He never cared, not really. He hadn't learned to. Never growing up sounds pretty nice, doesn't it?
There's a downside.
Never growing up means never hitting that stage where you learn that you can't make a pass at every girl who walks by.
"I don't see why not," he said, flashing a dazzling white smile at the circle of mermaids around him. I sat up on my rock, staring down on him from over the tip of my "nose-raised-in-disapproval" nose. He called it the Judging Rock. Apparently all I ever did on that rock was judge him and his poor decisions. Peter Pan is a boy, a lost one at that, yet it was still impossible not to fall in love with him.
With grey eyes and shiny copper hair, Peter was a fair skinned boy who any girl would love to call her best friend. Yet, I'd always been the best friend. And I was, quite frankly, a little tired of being "just the best friend." Once, those lovely shirtless mermaids would shoot daggers at me with those watery bitter eyes, jealous of my relationship. But now they knew that they'd get more of his romantic side than I ever would.
Peter had eyes for everyone, and cared for no one. Stuck at age 17. Great, right? Right in that prime of life? Yeah, because 18 meant you were an adult. Once you were 18 in Never Land, the magic didn't work on you. You'd age like everyone else. Sometimes, I wanted to take Peter to the Main Land with me, just for a year, so he'd grow up. So maybe he'd finally notice me, who'd been waiting all these years.
"Because, Pan," I started, examining my nails while my toes dangled over the edge of the rock, the sparkling water 20 feet below. "Eventually, you'll run out of girls. And they'll all be mad at you. Because you used all of them."
"Don't listen to her, Peter," Elsa cooed. "She's just jealous."
"Aw, who could stay mad at me, Tig?"
I sighed. Because he was right.
When I stood up, readjusting my leather skirt and brushing the dirt from my legs, I waltzed away from Peter and his fish, thinking, he can have them. He just didn't realize he was missing out on all this. I mean, who wouldn't want the Princess of Never Land?
Peter Pan is a blind boy, and a lost boy.
*****
I fiddled with the broad leaf in my hands, adjusting it to bend the rays of the sun. My tanned legs were stretched out before me, my hair spread behind me, and the longer it took for Peter to find me here, the more restless I was becoming. It was my spot, a little alcove tucked away from the view of the island, so high up that you could see Skull Rock like a dot on the horizon, and the pirates cove far far below. If you leaned over the cliff just far enough to not die, you could see the smoke rising from huts in my village. I closed my eyes, smiling in the warm sun, and swirling my fingers around in the cool sand. Just as I was starting to drift off to the sound of seagulls and waves crashing far far below, Peter plunked down in front of me, taking up his traditional cross-legged position.
"Why'd you book it out of there in such a hurry?" He asked, peering down at me with a sideways grin.
"I hate mermaids," I muttered, folding my arms over my chest.
"They're not all bad, they can be nice!"
"Nice?" I squawked. "They're airheads. Especially Elsa, what a ditz."
"You and her used to be best friends. What happened?"
"You know what happened," I replied, squinting at him. The setting sun behind him gave a shining red glow to his hair, like a halo. Thing was, he was anything but an angel.
"Are you still moping about that?"
"Yes, I'm still moping, and I'll continue to mope until I feel like it, or until she gets harpooned," I added.
"It doesn't matter, he was a jerk anyway. You deserve much better."
You deserve much better.
I sighed, sitting up and glancing past him into the red sun as it set over the water. Standing up, I took a few steps until I was at the edge of the rocky outcropping. I never got tired of Never Land sunsets, especially the summer ones. Sure, the weather was fairly mild all year 'round, but during the winter months, and even late fall, it was always so cloudy. The sun would tuck itself away behind the clouds for a few months, and we'd have to hope we were tan enough from the long summers to make it through. Well, the mermaids did anyway. If there was one thing that mermaids pointlessly fretted over the most, it was their precious tans.
More often than not, Peter and I would be strolling by, and they'd accidentally be laying out in the sun, bare and busty for all the world to see. Once, we'd caught a small group of the lost boys in a bush, snickering and pointing. Peter made sure they were thoroughly punished. He'd made me give them "the girl talk." That was such a fun talk, honestly. You should've seen their little horrified faces. Peter was in the other room, crying with laughter the entire time. I was this close to joining him, but then I wouldn't have gotten my point across. Peter would fly down, pulling out his flute and playing his little Pan melody. The girls would shriek and dive into the water, and he'd just laugh and be on his way.
"I can't stand mermaids."
"So I've heard."
Then, he gave me a minuscule shove, just enough to send me plummeting to the water below, just with his pointer finger. My heart did the usual drop, the one it did whenever I was falling from an outrageous height. I used to scream my lungs out, fueled on pure adrenaline and fear, but now I knew better. When it seemed like the last possible second, like I was going to crash into the rocks and die an instant death, Peter would swoop in and swing me up in his arms, carrying me around like a princess. Like the Princess I am.
So I smiled to myself, just a hint of a smile, and spread out my arms, letting the air weave through my fingers like a river. It was the only time I'd ever be able to feel like I was flying on my own, and Peter knew that. He knew it was what I craved, what I dreamed of. As the water grew closer, I grinned at it, taunting it. Not today, I'd smirk at it, like always.
His arms wrapped around my legs and torso swiftly and strongly, and the plummeting feeling in my heart was replaced with a light, tingly sensation. It was like being plucked right out of thin air. The way it felt to be in his arms, soaring over the palms and white beaches, getting truly the best view of a Never Land sunset.
I looked up at him, and he was already staring down at me with a soft smile, his eyes warm and crinkling at the edges. The first time he'd pulled such a trick, I'd been kicking and grabbing his hair and crying, sobbing actually. He'd flown down to the beach, set me down, and when I continued to lunge at him, he flew up just out of my reach, frowning at me until I calmed down. Once the hysterics had settled, I plunked into the sand in a heap, grabbing a shell and rubbing it with my fingers. Shells had always been my little form of relaxation, with their smooth cool surfaces and years of secrets. Once he was sure it was safe to come down, he sat beside me and grabbed his own shell, a worn pink one with a chip in the top. After a few minutes of quiet peace, we stood up and threw them as far as we could, seeing who's splashed down the furthest away. When we'd been younger, we'd often tie. But as he grew taller, and stronger, I didn't even stand a chance.
Since that first time up until today, we do the same thing, every time. We go and sit out in the cool sands of the beach, watching the moon come up and the stars peak out. We find our shells, there were always plenty, and sit quietly for sometimes hours. After returning the shells to the ocean, we' lay on our backs and watch as the stars scrape against the sky, talking about our days and the adventures it had entailed. We never ran out of things to talk about, Peter and I.
Every night, I'd wonder if that would be the night where he'd kiss me goodbye before we parted our ways, back to our homes and our people. He never did. And he probably never would.
