Forever Neverland Read online

  Another Magical Book from Susan Adrian

  Nutcracked

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Susan Adrian

  Cover art copyright © 2019 by George Ermos

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Name: Adrian, Susan, author.

  Title: Forever Neverland / Susan Adrian.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Random House, [2019] | Summary: Told in two voices, Clover, twelve, and her autistic brother Fergus, eleven, discover they are descended from Wendy Darling and set off with Peter Pan for adventures in Neverland.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018025631 | ISBN 978-0-525-57926-7 (trade) | ISBN 978-0-525-57927-4 (lib. bdg.) | ISBN 978-0-525-57928-1 (ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Brothers and sisters—Fiction. | Autism—Fiction. | Characters in literature—Fiction. | Mythology, Greek—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.A273 For 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9780525579281

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Another Magical Book from Susan Adrian

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  Map

  Chapter 1: Clover

  Chapter 2: Fergus

  Chapter 3: Clover

  Chapter 4: Fergus

  Chapter 5: Clover

  Chapter 6: Fergus

  Chapter 7: Clover

  Chapter 8: Fergus

  Chapter 9: Clover

  Chapter 10: Fergus

  Chapter 11: Clover

  Chapter 12: Fergus

  Chapter 13: Clover

  Chapter 14: Fergus

  Chapter 15: Clover

  Chapter 16: Fergus

  Chapter 17: Clover

  Chapter 18: Fergus

  Chapter 19: Clover

  Chapter 20: Fergus

  Chapter 21: Clover

  Chapter 22: Fergus

  Chapter 23: Clover

  Chapter 24: Fergus

  Chapter 25: Clover

  Chapter 26: Fergus

  Chapter 27: Clover

  Chapter 28: Fergus

  Chapter 29: Clover

  Chapter 30: Fergus

  Chapter 31: Clover

  Chapter 32: Fergus

  Chapter 33: Clover

  Chapter 34: Fergus

  Chapter 35: Still Fergus

  Chapter 36: Clover

  Chapter 37: Fergus

  Chapter 38: Clover

  Acknowledgments

  Useful Resources

  About the Author

  For all the kids who may seem “different” from the outside:

  You are perfect as you are.

  CLOVER, 12, loves to sing and secretly wishes to join a choir; a little anxious and bossy, especially to her brother

  FERGUS, 11, passionate about mythology, particularly Greek and Roman; thoughtful and observant

  GREAT-AUNT TILLY, an old family friend

  GRANDMOTHER, Margaret, granddaughter of Wendy; had great adventures in Neverland as a child

  GRANDFATHER, Jack, a nonbeliever in Neverland and a bit prickly

  MOM, Gwen, close to achieving her dream of becoming a lawyer

  THE PIXIES

  NARI, DONAR, and GLA, pixies who live in Neverland but travel with Peter to London (pixies are neither male nor female)

  THE LOST BOYS

  FRIENDLY, gentle and kind, as his name suggests; the oldest in the group

  SHOE, one of the only ones with memories of her mother; loves adventure and is good at fixing things

  JUMPER, always up for mischief (jumping into trouble); wears her hair in two curly tails

  GEORGE, serious and quiet; recently abducted by pirate ghosts

  RELLA, little but fierce; questions everything

  SWIM, small and scraggly, with long blond hair; the youngest of the Lost Boys

  THE MERMAIDS

  SERENA, the leader of the mermaids; friends with Peter

  JASMINA, competitive about her singing

  ALLORA, sweet and helpful

  FROM GREEK MYTHOLOGY

  SCYLLA, a Greek woman who was turned into a sea monster thousands of years ago

  CIRCE, a powerful sea witch

  and, of course…

  PETER PAN

  I recognize Grandmother and Grandfather from the pictures Mom has on her nightstand, even before Great-Aunt Tilly points them out. They’re standing by a sign that says NORTH MEETING POINT, looking the other way. The airport bustle flows around them like a river around two serene boulders.

  My heart tries to fly out of my chest. I stop walking without even meaning to, and Fergus stops with me. Great-Aunt Tilly doesn’t notice, rushing forward to give Grandmother a hug.

  “It’s okay,” I say to Fergus. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get along fine. It’s only three weeks.”

  It’s an echo of what Great-Aunt Tilly has been telling us the whole flight, what Mom told us since they planned all this: a three-week trip to London to visit grandparents we’ve never met, so Mom can take the bar exam and finally become a lawyer. She’s been working for this for a long time, and she just needs a final push. That’s what she said. One final push by herself to study and take the test, and a great chance for us to get to know our grandparents. They offered. They paid. It’s high time, Mom said.

  What if they hate us?

  Humming over all the noise, Fergus stares at the gray-and-pink carpet. “It’ll be okay,” I whisper. I stare hard at Grandmother and Grandfather, trying to see what they’re like.

