The
words were scratched in bold print across
the stone wall. Mrs. Cosgrove, our teacher with hair as fluffy as a yellow
chick, had read them to us. I could read the words myself, even though I’d
learned to do so late in school. I was good at reading now because I liked
words. Especially these. They beckoned to a secret part of me that longed to
believe such a thing.
Beneath this bold sentiment were columns of engraved names, a list of
local fallen. I touched one with the same last name as mine, though I didn’t
know the man. CARL HENRY FANCHER. The letters felt cold to my fingers. Unloved.
That was my first impression. I thought it odd. This rock of beloved heroes
ought to feel warm.
My father was never good to me. That’s the truth in its tolerable form.
A serious understatement in reality—in my reality and my mother’s as well.
The first memories I have of the man are unpleasant ones. Him
screaming, standing over my mother with a threatening fist. She would hold me
tight to her chest when I was little, trying to protect me… and herself too, I
think. I learned at a very, very young age not to cry. At least not out loud. Eventually,
I learned to stifle my feelings as well—as much as is humanly possible anyway. There
was no sense in harboring hope for anything. Fear and disappointment inevitably
squelched it.
The fact is, the man who had begotten me didn’t want me. In his eyes I
should never have been born. And perhaps that would’ve been best. As it was, my
existence had proven to be nothing more than a nuisance for everyone. I angered
my father, brought strife upon my mother, irritated my teachers, and annoyed
the other children who were forced to interact with me in school. All by simply
being.
When you aren’t loved, you aren’t real. Life is cold, like the stone
against my palm.
I suppose that’s why I first turned to books. I engrossed myself in
them once discovered—creatively assembled words that molded imagined stories in
my head. They were always so vivid, these kind characters in pretend worlds. People
and places that also weren’t real. I imagined I loved them. And sometimes, I
dreamt that they loved me back.
“Annabelle! Anna, where are you? For heaven’s sake, child, must you
always wander off alone? You should keep with the rest of the class.”
I hadn’t wandered anywhere. I’d simply failed to follow, but there was
no use correcting an adult. The carving of my last name in stone had distracted
me, so perfectly straight and uniform and appealing in design. My small hand
covered up the CARL HENRY as I imagined ANNABELLE in its place. It made me
smile, the thought of being among heroes on cold stone. I hustled toward the
end of the commemorative wall where Mrs. Cosgrove turned the corner to find me.
Her fuzzy hair seemed to float around disgruntled features as she hastily
approached.
Her fingers slipped tightly around my wrist when we met. She dragged me
along to where the other boys and girls were listening to a tour guide explain
the recent history behind the wall. He used photographs and newspaper clippings
as visual aids. Mrs. Cosgrove spoke to me in a strict, hushed voice. She didn’t
bend over to my level to talk as she would any other child. I knew why. I
didn’t smell good. I never did.
“Stay here with Ginger, Annabelle. She’s your assigned buddy for the
day. It’s important that we stick together on this tour. No more running off
alone.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.
Ginger curled her upper lip unattractively as two sapphire eyes peered
over a shoulder at me. She had pretty Cinderella eyes and hair. I tried to
smile, but the gesture caused her nose to wrinkle. My muddy brown gaze dropped
to the floor. I watched her shiny sandals move closer to her best friend, a
redhead named Elizabeth. My eyes lifted to catch a screwed-up freckled face. I
scooted back a few feet until the wall stopped me—keeping in company with the
class yet exclusive of them. No one would complain about me standing back. Not
even Mrs. Cosgrove.
My fingers combed through my dark hair, short and straight, landing in
choppy, uneven ends nearly level with my chin. The color reminded me of every
evil character in any fairy tale. It seemed all were characteristically
black—black hair, black eyes, black clothing, black demeanor, and black intent.
I never thought I was truly a villainous character, not like I knew my father
to be, but I was his offspring and devoid of any princess-like characteristics,
so that left only the wicked side of the story to play.
