Lost in the Never Woods(69)

When she put the book on her nightstand, her fingers itched, twitching toward the drawer. She hesitated for a second before pulling it open and taking out the acorn. Lying back, she rolled the acorn in her palm. The longer she played with it, the warmer it seemed to get in her hand. It reminded her of how she felt when she was around Peter. It was comforting.

That gave her an idea.

Wendy went to her closet, got on her hands and knees, and started digging through the stack of boxes in the far corner behind her shoes. It took her a few minutes of opening lids and rifling through contents until she found what she was looking for.

She pulled out a yellow plastic pencil box. Inside were old jewelry-making supplies that Wendy had used to make necklaces and bracelets when she was younger, most of which she only ever gave her mom and Jordan. Inside were small beads and pieces of yarn in different colors. There were spare toggles and barrel clasps, and various jump rings. She took out a silver one and a long piece of leather cord.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, Wendy used the supplies to fashion the acorn and leather cord into a necklace. When she put it around her neck, the acorn hung in the center of her chest, long enough to safely tuck under her shirt.

Wendy leaned back against her pillows. Exhaustion weighed her body down, from her sore feet to the prickle of a sunburn on her forehead. The weight of the acorn felt reassuring. The warmth from where it lay against her skin seemed to radiate through her. Wendy sighed and closed her eyes. What was it about the acorn that made her feel so much more at ease? At least now she would be able to carry it around with her, and that seemed to soothe her worries enough for her to fall asleep.





CHAPTER 15

The Acorn





Wendy was in Neverland. To her left, the trees at the edge of the jungle grew thick and lush. Tucked against them were a couple of crudely made huts, fashioned from branches and huge palm fronds nearly as big as she was. Above, craggy, pitched mountains reached into the clear blue sky. Waterfalls poured over cliffs, nothing but thin silver ribbons in the distance. To her left, white sandy beach kissed the vast, empty, crystal blue ocean. Small birds in vibrant neon shades chased the rolling waves in and out, digging up seashells and singing.

Wendy sat in the sand, back in the body of her twelve-year-old self. She wore the same white leggings and she was sewing a patch into the knee with thread and a needle. The patch itself was made from a strip of thick green leaf.

And there, just in front of her—

“John, you have to share the white!”

“I’m not done with it yet! ’Sides, you’ll just spill it again.”

“No I won’t!”

Before her sat Michael and John. Just the way she remembered them, before they went missing in the woods.

Michael had the same curly mess of light brown hair. Leaves were tangled in the downy locks. His face was round, his cheeks full. He had their father’s upturned nose. Michael, wearing nothing but his khaki pants torn into shorts, struggled to grab a cup of white paint that John held out of his reach.

John sat cross-legged, with his usual carefully poised posture. He ignored Michael and continued painting with his index finger on a piece of burlap. His glasses perched on the very end of his nose as he made each stroke with careful deliberation. He still had his white button-down shirt on, though it was far worse for wear, and his dark hair was parted to the side.

Wendy wanted to cry out, to throw herself onto her brothers and hug them but, in this memory, she had no control of her body. She could feel sobs bucking in her chest, but no sound came out. In a frenzy, her eyes flew back and forth between their faces, trying to drink in every detail, willing them to just look at her so she could see their eyes again.

If this was a dream, it was a very cruel one.

“Stop fighting, you two,” said Wendy’s voice from her own mouth. “There’s plenty of paint to go around. Michael, why don’t you use blue from the berries you gathered?” There was an assortment of thick liquids in small bowls fashioned from coconuts in blue, green, white, yellow, and black.

“Because I want white!” With the last word, he lunged for John’s arm, only to have his older brother pull it away at the last second.

Michael tumbled over.

Wendy heard herself sigh. “You guys are making a mess of yourselves.” Indeed, there were splatters of different-colored paint on the burlap and surrounding sand. Wendy noticed a glob of red on Michael’s chest that trickled down to his bellybutton. As he laughed, John turned, and there was some on his neck, too, just below his ear. Wendy frowned.

The crashing of leaves in the branches above caused Wendy to look up. Peter was flying—actually flying. Well, sort of. He seemed to be losing his balance and was descending at a rapid speed. He hit the ground hard on his feet, causing him to stumble forward, kicking up sand, but he recovered before he could fall.

Wendy stood up and ran over to his side. “Peter! Are you okay?” she heard herself ask.

No! Go back to John and Michael! She wanted to see them—she needed to see them longer than just a fleeting glance.

“I’m fine,” Peter said, but worry was etched into his young features. He glanced in the direction of Michael and John, who she could still hear bickering behind her, before turning back to Wendy. “I got you something,” Peter said. He made a face, the one people do when they’re trying to smile, trying to reassure, but it just doesn’t sit right.