Second star to the right - Larry

ONE

I glance at the clock behind Margaret, repeating my words when I realise she doesn't understand. "Neverland is in danger."

"How do you know that?"

"I'm not sure."

"Do you not want to tell me?"

I'm not always keen on the way she reads me. I'm supposed to tell her what's going on in my mind, but she can't make me. I don't want her to psychoanalyse me, but I suspect it's too late when she knows what she knows. I usually give her what she wants, but I enjoy talking about my adventures without sharing too many details, so it's not always enough.

I shrug in response to her question. "I guess not."

I'm not sure what's going on in Neverland, but whatever it is certainly doesn't concern her. It probably doesn't concern me either, but it's not the same—she doesn't believe in my stories, so she has no right to know.

"Louis," she sighs, tapping her pen against her notebook. "I need you to work with me."

I glance at the clock again, watching the last twenty-eight seconds run out. "I believe I can head back to my room now."

I can't be kept any longer, so she lets me go without complaining about my stubbornness. I can hardly concentrate when I head back to my room, though, not when my mind is so clouded with thoughts. There's something about Neverland that I can't quite explain—it's been a constant as long as Peter has, which is mainly why I tend to exist inside my head. I'm trying to find something specific, an after I haven't come across yet. I can't quite reach an existence without Peter Pan. I can't settle into the real world when the only thing I do is spend the days chasing stars—or one star in particular, I suppose, the second to the right.

I stop by the phone outside the administration, contemplating whether or not a call is worth it, but what would I even say to them? I want to come home? I haven't let my childhood go yet, so there's no way they're letting me come home yet. Margaret says there's a clear line between reality and make-believe, but it's more complicated than that—what she defines as make-believe is what I define as reality. And being stuck here, in a place I desperately want to escape, has me believing—hoping—that Peter is going to come back and bring me home. I understand Neverland's rules, but maybe I can convince the universe I'm not too old yet.

I increase the pace towards my room. I need to turn a corner or two to get to my hall, but I enjoy the walk more than I don't. I know my way around quite well, a skill that has helped me when I've sketched out a plan to escape without getting caught. It always comes back to the same questions, though—what do I do once I'm out? I have nowhere to go and no money to spend. My parents won't let me come back home when my childhood is consistently invading my mind as though I have nothing better to do than wonder what's going on in Neverland. Mum might be easy enough to convince, but Dad is trying his best to keep me here.

I reach my hall eventually, keeping my eyes strained on my shoes as I walk past the boys who are heading in the opposite direction. Harry is sleeping when I step into our room, boxers tight over his ass as I put his duvet over his body. I sit down on my own bed, wondering why I'm sweet enough to make sure he's not cold—sex is a regular thing between us, but we're not on the same page when it comes to anything else. I suppose it's ironically laughable that he used to call me Lost Boy, but something about the nickname bothered me immensely. Either because I missed Neverland, or because I knew he was messing with me.

I move towards our window instead. I can see students everywhere in the garden—it's where they go once classes are over because girls and boys aren't allowed to be alone in their respective rooms. Nearly everyone has their own reasons to be here, but I'm amongst the odd ones—along with Alice who believes she's the Alice from Alice in Wonderland. I suppose I should be inclined to believe her, but the story was written over a hundred years ago. Peter and Wendy was as well, but that hardly matters when Peter never grows up. And it's not as though I'm claiming to be Wendy Darling, but I am claiming to be her great-grandson.