In my dreams, though, I imagined myself more like Snow White with wavy,
raven hair, a perfectly fair complexion, bathed in rose scents, and exhibiting
a natural feminine grace that would dance musical circles around both Ginger
and Elizabeth. No, I never hoped for such a thing to be real, but I dared to
pretend it with perfect clarity in my dreams.
I tried to pull on my short hair, wishing like Rapunzel I could extend
it down to my toes. It had been past my shoulders only weeks ago until my
father had ransacked the kitchen in a violent, drunken rage.
A stick of gum had been left on the floor, unopened, untouched. For
some reason it set him off. It was always my aim, and that of my mother’s, to
remove anything from his view that might anger him, including my very presence.
Usually I hid outdoors whenever possible, but this time I’d been in my room in
a corner of the closet reading a book about hobbits and elves. I stepped up to
my bedroom door when I heard the first chair hit the wall. Mother hardly ever
screamed, but I could hear her trying to reason with the insane.
“It’s just a stick of gum, not even opened. It… it must’ve fallen out
of my pocket or something. I… I’ll pick it up. I’ll throw it away.”
My father cursed at her, hollering about how gum wasn’t allowed in his
house… stuck on the furniture… ruining his hard-earned junk… a waste of
blood-spilt money… and other furious comments. That’s when he started in on me.
I heard him swaggering down our narrow hallway, bumping into the wall, ranting
about how expensive my mouth was to feed while polluting every other word with
foul expletives I’m not permitted to repeat. Nor would I ever care to.
“Get your scrawny, little rat-hide out here!”
I stepped into the hallway, having learned that disobedience always
proved a worse decision. My mother was right behind him, still attempting to
reason with a drunken fool.
He had the stick of gum between his thumb and forefinger, flopping it
back and forth in the air. His words came out slurred as he spoke over me.
“You like gum, do you?”
I didn’t answer. My gaze flickered up, wary of the glassy look in his
eyes. He was definitely intoxicated… again.
“You think you ain’t done enough damage around here? Eatin’ all my
food! Stinkin’ up my house! Breathin’ my air! Now you gotta be spittin’ out
your gum on the floor with no respect for the king of this here castle! No
respect for the only one who earns his weight in this pathetic family! I’m the
boss of this dump, you hear me? I’m the one who keeps a roof over your
worthless head, you little beggar! You like gum, do you? You like wastin’ my
hard-earned money on this crap so you can leave it lyin’ around the house and
ruin this scrapheap we gotta live in cuz your lazy mother thought she had to go
off an’ have a stupid kid?”
He panted over me, winded by his own absurd lecture. The stench of his
alcoholic breath stung my nose. Again I didn’t answer. I hoped he would tire
out and end his speech and hobble back to the living room without touching me. Such
hopes were unlikely, as was the case this time.
“Answer me, you good-for-nuthin’ wench!”
The pain bit instantly as his hand connected with my cheek. I shook my
head in answer to his crazy questions, feeling a rise of warm tears.
“Johnny, please stop it,” my mother begged. “Leave Anna alone. It
wasn’t her fault, it was mine! It… it was my gum!”
The interruption did nothing but earn her a similar slap, as I’m sure
she knew it would. Sometimes I wondered if my mother spoke up at the wrong time
on purpose. As often as we endured my father’s abuse, she had to be aware that
it wouldn’t save me from a beating but simply earn her one as well. Or was it
that sharing my fate made her feel less guilt-ridden about those things that
happened to me?
I tried not to squeal when my father grabbed at my hair, holding it up
in a tight ponytail that made me rise to my tiptoes. The fringe along my
neckline ripped out by the roots. It hurt.
“Get me the scissors, Lin.” It was a growled command.
“Johnny, please don’t…”
My hair was nearly yanked from my head as he turned to smack my mom
again. I barely managed to keep my balance, held up by my father’s firm grip. Mother
slunk off to find the scissors.
