good deal, so he said nothing. 

Seven days before her eighteenth birthday, she dreamed about Peter Pan. That dream she remembered so starkly, that when she woke up, she wondered whether or not she might still be dreaming. His eyes were green as seaglass pressed up against the bark of a tree—a rich brown hiding beneath some translucent gem. He got very close to her face, the tip of his nose brushing against hers, enough that she could count each and every freckle on his face. He seemed so real to her. He did not look like the sort of Peter Pan she would’ve imagined while she was awake. Wendy  couldn’t remember if he’d said anything to her in the dream, only that when she woke up, she could still see his face when she closed her eyes. 

~~~~~

She told her dad so at breakfast. It was the only meal they shared;  when he was working and she was out of school.

“Your mother didn’t care for that story,” he said, “But she liked the name Wendy anyway.” 

She hadn’t thought about it like that until this morning, when she remembered her dream. Her name was Wendy. Maybe that was why she’d been dreaming about Peter Pan. In truth, that was the reason, but it was of no fault of her own. Of course, as most things are, it was all Peter’s.  

“I think we showed you guys that movie when you were kids, though.” 

“I don’t really remember it,” she said, poking at her eggs with a fork. 

He shrugged. “We watched a lot of movies.”

That was true, but she had never dreamed of them like this before. “It was just weird, that’s all.” 

“Dreams are like that,” he said. “One time, your brother came and crawled into our bed, and he told me he had a nightmare where he killed us.” Her dad shivered, although somewhat mockingly. “I didn’t sleep right after that.” 

“Well, at least he said it was a nightmare.” 

Her dad pointed his fork at her. “Excellent point. And you had a completely normal dream. Nothing to worry about.” 

She was not particularly worried in the first place. 

~~~~~

In her dream that night, Peter burst through the window and swept her into a great hug, swinging her around the room as he floated a few feet off the ground. He whispered her name into her hair, like he had been missing her a long time. 

She didn’t tell her father about that. Nor did she tell him about the next one, when Peter crept into her bed and gently tried to shake her awake. That night, she woke up in the midst of her dream. Sitting up, she patted the sides of her bed, like maybe she would find him lingering there. It all seemed so real. The dreams mirrored her bedroom exactly; overstuffed closet, messy desk, white curtains, and even the way her mattress squeaked when someone else sat down on it. 

It drove her up the wall. That morning, she walked forty-five minutes to the library, checked out Peter Pan, and walked forty-five minutes back. After the first five pages, she decided that all of this was stupid, and she was really going insane over nothing, because Peter Pan wasn’t real. The book lay on her bedside table as she texted her friends, making sure everyone knew when to show up for her party in a few days, watched some TV, and went to bed early. Of course, this was the worst thing to do if she wanted to rid her dreams of Peter, because nothing provokes him like insisting he isn’t real, which is exactly what Wendy did as she fell asleep that night. 

Her windowpane rattled. Wendy  did not wake up. Peter’s shadow slipped into the room, being thin enough to fit beneath the windowsill, and stood starkly against her white walls. His shadow took a moment to peer at her posters—Paramore, 10 Things I Hate About You, and various plant diagrams—before unlatching the window. 

Peter, rather than bursting forth, clambered through the window in a mess of gangly arms and legs, snatched his shadow and stuck it back into place, before he was finally—after several attempts to reach Wendy to announce his arrival—standing in her bedroom. Only it was not the bedroom he remembered. It was different in almost every way. He raised a few inches into the air and floated to her bedside, only to discover that the sleeping girl there was not how he remembered either. It was here, as he leaned over her, curious green eyes roving across her face, that Wendy Lovett woke up. 

She opened her mouth, her first instinct being to scream, before quickly realizing that, of course, this was yet another dream. She hadn’t  rid herself of Neverland’s visage just yet. When Peter tilted his head, poking her cheek as she stared at him, she sat up in bed and stared back at him. 

The two stayed like that for a moment, regarding each other. He was exactly as he had appeared to her before. Around her age, a mess of auburn hair, eyes green as anything, clad in leather and worn, leaf-patterned fabric, all earthy-tones and with a wild energy. 

“Why, your eyes are more blue than I remember…” he murmured. He leaned in closer and squinted at her, mystified, “And your hair is awfully dark.” Peter reached out, twisting a lock around his finger and then letting it slip off gently. 

“What do you mean?” She asked, tilting her head at him. “You just saw me last night.” 

