“Yes!” Peter nods enthusiastically because he never likes to miss out. “I’ve thimbled Wendy! And the other two. And a bunch of the ones before. Just like that—” He points over at me and gives me a proud smile. “I love thimbles.”
I swallow heavily and gag internally, give Percival a little look.
“Okay, if we’re keeping tabs, I’m feeling dramatically unkicked in the stomach.” Percival looks confused, and I see him shrug at Kinley.
“Anyway,” I continue. “It’s sort of like…lots of thimbles, but bigger thimbles than”—I peck my hand again—“that.”
“Oh, I know all about sex then!” Peter declares proudly, stretching his arms over his head, which is nearly sexy but isn’t on account of what he just said a second ago.
“No, you don’t,” I tell him sternly.
“Yeah, I do. I’ve thimbled heaps of girls.”
I stare at him; that bothers me in a handful of ways. That he thinks he knows about sex when clearly he doesn’t, that he’s apparently kissed lots of girls who aren’t me, and also that at least three of them are from my maternal bloodline.
“Okay.” I give him a look. “I will try to explain to you what sex is in its crudest form.”
“Didn’t you just?” Peter yawns. “I know all about it.”
“Thimbles are a part of it,” I tell him a bit waspishly. “Also, they’re not called thimbles. They’re called kisses, so you obviously don’t know that much, so you can be quiet and listen.”
Peter’s eyes go to slits, and he looks annoyed, but I don’t stop because he’s such a know-it-all but he knows barely anything, and it’s a man’s worst trait to pretend he knows about things that he doesn’t; but I remind myself how unique a circumstance this is. No mother, no father, no reason to know about anything to do with sex until now.
“And second, kisses are a part of sex and sometimes lead to it—”
“What’s ‘it’？” Brodie asks, bored again.
“Okay.” I take a big breath and clap my hands together.* “The thing in your trousers is different from the thing in my trousers, and you can combine the thing in your trousers with the thing in other people’s trousers, and that’s sort of sex.”
Sort of.
Peter Pan peers down at his linen trousers. He and Brodie trade confused looks, and I hear the littlest one say, “She’s very pretty but she can’t tell stories like the other ones.”
And with that, I cover my face with both my hands, both sighing and combusting into flames at once.
Then Peter snaps his head in Kinley’s direction, and his eyes might have gone a way I don’t think I like. “What did you say?”
“Nothing!” Kinley says quickly, shaking his head and looking a bit scared.
Peter eyes him murderously for a few seconds too long, then peers around at the rest of them. “I’m not sharing this Wendy, boys.”
And without my permission, I begin to float a tiny bit off the ground. I can’t help it. Happy thoughts and all, those traitors.
“Why not?” They all frown.
Peter shrugs. “I like this one’s face so much, I don’t want anyone else looking at it.”
Percival sighs. “This will make for a difficult home environment.”
I clear my throat. “Don’t I get a say?” I ask, eyebrows high.
Peter rolls his eyes. “Go on then.”
“I’d just like to clarify that I’m not going to be all your mothers.”
“That’s fine,” Kinley says.
“I’m not going to be anyone’s mother,” I clarify.
“That’s fine.” Percival nods. “We don’t need mothers. We’re big now. We need a girlfriend.”
I give him a look. “Well, I’m not going to be your girlfriend either.”
He swipes the air in frustration.
“Where am I supposed to put my eyes then?” Kinley asks, staring wide-eyed and dutifully at Peter and absolutely not at all at me.
I touch his cheek, moving it to face me. “You can look at me, Kinley.”
“Fine,” barks Peter. “You can look at her, but she’s just mine though.”
And maybe, perhaps, my heart swells an inch.
After that, we have a dinner that’s divine. Sunday roast, except I don’t think it’s a Sunday.
Brodie told me that there’s a type of fairy that lives here called a hob. They’re little house fairies who cook and clean, and in return, you make them porridge, which apparently Peter never does, so I make it my personal business to rectify that effective immediately. They don’t like being seen, and they like to work alone, but one night when I’m not tired and I’ve not just travelled through a black hole or watched a man be murdered by a sexy pirate or had to explain sex to a ragtag group of preteens and teenagers, on that day, I’m going to sit up late and try to spot it and thank it for its service because it’s the polite thing to do and also because I should like to see all the creatures on this island.