I endured a drunken lecture and a few painful tugs on my hair until my
mother returned and handed over the scissors. I cried silently as my father
chopped off every bit of ponytail, leaving the ends jagged, falling at just
below chin length. At least six inches of dark black strands remained in his
fist. He blubbered something about getting gum stuck in your hair and suffering
the consequences of such stupidity, though it wasn’t nearly as coherently put. I
could barely look at my mother. She was bawling worse than I was—that horrid
look of pitiful helplessness in her eyes. The black wad was thrown at my feet
before my father stumbled off, hollering for me to clean up the mess I’d made. I
wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand and let my mother gather
the hairs alone. I returned to the hobbit world waiting for me in the corner of
my closet. Who needed stringy, long hair anyway?
“Annabelle! Anna, come along, keep up with the class. Where’s your
assigned buddy?”
My eyes glanced from Mrs. Cosgrove’s soft, blonde hairdo to Ginger’s
long, golden waves, both glimmering with a pretty sheen. My fingers fell from
the brittle ends of my mangy haircut, and I obediently stepped in line behind
Ginger and Elizabeth.
Our tour guide marched us to another area of the park where a crowned oak tree towered over a long, narrow garden of colorful flowers. Among the blooms were heavy boulders, flat-faced and polished until they glistened like a row of reflective mirrors. More names were engraved in the stones. More provocative quotes scratched in bold print. I silently read the one on the end beside me.
“DARE TO IMAGINE. DARE TO BE.
BOOKS ARE THE SEEDS.
DREAMS ARE THE SOIL.
THE FRUIT OF THE HARVEST,
A WORLD REBORN.”
RUSSEL HARVEY ARNETT
FOUNDER / PHILANTHROPIST
“Phil ~ an ~ thro ~pist,” I whispered to myself. I would have to look
up that word in class. It sounded impressive. Important. He must have been a
beloved man to have his very own cold stone.
“…and now we’ll head inside the library where you can browse through a
reserved section of children’s books. Your teacher and I, along with two of our
librarians, will assist you in checking out one book apiece. Remember to keep
your voices low. This is a library.”
I looked up in time to catch a friendly grin on the face of our tour
guide. He was gesturing toward a set of glass doors that led inside a brick
building behind the flower bed. I stayed with the group this time, as eager as
the others to find a new book, but not voicing my delight out loud. My ears
picked up on Ginger’s conversation with Elizabeth and a blonde girl named
Charlotte dressed in pressed, yellow cotton. Spotless, white daisy print
smothered her sunny skirt.
“My mom brings me here every weekend. It’s soooo easy to check out
books. I’ve done it a hundred times already.” Elizabeth’s red hair fell as
gently as autumn leaves as she tossed it over her shoulder, acting like an old
pro at such things.
Ginger’s fingers spread out like a fan. She nearly hit Lizzy’s nose
holding her hand in her face. “I have five library books at home right
now. All of them are about horses. I love horses!”
Both the blonde and the redhead hopped a few times, moving excitedly
along with the crowd. “Me too! Me too!” they exclaimed.
Charlotte bragged, “My dad reads to me every night before bed. Sometimes
I read to him. We’re finishing The Black Stallion. We’ve read it before,
but I asked to read it again.”
“I love when my dad reads to me. He makes the funniest voices!” Elizabeth
made a face like a freckled pig and oinked.
“My dad too!” Ginger said. “Mom lets us eat cookies when we read. We
have our own story-time cookie jar.”
The other girls looked jealous.
Charlotte dared to challenge the claim. “You do not.”
“Do so! My mom keeps it filled with cookies just for when we read.”
There was a momentary exchange of speculative glances. Then Charlotte
piped up, “I want to come over and read with you and your dad and eat cookies.”
“Okay.”
“Me too!” Elizabeth chirped.
All three girls chattered about how fun it was going to be. I wished
for long, pretty hair and shiny shoes and a new cotton dress so I too could go
to Ginger’s house and eat cookies and tell stories and be wanted.