  Grandfather is impressively tall and skinny, and stern-looking. He reminds me of a magician, like he should be swirling a cloak around his shoulders. He has a burst of wild white hair and a long nose, with strong lines around his mouth. Suddenly he returns my look, and I flinch. He has the kind of sharp, steel gaze that makes me want to lift my chin and stand taller. Or run away.

  We can’t run away. Not now. It’s too late for that.

  Grandmother is swallowed up in Great-Aunt Tilly’s hug, but I can see her face. She’s smaller, softer, and she looks like Mom. Same eyes, that bright blue that neither of us kids got. Her hair is twisted into a low black-and-gray bun.

  They’re dressed way fancier than most people in San Diego. Grandmother is wearing a long cream-colored skirt with a shiny green shirt and holds a matching green purse. Grandfather has on dressy pants and a button-down shirt.

  It makes me feel
awkward in the Walmart leggings I just got, and I realize again how ratty Fergus’s gray Tardis T-shirt is. It’s his favorite, even though it’s baggy and has holes in it, and there was no way he was wearing anything else.

  Great-Aunt Tilly smiles and gestures us over, so I smile nervously and step forward.

  “Hello. It’s nice to see you,” I say, a little stiffly. I planned it on the plane. Nice to meet you might sound like I’m mad we never met them before. Anything else would sound fake. I want to start on the right note.

  Grandmother wraps me up in a hug. She smells like perfume, sweet and flowery. It’s nice, and I relax into it. Fergus comes over too, but he still keeps his gaze focused on the carpet as he taps his fingers against his leg. He doesn’t say anything.

  “Good to see you children,” Grandfather booms in his English accent. “Better late than never, eh?” He ruffles Fergus’s hair.

  Fergus squints and steps back. “Don’t touch my head, please,” he says, low. Grandfather takes a breath, looks at me, and nods. That’s all. No hug or any welcome. Just a nod. I bristle a little.

  Fergus is eleven months younger than me—we’re practically twins—and autistic. A lot of people don’t get that, get him. He thinks differently from neurotypical people, and acts differently sometimes. But he’s really just Fergus. I wish other people would understand that. I wish they wouldn’t stare, or make comments, or treat him like he’s not smart. He’s just as smart as everyone else. Probably smarter, in most cases. Only different.

  I promised Mom I’d protect him while we’re here. He doesn’t have to have his hair ruffled if he doesn’t want to. I frown at Grandfather.

  Grandmother tucks her arm in mine and pats my hand. “We are so very thrilled to have you, Clover. Both of you.” She smiles at Fergus, and her cheeks wrinkle softly. Her voice is warm, her accent making all the words round. “This is a very special treat for us, long overdue. We are going to have a lovely time together. Now let’s get you both home. You must be hungry, and so tired.”

  My stomach growls as if it’s replying to her, and she laughs. “We’ll get on, then. Tilly, will you come with us for a cup of tea before the trip home?”

  Great-Aunt Tilly shakes her head, her white curls bouncing. “My train is in an hour. I’d dearly love to get home and see the cats. I’ll leave you to get to know each other.” She pats my shoulder—and suddenly I don’t want her to leave at all. She’s the only person we know in this whole country. She’s visited us in San Diego lots of times. She knows us.

  The panic must show in my face, because she leans over and kisses my forehead. “I’ll visit when your mum comes to pick you up. Enjoy your trip. You’ll never have a better time. Trust me.” She and Grandmother smile at each other.

  “Thank you for everything,” I say.

  Great-Aunt Tilly grins. “You did well, both of you, coming all the way here.” She hesitates, then nods once. “Happy thoughts.” She picks up her bag and heads off. Just like that, she’s gone, vanished in the crowd.

  “Let’s go home,” Grandmother says, tugging on my arm.

  I turn back to check on Fergus. “Fergus? Are you ready?”

  He doesn’t answer, his eyes still fixed on the floor. He’s breathing a little fast. It’s been a long, long trip for him, with all the changes and all the people. He doesn’t like change. We did the best we could to prepare, but it’s still strange and new.

  “Fergus?” I say again. “Are you okay?”

  He doesn’t answer. He frowns and taps faster.

  “Fergus?” I repeat.

  “He’s fine,” Grandfather snaps. “Don’t smother the boy. He’ll come along when we go. We won’t leave him.”

  My cheeks go hot like I’ve been slapped. I wasn’t smothering. That’s my job. I try to catch Fergus’s eye, to make sure he’s all right, but he’s still staring at his feet. Grandfather jerks his chin forward, and I follow the tug of Grandmother’s arm into the middle of the busy, bright, loud airport, Fergus trailing behind us. I keep looking back to make sure he’s there, that he’s really okay.

  I’m not sure this is going to work out after all.