He shook his head. “I tried to come see you, but it was only in a dream. The journey is quite long, you know.” Saying this, he seemed to regain his bearings, and a rogueish grin spread across his face. “But I’m here—!” He leapt up and flew in a circle around the room—which was not very large, and he was much larger now, so it was quite a tight circle. “I’m here! Back again!” 

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, blinking at him as he returned to her bedside. “I’m dreaming,” she said softly to herself. 

“Did you miss me, Wendy?” he asked, shaking her arm. “You did, didn’t you? I thought I should wait a long time, so you had plenty of days to miss me for.” 

She narrowed her eyes at him, “If I know I’m dreaming,” she said,  “Why aren’t I waking up? Isn’t that how these things are supposed to go?” 

He blinked back at her, puzzled. “What do you mean? This isn’t a dream. It’s exactly like the last time.” 

“Last time was a dream. What am I saying—this time is a dream.”

Peter pinched her. 

She reared back, the bed squeaking. “What the fuck? What was that for?” 

Immediately, he careened off to the other side of the room, his back slamming into her closet door—he was still expecting there to be more space around him. Mystified, he lowered himself to the ground and carefully inspected the wall behind him. 

“Hey–!” She scrambled out of bed and stomped over to him, giving him a thorough pinch back on the arm. 

“Ow!” He pulled his arm back, his attention brought back to her once more. “What was that for? I know I’m not dreaming!” 

She didn’t know how to respond to that one. Was she dreaming? She must be. 

He frowned at her and reached out to touch her face again. 

She smacked his hand away, scowling. 

“I’m sure this is the right room…” he said softly, placing a hand on the wall. “Only it doesn’t look like the right room.” 

“This is my room.” 

“And you’re Wendy,” he said carefully. 

She nodded. “That’s why I’ve been having these dreams. It’s all just a stupid thing about my name. Well, better to confront it—” 

He stepped forward, peering into her face again. 

Wendy pushed his cheek back with the palm of her hand. “What are you doing?” 

“Looking.” 

“At?” 

“You.”

“Because?” 

“You’re not the same Wendy you used to be,” he said. Peter’s tone was not dejected, as he rarely was, but instead profoundly curious, as though he could not comprehend how he had ended up in the wrong Wendy’s bedroom. 

“I’m the same Wendy I’ve always been, thank you. Now, I’m going to wake up, and you’re going to—”

He pinched her again. 

“Ow,” she practically growled. 

Peter laughed; a perfect, tinkling sound, almost like fairies talking, though much more boyish, bubbling out from his chest as he lifted off the floor. “You are awake! And I’m…” He paused, mulling this over for a moment, “Not where I intended. But that must be some kind of magic, because I’m sure I took the right route.” 

She gaped at him, his arms folded as he hovered a foot off the ground, and for the first time considered the possibility that this might not be a dream. “You’re Peter Pan.” 

“I thought you knew that already.” He tilted his head at her, his entire body tilting in the air along with it, until he threw himself into a somersault and floated down to the ground again. 

“You–”

He flicked hair out of his eyes, standing up straight. “I’ve changed,” he said triumphantly. “Though if you’re not the old Wendy, you wouldn’t know anyway. Well, I’ve decided to grow up… a little—” He strongly emphasized the little, “—just for you. So we could be the same age. You’re seventeen, aren’t you?” 

She nodded, still entirely disoriented at the whole ordeal. “Almost eighteen.” 

He snapped his fingers. “Exactly! I’m here,” he said, taking a step forward and extending his hand. “To give you another chance.” 

“A chance to…” She, very cautiously, placed her hand in his.

Peter seemed to pick his next words carefully, which was rare for him. “To extend your childhood. To put off growing up for as long as you wanted, no consequence.” 

“No consequence?” 

He nodded eagerly, grinning. “Time is so different in Neverland. You could spend years there, and I could still return you to this very same night. I could still go find that other Wendy, if I wanted, even though she’s…” He looked around the room, seemingly sensing how much times had changed, “Long gone now. It would all be possible. That’s magic, you know.” 

Wendy squinted at him. She did not know about magic. “Well, why don’t you? If you came for her in the first place.” 

This seemed to displease him, and he paused. “I’m not sure why, but I don’t quite want to.” Her hand still lay in his, and he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of it. “You seem to be a very interesting girl, and you never even got a first chance to go to Neverland. It wouldn’t be fair to offer another Wendy a second chance, if you never got to go in the first place.” 

