Never Moon

part 1

"All children, except one, grow up." 

Peter Pan, "Peter Breaks Through."

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"Wendy Charlotte Denham," Char's mother shouted angrily up the stairs. She was shouting a lot, maybe because her daughter never listened. It wasn't really Char's fault, either. She hadn't quite grown up yet.

Char was sixteen at this point. She was a fan of practical jokes and blatant, obvious humor. She sometimes thought the world revolved around her and messed around with all her friends, which, for most guys, confused them, because Char was still slightly naive and innocent and was really, really good at sending mixed signals.

She was often called childish, which was true. But she was kind and gentle and very caring. When her mom got sick, and it was often, Char would plop herself down on her mom's bed and read to her for hours on end and nurse her back to health. Sometimes, Char was more of a mother than her own mom.

So these two sides of this surprisingly complex girl balanced out nicely -- the childish part of her, and the mothering side of her. It was sort of hard to figure out how that all fit into Wendy Charlotte Denham, because she got her mom's genes and was only five four, but if you laughed with her and then fell down the stairs and slashed your legs open, who she was as a person would become very clear.

Now you might ask why the hell Char is her name, when Wendy is her first name. Char hated the name Wendy with a passion, because everyone would ask about stupid Wendy Darling from Peter Pan and then proceed to compare Wendy Denham with Wendy Darling and to be honest, Char got sick of that. So she told everyone to shut up and call her by her middle name, Charlotte, which then in turn got shortened down to Char.

We now return to Char's mom, Moira, shouting at her, because we all want to get on with the story instead of reading about why this seemingly pointless girl changed her name. (She's not pointless, by the way, because she's the protagonist).

Char threw down her phone and looked up, the expression on her face one of a pissed-off teenager. "I'm coming, Mom," she replied, annoyance seeping into her tone. "Jesus," she said to herself. "Calm down, Mom."

Char heaved herself off the bed with a sigh, glancing out the window at the grey, drizzling sky of downtown London, where she lived with her mother. Char's parents were divorced, and Char, for the most part, had been raised in Los Angeles with her dad, all the way back in the U.S. She'd only lived with her mother for the last two years, as was part of the divorce agreement.

An outcast, a reject, a loner. That's was Char was at school. She told stories that nobody would listen to, she'd smile at people who would turn aside. But that did not beat her down in the end, though she pouted and told her mom about the mean kids who glared. A misfit American with a slight accent in the storm of proper British kids.

God, she hated prep schools.

Char was thinking about this hate, which was shallow and silly and child-like, as were many things Char hated, as she dragged her feet downstairs to her mom as she proceeded to burn dinner, which was probably something so simple to make that it made Char want to cry.

"Char, love, could you set the table for tea?" Her mom asked with a big smile and a genuine accent.

"Dinner, Mom, it's dinner," Char said, rolling her eyes. "Get it right."

Her mother only smiled cheerfully at her. Moira Margaret Kitely was only thirty-six years old, a young mother. She'd been twenty when Char was born, and married to a much, much older man. Char's father was turning fifty-one this year. It was no wonder that they'd promptly gotten divorced after Char was born and Char was left with her dad for fourteen years before returning to her mom, all the way in the UK and still happily single and way too cheerful and peppy.