  I’ve decided Grandfather is navy blue. Even his voice sounds navy blue, a dark, strict color with no room for cheerful yellow or green. Grandmother is pink, the color of the inside of Mom’s jewelry box. I like to touch that sometimes, the satin. It’s smooth and slippery. I imagine myself touching it now, silky under my fingers.

  “Pink and blue,” I say aloud, to taste the words. “Blue and pink.”

  I feel Grandfather’s eyes on me, but I look out the window. We’re in a black cab, crawling through London traffic. There are so many cars, lines of red lights keeping us from moving. At least we’re crawling closer to the city now, so the buildings are getting interesting. Even though lots of them look almost the same—tan and brown, and red brick, red brick, red brick—each one has a story. Hundreds of years of history. Or thousands. I read that London was founded in 1000 BC by a Greek, Brutus of Troy, when he slayed the giant Gogmagog. I think that’s the best name I’ve ever seen. Gogmagog. The book said it probably comes from people not being able to say Gawr Madoc, a Welsh name that means Madoc the Great.

  I can imagine a whole story about Madoc the Great, Gogmagog, tramping through the fields long ago, his giant feet leaving marks in the mud. Maybe right where we are! I laugh and clap my hands, picturing it.

  “Fergus,” Grandfather says in his navy-blue voice, “what would you like to visit while you’re here?”

  I don’t answer because the question is too big, with too many possibilities. I look at the clouds out the window. Gray. It might rain. It rains a lot here, even in the summer. We looked up the weather on the computer at home so I’d know what to expect. I like rain. It doesn’t rain a lot at home, but when it does, I like to go out in it, let it drip over me. It feels as if I’m connecting directly with nature, with the water cycle.

  I slip my mini voice recorder out of my pocket and press Record. Sometimes I listen to conversations later and figure out what people really meant, when I have more time to think about it. Or sometimes I just like to listen to them talk. Especially Mom.

  This recorder is old. It was Dad’s—he used it in his job as a reporter. Mom said she found it in a drawer after he died, when I was a baby. You can hold it in your hand, small and silver, with a button on the side that’s smooth. No one even knows I have the voice recorder, most of the time. Mom likes that I use it. Full circle, she says.

  “The British Museum, for sure,” Clover says. “We talked a lot about that. Isn’t it near your house?”

  “It is,” Grandfather answers. “Very close, a few minutes’ walk.” He clears his throat. “But I asked Fergus. What would you most like to see at the British Museum, Fergus?”

  I focus hard on the question, because I can tell he’s one of those people who really wants answers. It’s a smaller question anyway. The British Museum. I studied the website for a long time and looked at images of everything, so I can picture it in my head.

  “I want to see the Greek and Roman rooms,” I say. Grandmother flinches next to me, so maybe I was loud. “Greek and Roman,” I say again, quieter.

  “Excellent,” Grandfather says. “I know—”

  “There’s a spear-butt dedicated to Zeus,” I add, before I can forget. “And an ax dedicated to Hera. I want to see those. Also, the pediments from the Parthenon. And there’s a vase with Hermes. Probably lots of things with Hermes. Hermes is my favorite.”

  I tell them all about Hermes. He had winged feet that he could use to fly, and a staff that made people fall asleep. He killed a giant, too. More than one. Hippolytus and then Argus.

  Talking about Hermes is relaxing and exciting at the same time. I know so much about him that it’s easy to feel good talking about it. I’m glad Grandfather asked.

 
The buildings outside get different, closer together. There are roses above some of the windows, and I see a big white building that looks like it came from Greece. We stop and start a lot, as the driver zooms between cars. I don’t like that—the jerking or the rushing between cars. It’s too fast, too sudden. I keep talking so I don’t have to think about it. I tell them about Clash of the Titans, my favorite movie, with Zeus and Hera and Thetis and the hero, Perseus.

  After a while we turn next to a green park and stop in front of a tall house on the corner. Number fourteen.

  “We’re here!” Grandmother says. “Welcome to our home.”

  I stop the recording. We slide out and stare up at the house. It looks familiar, but that’s because I looked at it on the computer, with Mom. She had Grandmother and Grandfather send some pictures, too, of the outside and the inside, all the rooms, so I’d know what to expect. I lean my head back far. I can see six stories from here, including one that’s down below street level, and a big attic window at the top. It’s all tan brick, with peach-colored brick around the windows, and iron railings, all different sizes, on the first three levels. A black drainpipe slithers down the side. The front door is double, big and black, with a curved window above it and the peach-colored stone curving above that.

  It’s fancy.

  “It was built in 1808,” Grandmother says behind me, her voice bright pink. “It’s a perfect example of Georgian architecture. My family has been here since the 1830s. Of course, we took the whole house then, servants’ quarters and all. Now we just have the top two floors.” She winks. “We had to keep the attic.”