I recalled an earlier year, sitting in the back corner of a classroom
barely familiar to me, thumbing through a book I couldn’t yet read. My mother
sat up front, her frail figure slouched in a chair too small for adults. Her
black hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Her dark eyes darted about like an
anxious mouse, unwilling to make eye contact.
My teacher, two prior to Mrs. Cosgrove, spoke to my mother. It was my
first teacher ever, with auburn curls, high heels, and slim glasses. She wore
colorful makeup and the same disgruntled expression as everyone else. I tried
to appear preoccupied with the book I’d been given, but my ears couldn’t ignore
the conversation addressing my numerous faults.
“I’m afraid that it may take years for her to approach the same
performance level as other students her age. Annabelle has missed out on so
much. To have started her this late in school, Mrs. Fancher, well… the child is
years behind her classmates.”
There was a disapproving sigh from my teacher and a moment of
uncomfortable silence. My head stayed low, facing the book in my lap, but my
eyes flickered up every now and then to observe the adults. They were separated
by a desk stacked with papers. My mother looked nervous. She always looked
nervous.
“We can only hope that she picks up on some basic math skills and an
understanding of letter groups and their sounds before the end of this school
year. Perhaps she may even learn to read a few simple sentences. But with so
many other children in my classroom, there isn’t the time nor the resources to
give Annabelle the constant individual attention I fear she requires. It’s
imperative that she pays close attention to the instruction she receives. And
you, Mrs. Fancher, will need to help her at home. There are some easy things
you can do. First and most importantly, review the alphabet with her. It seems
a highly unusual thing for a child her age not to have a knowledge of letters
and at least a few simple words.”
I caught the reprimanding way my teacher looked over her glasses. My
mother, however, didn’t catch it, too busy staring at the bunched hem of her
dress kneaded by nervous fingers. She was in trouble because of me. Because I
couldn’t read.
“Have Annabelle practice writing the alphabet while voicing the sounds
of each letter. If you write along with her, it will provide an example to
copy. Do you understand how important your time and efforts will be to your
daughter’s education, Mrs. Fancher? She has a lot of catching up to do.”
My mother nodded in small, quick moves. She was doing so nearly
nonstop.
The teacher, who had been leaning over stacks of papers, rose and
rounded the desk, setting herself directly before my mother. Her voice lowered,
still hard-edged and judgmental in tone. I had no trouble hearing this hushed
conversation.
“Mrs. Fancher. I hate to bring up personal matters, but in this case I
feel it is necessary. Annabelle, well, quite frankly she smells bad. The other
kids have noticed and commented on it. This fact will hinder her ability to
interact socially and make friends at school. Many students already don’t care
to play with her because they can’t stomach the odor. Does she take baths at
home?”
My mother nodded vigorously, her eyes downcast. I watched the teacher’s
red lips press into a hard frown.
“Does your family have the means for personal hygiene items such as
soap and shampoos?”
My mother was still nodding, a tight wad of skirt clutched in her fist.
“Such things can be provided if necessary, Mrs. Fancher.”
Her head suddenly changed direction, shaking strongly, adamant in
declining the offer. My teacher’s lips pursed together as she looked down on my
mom.
“Mrs. Fancher, I can’t emphasize enough how influential example is to
young children. Annabelle will naturally grow to take on the same personal
habits that she observes her parents performing, especially those of her
mother. Regular bath time, clean clothing, combed hair… such things should be
routine for Annabelle. Is this something you can do for her at home?”
I watched agitated fingers brush flat the wrinkles on my mother’s
dress. She looked up. “Is that all?”
My teacher sighed again, this time a defeated sound. “Yes, Mrs.
Fancher.”
We left abruptly.
Mother did help me with my letters, reciting and writing out the
alphabet every day for two weeks in a row. We practiced the sounds associated
with each character. She even spelled out simple three-letter words for me to
read. I memorized them eagerly.