“There are thousands—well, no, probably millions, of Wendys.” She wanted to ask again if he was sure he didn’t want to find his Wendy, but she held her tongue. 

Peter shrugged. “I’m asking you, not them. Won’t you come with me?” She hesitated, and he took another step closer to her, squeezing her hand. “Everything would still be waiting for you here… whenever you wanted to return…” he promised, in his most gentle and charming voice. 

Wendy remained skeptical. Although she had to admit, he was beginning to work his magic upon her. She wasn’t quite ready to grow up; that much was clear to her. But she wasn’t sure she trusted Peter Pan, or the fact that any of this was real. “I’ll have to think about it.” 

“Well, sure, you’ve got time. It’s a few days away now, isn’t it? Your birthday?” 

She nodded, the thought of legal adulthood deeply discomforting. A party was exciting, yes, but her dad had already gotten on her case about early voter registration, and her passport was expiring, and she’d have to go to her doctor's appointment alone in a few weeks, and there were dozens of things like that to come, and it was all happening in just a few days. 

Maybe it could be prolonged a little. But, given the circumstances of Peter Pan standing in her bedroom, she didn’t see herself in her right mind to make any rash decisions. 

So, she sent him away, but he insisted that he would be back tomorrow at the same time to hear her decision. After that, she climbed back into bed and promptly fell asleep as if nothing of note had happened to her. 

~~~~~

The next morning, Wendy woke up with an uncomfortable feeling in her chest. She remembered the events of the previous night unlike any dream, each detail clear chronologically, as if it had really just happened to her. She rubbed her arm where he had pinched her, and it was perhaps a little sore, but it could have just been her brain playing tricks on her. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d left any marks. 

She smacked herself in the forehead. She would be eighteen years old in three days, and here she was, believing in Peter Pan. 

Wendy filled her day to the brim with activity. She called a friend, asked her to a cute coffee shop, and took her time getting overdressed in a vintage floral dress with brown lace accents; her second-favorite one. The pale green one with tiny roses and a ruffle on the bottom was saved for her birthday—a garden party—and was already hung up on the outside of her closet. 

After coffee, she changed, dragged her brother to the park to play tennis, then made him watch a movie with her, then helped her dad cook dinner, not giving herself a moment to sit with her own thoughts. 

Then, the evening dulled. She blasted music in the shower, and then, for reasons she would not admit to herself, changed into a cute set of blue-checkered pajamas. She left her computer running, playing mindless videos as she fell asleep, pressing any and all thoughts of Neverland far away. 

She awoke to Peter in bed next to her, underneath the covers, holding her laptop and staring at the screen, zombified. Like this, with the blue light reflecting on his face, he looked like a perfectly normal teenage boy staying up too late. 

Only he was in her bed, and he was Peter Pan. 

She sat up and shoved him, sending both him and her laptop flying off the bed. In Peter’s case, literally flying, as he dove to catch the computer. He righted himself and scowled, the computer now shut in his hands. “I was watching that,” he said petulantly. 

She blinked. “You know what a computer is?” 

He turned the laptop over in his hands. “Computer…” 

As Peter marveled at it, she gaped at him. “You’re–” 

“Back? Obviously,” he said, tossing the computer back onto her bed, and then jumping back onto it himself. It squeaked, and she sat up straighter. “I keep my promises. Besides, you haven’t got much time left. I wouldn’t waste another minute.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said. 

Peter flopped against the headboard, turning his head to look at her. “I thought you might say that.” He sighed and looked out towards the window. “It’s a precious thing, you know,” he said softly, “Once you grow up, you always find yourself wanting to turn back the clock. Every adult feels that way.” 

She stared at her ceiling instead of at him, trying to regain her sanity. “How would you know?”

He turned back towards her, and she met his intense gaze. “I just do. You haven’t grown up all the way either, but you know. Eventually, you’ll look back, and wish you’d appreciated it more.” He tilted his head back and stared up like there were stars above them, and not a blank white ceiling. “I appreciate it the most. That’s how I know.” 

Wendy regarded him sincerely, for the very first time. “I’m not ready to be an adult, but I’m not ready to leave, either.” 

“I told you, I’ll bring you back the same–” 

She shook her head. “I meant, like, I’m not ready to leave with you.” 

This upset him. He had the sort of face that, when distressed, was difficult not to console; big green eyes downcast  like a kicked puppy. 

