Peter Pan?

For a moment, my eyes locked on him, unwavering and wide with shock. I blinked slowly and tried to process what he just said. Had I heard him right? He said his name was Peter Pan, but that had to be a joke. Some kind of sick joke.

Peter Pan wasn't real.

As a child, my dad made sure I believed in Peter Pan and Neverland with his plethora of stories passed down from his grandfather. My imagination ran wild with all the adventures I wanted to have in Neverland. But that was years ago and my childish fantasies have since faded away.

"Yeah, sure you are," I rolled my eyes at him and crossed my arms. "And I'm Tinker Bell."

He frowned, seemingly confused. "No, you're Amelia Mary Darling. I'm sure of it..."

My skin began crawling. He knew who I was, my middle name and everything? How was it possible if we've never met? Was he a stalker? That was the only rational explanation I could think of. That or someone put him up to it.

"You've got the wrong girl," I blurted out before turning on my heel to walk away as quickly as possible.

Before I could take another step, he dashed in front of me to block my path on feet that didn't seem to quite touch the ground. "No, I know you. You're Amelia. You look just like her..."

Chills ran down my spine like an electric shock. Who did he think I resembled? If he truly was Peter Pan, then perhaps he meant my great-aunt, Wendy. I've seen old family pictures from the 1910's. My dad always said I looked just like her. But he couldn't know that.

Peter Pan wasn't real.

"Get out of my way," I said in a tone colder than ice. "I have to get to class."

His green eyes flickered over my face as if he searched for some hint of belief. "You have to believe me. Listen, I really am Peter Pan and I need your help."

"You can't be Peter Pan!" I shouted, surprising myself with my own ferocity. "Peter Pan isn't real! He's a made up character my dead father told me as a bedtime story!"

Peter Pan wasn't real.

He just stared at me for the longest time, the shock plastered to his face like mud. Then, ever so slowly, he stepped closer to me. His hand slipped in mine, causing me to tense. They were warm to the touch and a little rough like somebody who spent time outdoors. He didn't pull away, simply gave my hand a squeeze with his strong one.

"Does this feel like a bedtime story?" He murmured. "Can't you see me? Because I see you."

I lifted my blue gaze to look him in the eye. Shivers ran up my arm and down my spine creating goosebumps. No, this didn't feel like a bedtime story. This felt real. He felt real. Still, he couldn't really be Peter Pan.

With a sudden urgency, I pulled my hand from his grip and let the anger settle in. "Don't touch me! Tell whoever put you up to this is sick."

Before he could grab me again, I hurried down the hallway to algebra. Even though I escaped his presence, I couldn't shake the feeling of being followed. But each time I glanced over my shoulder, the hallway behind me yawned with emptiness. An involuntary shiver raced down my spine. A feeling that I couldn't quite place settled in the pit of my stomach, but I ignored it and continued on my way to class.

~*~

I passed the rest of my school day wondering about that strange encounter. Even as I kept persistently denying him, his conviction never wavered. Surely someone playing a joke would've cracked eventually? He seemed to truly believe that he was Peter Pan.

The final bell rang and I couldn't jump from my seat fast enough. I hurried through the crowded hallways to the office to retrieve my sketch book before my siblings, Sam and Michael, wondered where I was. Our Aunt Hattie and Uncle Oscar's house was only about eight blocks from school, so we were able to walk ourselves.

I found my older sister and brother waiting impatiently outside the doors of the school. Sam, prompt as always, continued checking the time on her phone even as I approached them. Her dirty blonde hair, the same color as mine, bobbed in its high ponytail as she swung her head to and fro looking for me. But, of course, it was Michael who spotted me first.

"See, Sam? I told you she'd be here any minute." Michael looked beyond annoyed with Sam's typical type A attitude. We both often teased Sam behind her back...or to her face.

Sam ignored Michael's commentary and started walking. I rolled my eyes at her which earned a chuckle from Michael. We fell into step alongside each other while Sam led the way. She always played leader when it came to our humble trio. After our parents died, Sam took on a lot of responsibility even though we had Aunt Hattie and Uncle Oscar.

I wondered briefly how Michael and I would get on when Sam left for college next year. Her renowned bossiness was shadowed only by her ambition. She planned on going to Cambridge for law which would forever leave Michael and me in her shadow.

I didn't say much on the walk home per usual. Sam and Michael chatted about their day and complained about the hours of homework they received. They engaged in their usual banter. My mind wandered elsewhere...back to the hallway with the boy who called himself Peter Pan.

Aunt Hattie and Uncle Oscar lived on a quiet cobblestone street in a townhouse identical to all the others. A tall, white fence bordered their small, neat lawn. The quaint, brick-style house appeared completely unsuspecting. It's colonial-fashioned windows bolstered white trim that off set the ebony-colored door.

Sam pushed open the door and the three of us stepped inside the house that's been our home for four years now. We hung our jackets and headed upstairs. Both Aunt Hattie and Uncle Oscar worked into the late afternoon, so they wouldn't be home for a couple of hours. My feet subconsciously avoided the creaky spots on the stairs.

Despite my familiarity with the house, it never really felt like home. As much as I loved my Aunt Hattie and Uncle Oscar, they spent the last four years draining every drop of childish wonder from my mind. They never had children of their own, so I suspected having their nieces and nephew plopped into their lap put a damper on their lifestyle. Their nights used to be spent out on the town sipping expensive wine with their stuck-up friends who scoffed at the idea of children.

The bedroom Sam and I shared was modest in size. It's slanted panel ceiling marked the center of the room. Sam's side of the room embodied her stoic personality perfectly with its neutral colors, organized desk, and orderly bookshelf. My side contrasted hers with a forest green duvet, the wall plastered with sketches and paintings, and a desk cluttered with paints and books.

"Did something happen at school today?" Sam questioned out of nowhere. "You were quiet ever since we left the school." She faced me with her arms crossed over her chest and an eyebrow raised quizzically. When Sam asked a question, even if it came from a place of caring, she always came across as demanding.

"Not really," I sighed with exaggeration. "Just Mrs. Smith being her horrid self as always." I sprawled on my bed, belly-down, with the hopes of forgetting all the unpleasantness of the day.

"Did you want to talk about it?" Sam asked somewhat awkwardly. She didn't meet my eye as she twirled her long, dirty blonde hair with her finger. Empathy's never been her strong suit. But she tries.

My shoulders heaved with a long, breathy sigh. Memories flashed in my mind of the day. First losing my sketchbook, then being bullied by Maggie Henry, and finally running into a boy who claimed to be a character from my childhood.

"I'd rather not."