I took four real baths in that time with bubbles and bar soap and
shampoo. It was the most I’d ever washed. I liked how light my hair felt
afterwards, almost as soft as Ginger’s honey-colored waves. She was the girl
who sat beside me in class—my first and last hope for a real friend. The luxury
of regular bathing came to a swift end, however, when my father returned home
from a long haul. He said it was a waste of good soap and water on a filthy
beggar, and he gave my mom a black eye for spoiling me.
In school Ginger asked to be moved. She was assigned a new seat beside
a freckled redhead named Elizabeth. The chair next to mine remained empty for
the remainder of the school year.
The tour guide ushered our class up a minor set of stairs to the main
floor of a wide-open room. He then directed us further back along a sun-warmed
window that swept around the right corner of the building. Bookshelves were
arranged in small, boxed areas with tables and chairs in the center of each
square. The highest ledges were reachable for kids our age, every shelf crammed
full of colorful books. The quantity was overwhelming. I could hardly decide
where to begin.
Ginger, Elizabeth, and Charlotte headed for the furthest boxed area at
my left. Their steps seemed sure and determined. I guessed that their treasured
horse stories were filed away in that corner. Charlie and Thomas sat on the
floor thumbing through a book on military vehicles. Leonard and Jake invited
them to a table where they could study the pictured trucks and tanks together. Mrs.
Cosgrove was led by both hands to the most congested section of the library
among a circled display of hardcover books standing on end. I wondered if those
were the best stories or perhaps the newest. I cringed instinctively when a
man’s voice startled me from behind.
“Oh dear, young lady, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
I felt his hand on my shoulder. Though the touch was gentle, I
automatically pulled away. Turning around, I recognized his clothes first—the
grey slacks and pale, collared shirt worn by our tour guide from outside.
My gaze lifted, expecting to find some form of annoyance on his face. It
was disconcerting when he actually smiled at me. Not a forced expression either
but a genuine, cheerful greeting. My eyebrows slanted warily.
“Would you like some help finding a book?” he asked. His smile remained
fixed as he waited for an answer.
I froze, unable to reply. I felt anxious, like I wanted to bolt and yet
yearned to stay at the same time. It was uncomfortable being treated in this
manner. My heart pounded as my mind found a word for it: kindness.
Only my mother ever made me feel this way, and her actions were usually
accompanied by jittery nerves. Never relaxed. Other people normally avoided me.
Any interaction was solely for the purpose of reprimanding, correcting,
punishing, or teasing.
“What’s your name, child?”
I was staring at him eye to eye now. So close. He’d squatted down to my
level, sitting on his calves, still smiling. I stepped back and swallowed. I
wondered if his nose worked. Could he not smell how repugnant everyone else
claimed my odor to be?
His eyebrows pulled up and together in a brief show of pity. That was a
look I saw often. The familiarity of it calmed me.
“Do you like books about real things like horses, gardening, or raising
rabbits? Or do you prefer stories of pretend things like fairies and dragons,
flying children, or talking creatures?” He ended his question with wide
expectant eyes. The same big grin recaptured his lips. I found my fear stifled
by curiosity.
“I… um… I like pretend things. But I do like rabbits too.”
I would have thought his face couldn’t grin any wider, but it did. I
felt my own lips mimic his to a smaller degree, a natural response.
“Well then, I think I have just the book for you.” He rose to his full
height. “Come along… what was your name again?”
I had never told him. “Annabelle,” I uttered.
“Miss Annabelle. That’s the name of a magical fairy princess. Did you
know that?”
I shook my head. The thought sent a rush of warmth throughout my body. It
made my name seem instantly prettier.
I followed the man to a square of shelving two areas ahead of where
Ginger and her horse-loving friends were huddled. No one else stood nearby. The
man scanned a row of books three levels from the floor. He squatted while
pulling an older volume out from among its neighbors. The cover was brown with
black print and had a black sketching of a girl, a smiling cat, and a
well-dressed rabbit.