“In the sense that—well, I don’t know you. I don’t even know what I’d do in Neverland, so why would I want to go?” 

He perked up, shoulders straightening. “Would you like me to tell you about it?” 

She relaxed against the headboard and nodded. “It might help convince me,” she said. 

“The best part of Neverland, other than me,” he began.

Wendy scowled at him. 

He sighed and started once more. “The best part of Neverland is that you can do whatever you like. What I like to do… well, I like to make things. I make my own arrows, and I build plenty of things. I’ve got a house underneath the ground—” he stared at her pointedly, “That’s a secret, so keep it. I’ve got a house under the ground, with a few secret passages. Then, I built some houses in the trees, with bridges connecting them, so if I’m too tired to fly, I can just walk back and forth.” 

“How do you get in the treehouses?”

“I… fly. But I could build a ladder, if I wanted. I’d get some fresh, sturdy wood and hack it up with my machete, then tie it together with twine and sap, and there; I’d have a ladder. Wouldn’t take me more than a few hours. I’d have time to make more wind-chimes too, if I wanted.” 

“What does it look like?” She asked, putting a pillow behind her so she could sit more comfortably. It didn’t feel like she was dreaming. Rather, that she was being told a bedtime story. 

“It’s bigger than you think. Flying, it would take you a few hours to get from one side to the other. That’s a long way. It curves upward on one end, with a tall mountain, and a jaggedy cliff that overlooks the sea. The other side is flatter, with a big, wide beach. The sand is… pearl-white, and soft.” He paused, seeming sleepy himself. “There’s a cove underneath the cliff, where the pirates dock. The mermaid lagoon is on the other side, by the nice beach. The water is so blue and clear there you could see anything in it. It sparkles like a rainbow, and the mermaids play games with the bubbles, and if you go there early in the morning, you can hear them singing.”

Wendy shut her eyes, trying to imagine what a mermaid’s song might sound like. The room was quiet, and Peter paused for a minute, like he was imagining it himself. 

“The fairies party all night, and wake up late in the afternoon. You can hear them start again at sunset. The sunsets… are different every day, oranges and pinks and then a soft, perfect lavender-magenta.” He took a deep, languid breath. “Then, night covers the island like a blanket.” 

She settled further down into the covers, yawning, and felt his knee knock against hers. She didn’t know how he’d even gotten underneath the sheets without waking her up.

“Night-time in Neverland…” He yawned, trying to blink himself awake. “Sorry–”

“Don’t be,” she said, rubbing her eyes. 

“I was up all night, talking with the stars, and then when the sun came back up, I couldn’t get to sleep. It’s hard enough to sleep while you’re flying, and even harder when that big thing is shining in your face…” 

“It’s also a star, you know,” she said, closing her eyes again, “You could talk to it, too.” 

He shrugged and slid further into bed, his head on her other pillow. “We’re not close.” 

Wendy hummed. “That’s too bad…” 

Peter sat up straight, squeaking the bed. 

Her eyes shot open, bewildered. 

“Your mother isn’t going to walk in here, is she?” 

She chewed her lip, avoiding his eyes. “No, she’s not.” 

He squinted at her. “Are you trying to get me caught? She’d shoo me out, you know.” 

“She’s dead.” She spoke firmly, with a matter-of-fact quality you had to have when telling someone you had a dead mother. 

“Oh,” he said, very softly. A silence settled between them. Peter looked upon her like he regretted asking, but his eyes held a curiousness, like she was a catastrophe he couldn’t tear himself from. 

“It’s been a long time.” Almost seven years, in a few months. Wendy’s mother was about to miss another birthday. Whenever she began to pity herself, she thought instead about how many of her own birthdays her mother hadn’t gotten to experience, and then she stopped feeling sorry for her own ordeal. “It’s alright, really.” 

Peter nodded, treading very carefully now. “Then… you wouldn’t mind if I just slept here a little, would you? Just an hour or two.”

Wendy realized, more consciously this time, that she might not be dreaming, and there was a boy in her bed for the very first time. Regardless of his Peter-Pan-ness, she ought to have kicked him out a while ago. 

“I’ll be gone before you wake up. It’s so hard to fall asleep while flying, Wendy—that’s the biggest trouble of getting to Neverland, is that it takes so long, and it’s so hard to sleep that way when you’re by yourself, even if you’re an expert flier, like me–” 

She sighed, long and shuddering, and he shut up. “You can stay–”

“Oh, you’re the kindest girl I’ve ever met–”

“—If… you keep to that side of the bed. And I’ll go over here,” she said, shifting over to give him more room. 

Peter nodded. He slunk downwards until he was fully horizontal, pulling the covers up, and closing his eyes. 

She rolled over and fell asleep faster than she ever had. 

