Just one happy thought!
But it was not to be this day. Down plummeted Peter, tumbling into the safety net in a frightened heap, the air whooshing from his lungs, his body bouncing like a balloon in the wind. Tink flew to his side, followed by the small entourage of Lost Boys who were still in his camp.
The rest turned doubtfully to Rufio.
Rufio lifted his sword. "I'm more man than Pan-and twicet the boy! Now, who is wi' me?"
They charged from where they stood to join him, crying out, "Rufio, Rufio, Rufio!" He raised the sword high to signal victory, leading them away from the cliff. In seconds they were gone, headed back to the Nevertree.
Peter sat up, dazed. Tink and the seven Lost Boys stared down at him disconsolately.
"There was the Proctor and Gamble deal," he announced hesitantly. "That made me happy."
No one seemed impressed.
Peter was last to the dinner table that night, so bone weary he could barely manage to hold his head up. Everything hurt from his hair to his toes. Bruised, battered, and bandaged, he was a certifiable wreck. Tink and the little band of Lost Boy followers had kept him going the entire day, from one exercise to the next, over and over and over again.
Except for the sling routine-they hadn't bothered to try that on him again.
Not that it mattered. Nor that anything they did mattered. Because nothing they did was going to work-of that Peter was certain. They could run him, pummel him, and sling him hither and yon until the cows came home and it wouldn't change things. He was still fat, old Peter Banning and not-he couldn't bring himself to say the name-who they wanted him to be. Worse, none of this was getting him any closer to rescuing Jack and Maggie.
So as he trudged from the jogging track and exercise machines to the long table set back close beneath the branches of the Nevertree within the shadow of summer and hailing distance of spring, he found himself confronted with the fact that he was on the verge of failing his kids one more. Not being there for baseball games or piano recitals was one thing. Not being there to save Jack and Maggie from Hook was something else again. It would be the culmination of a long line of disappointments he had given them-only this one was likely to prove fatal.
He wiped away the tears that sprang to his eyes, not wanting anyone to see, and moved to take a seat. Despite his distress, he was hungry. No, make that starved. He'd had nothing to eat all day, kept busy by Tink and the Lost Boys trying to find the boy in himself. Which was long since gone, of course. Which was dead and buried. He shoved the thought away. At any rate he needed to eat. However slim his chances of helping his kids might be in any case, they were nonexistent if he didn't eat.
The table was crowded from end to end, with Rufio and his pack occupying most of it. Peter's bunch was gathered in a small section at the opposite center. A space had been left for him, and he settled into it gratefully, sandwiched between Pockets and Ace. Tink was seated at the center of the table in a place of her own.
Rufio sat directly across from Peter. He smiled disdainfully as Peter sat down, mischief dancing in his eyes. Peter ignored him.
I have to eat. I have to build up strength.
He took a deep breath.
I can't stop trying.
A handful of Lost Boys appeared, bearing steaming dishes from clay ovens fired red-hot. Peter inhaled the aromas and sighed. Whatever it was, it smelled wonderful!
Ace passed him a dish, and he set it down in front of himself, brushing away the steam to see what was on it.
The dish was empty.
Peter stared blankly, then lifted his gaze to look down the table. Everyone was eating ravenously, scooping food into their mouths, chewing in delight. Except that they were eating nothing. All the dishes were empty.
"Mmmm! All my fav'rite Neverfood!" declared Pockets next to him, his mouth full of nothing. "Yams, mammee apples, banana splash, wash id down with a calabash of poe-poe. Then Neverchicken and… Hey, Tink! Led go!"
Tink was tugging at one end of nothing while Pockets tugged at the other. Peter blinked. Across the table, Rufio was watching intently,
"Drink your poe-poe, Peter," invited Ace, and poured nothing from a pitcher into Peter's empty mug. Don't Ask and Thud Butt clinked mugs and drank air.
Peter sat there without moving for an instant longer, then threw up his hands. "I don't get it!" he exclaimed. "Where's the food?"
Tink glanced up. "If you can't imagine yourself as Peter Pan, you'll never be Peter Pan."
"What's that got to do with… this!"
She gave him a stern look. "If you don't eat, you won't grow."
Peter was as steamed as the dishes. "Eat what? There's nothing here to eat!"
"That's the point," said Tink. "Peter, have you forgotten how to pretend as well? That's how we eat."
Rufio laughed. "He can't! He doesn't get it!" Then he jeered, "Eat your heart out, you crinkled, wrinkled bag of fat!"
And he tossed his empty dish across the table and hit Peter directly in the chest. Peter jerked away, the blow sharp and stinging. He was stunned.
"My God, you are a badly raised child," he managed.
Lost Boys all about repeated the words "badly raised child," laughing and jeering as they did, mocking Peter.
Rufio straightened. "Slug-eating worm," he taunted.
Tink leaped up, hands on hips, sunrise eyes fiery. "Come on, Peter! You can do better than that!"
Rufio laughed. "Yeah, mon-show me your fast ball. C'mon, dustbrain. You pouchy, old, sag-bottomed, puke-pot!"
"Bangerang, Rufio! Bangerang!" shouted the Lost Boys. Even Peter's group joined in.
Peter had had enough. He pointed at Rufio and shook his finger. "You are an extremely poor role model for these children."
The Lost Boys whistled and used their hands to mimic the crashing of airplanes.
"All right!" snapped Peter, not wanting to back off. "You… you are a third-rate person!"
"Hemorrhoidal sucknavel!" Rufio sneered. He looked cocky and self-assured sitting there, his eyes laughing.
"Fourth-rate person!" charged Peter.
More whistles and crashes sounded, and the entire table began to jeer.
Rufio leaned forward. "Boil-dripping, beef-fart sniffing bubblebutt!"
"Bangerang, Rufio!" screamed the Lost Boys in glee.
"You are a scatologically fixated, psychotic, prepubes-cent child!" shouted Peter.
Boos sounded from every quarter accompanied by less polite indications of disdain. More whistles. More crashes. Peter knew he was losing this contest as well.
"Fungus factory!" taunted Rufio.
"Bangerang, Rufio! Bangerang!"
"Slug-slimed sack of rat guts and cat vomit!"
The cheers were deafening. Lost Boys were leaping up and down in their seats, hands clapping.
"Cheesy, scab-picked, pimple-scoured, finger bandage!"
Fake moans and retching sounds rose from the assemblage, the Lost Boys now become connoisseurs of revulsion, loving every dreadful image Rufio's words conjured in their minds. Rufio beamed.
"Week-old, double maggot burger with everything on it and flies on the side!"
Peter surged to his feet, his hands braced on the edge of the table, his face flushed dark red. He had lost his composure completely. Everyone scrambled to get out of the way. Even Rufio jerked back uncertainly.
Peter's teeth were clenched. "Arbitrageur!" he howled.
Everyone stared. Glances were hurriedly exchanged.
"What's that?" demanded Rufio finally.
Peter recognized an opening when he saw it. He smiled, disdaining to answer. "Dentist!" he hissed.
Lost Boys everywhere gasped in recognition of that one, recoiling as if struck. Rufio flinched, then quickly straightened.
"Nose hairs infested with lice and ticks!" he tried.