~~~~~

In the morning, the other side of her bed was ruffled, with a head-shaped dent in the pillow she hadn’t been using. Blearily, she examined the state of the covers, leaning down and blinking at the pillow. It smelled faintly of fir-trees and mist, a clean, airy scent. She brought her face close to it and inhaled, pulling back and wrinkling her nose. This was not what her pillows smelled like. 

Wendy shot out of bed. In her blue checkered pajamas, she stood and stared at it. 

This absolutely could not be happening. Could people hallucinate smells? She didn’t know. This felt like the sort of question for her dad, or Google, but instead she swallowed the hard pill of acceptance. Peter Pan really was in her bed last night. 

~~~~~

Wendy sat outside, a small leather-bound journal in hand, and penciled things down while she listened to the summer breeze ruffle the trees. Being out in the grass, pencil in hand, was grounding. Still, nothing could change the implications of his existence. Implications were scary things. 

Number one, most importantly, magic was real. In little subheadings, she wrote that flying was also real. Neverland, too, was a real place. In parentheses, she penned allegedly next to that. Without going there, she couldn’t confirm its existence. That led into the more terrifying, or exciting, reality. Peter wanted to take her there if she wanted to go. 

She closed her eyes. It had seemed so wondrous last night. She wasn’t quite old enough to stop enjoying bedtime stories. Did anyone ever get old enough? She didn’t write that question down. 

Neverland, with mermaids and fairies and pirates and beasts. She wanted to see a mermaid very badly. In her notebook, she wrote: Mermaids and fairies exist—friendly? If they were, she’d simply have to go. 

The second that thought entered her mind, she immediately wrote three times: Do not make any rash decisions. 

She would interrogate Peter tonight, force him to leave a memento with her—just to make absolutely sure she wasn’t hallucinating—and then decide the following night. It seemed like a fair, reasonable plan to her. 

~~~~~

“Let me get this absolutely straight—you take care of a bunch of boys who live in a hole?” 

“Boys and girls,” he said, like that improved the situation, “And it’s not a hole, it’s a home.” 

Wendy paced around her bedroom. “What do they even do all day?” 

“The same as me. Build things, hunt, chase pirates, play in the lagoon. All sorts of things.” 

She crossed her arms. “How many?” 

He shrugged sheepishly. 

“You don’t know?” 

“They come and go. And really, I’m not saying it’s a good situation. I mean, it works fine, but help is certainly needed.” 

She squinted. “So, we’re gonna babysit?” 

“Not… all the time. They’re self-sufficient, mostly. If you keep them in line.” 

Wendy supposed her brother was self-sufficient if you gave him enough food and a safe place to sleep. Throw in a computer, and you’d never have to pay any attention to him at all. “Well, alright. Are mermaids friendly?” 

“Depends. I’m friends with them, but I can’t force them to be your friend.” 

“Fairies?” 

“Same thing. I could give you some tips, though.” 

That was satisfactory enough for her. “Can I die there?” 

He sat up straight, a serious look in his eye. “I would never let it happen.” 

She pursed her lips, starting to pace again. 

“But… you could. Possibly.” He stood up, following her as she circled the room. “You could survive many things with magic, but if you went off without me and drowned, I couldn’t bring you back.” 

Wendy paused. “I’m no wilderness expert,” she said thoughtfully, “But I can swim.” 

He placed a firm, steady hand on her shoulder. “I’d teach you everything you need to know. And as I said, under my watch, it would never happen.” 

“Neverland…” she murmured beneath her breath, like it was a bad pun. “How long does it take to get there?” 

About the Author

Ethan Andrew is a third-year creative writing major at the University of Iowa, originally from Las Vegas, Nevada. He writes fiction that ranges from grim to bizarre, and in his free time enjoys photography, digital art, and watching TV with friends. He seeks to accomplish as much as possible now rather than later, and is set to graduate at just nineteen years old. 

Instagram: ethanox_07

Website: https://sites.google.com/view/ethanandrew/home

Cover design made using Canva design tools.