He read the title—Alice in Wonderland. His friendly eyes looked at
me. “Have you ever read this story, Annabelle?”
I shook my head.
“It’s wonderful. It’s about a girl near your age who gets lost in a
land of make believe where the animals speak to her and all sorts of strange,
fun things happen. It even has a talking rabbit. I bet you’ll find the tale to
your liking.”
I nodded, certain that I would. He handed the book to me and then moved
to a lower row of books at his right. He scanned the bottom spine of each one,
searching for something more. His throat made a successful “ah-hah” sound as
his fingers pulled another volume from off the shelf.
He read this title aloud—Peter Pan and Wendy. His eyes shifted
to me. “Do you know this story, Annabelle?”
Again, I answered with a silent headshake.
“Oh my!” he exclaimed. “Every child should know of Peter Pan! Peter is
a special young boy who can actually fly and teach others to do the same. He
lives on an island called Neverland with other boys and a lively little pixie. He
spends an eternal childhood there playing with Indians and fighting ornery
pirates!”
My eyes grew wide just imagining such an adventure.
The kind man handed over the second book. I took it and held it next to
the first. One was brown. The other an aqua blue. Both titles were printed in
bold, black lettering.
“May I read them both?” I dared to ask.
I understood his regretful expression before he answered, but I
couldn’t decide which story to give back. Wonderland or Neverland?
“You can sign out one book today. Then, when you finish, return it and
check out the other. It will be waiting right here for you.” He gestured to the
shelving behind him.
I looked woefully at both adventures in my hands. This would almost
certainly be the only time in my life I’d ever see the inside of a library. My
mother didn’t drive, and my father would never bother taking me to a place as
wonderful as this, let alone actually read me a story.
“Which one should I choose?” I asked the man.
He grinned wide. “That’s up to you, Miss Annabelle. Look them over. Take
your time.” He stood up and walked to a square table in the center of our box
of bookshelves. He pulled out a chair. “Have a seat. Browse through both books
until you decide which you’d like to read first. I’ll help you sign one out
when you’re ready.”
I nodded and obediently sat in the offered chair. He left me alone to
read.
I opened to the middle pages of Peter Pan and ate up as much of
the story as my hungry eyes could take in. It was a simple thing to block out
all surrounding distractions. It wasn’t until Mrs. Cosgrove barked my name, too
loudly for inside the quiet library, that I focused back on reality. My mind
shifted from a riotous pirate ship to the vividly irritated expression on my
teacher’s face. The class was already lined up near the doors in the background
waiting to walk outside.
“Annabelle, for heaven’s sake! Didn’t you hear me announce that it was
time to line up ten minutes ago? We need to go, now. The bus is waiting.”
I stood up, letting the Peter Pan story fall closed on the table. I
picked up Alice in Wonderland and hugged the book to my chest, hunching
as I stepped past Mrs. Cosgrove. Her hand reached over my head and swiped the
treasure from my fingers.
I gasped, unable to protest any further than that. Tears threatened to
burn my eyes. My hand feebly reached for the book, then fell, knowing better
than to hope for anything. I focused on the ground, ready to drag my sunken
spirits across the floor. I would never know if Peter defeated the pirates or
if he grew up enough to understand how to win Wendy’s heart. I would never have
any inkling of whatever happened to Alice in her crazy Wonderland.
“Mrs. Cosgrove, why don’t you let me sign out that book while Annabelle
joins the other kids.”
Something in my heart flickered when I heard the offer from the kind
man who had introduced me to Peter and Alice. He was reaching for the treasure
now in my teacher’s possession. His other hand fell gently on my shoulder. My
muscles tightened, but I didn’t cringe from his touch this time.
“I’m sorry, but there’s no time. The bus is waiting. Annabelle, get in
line.”
“It will only take a minute,” the man persisted.
“Maybe next time.” Mrs. Cosgrove placed the little brown book on the
table I’d been seated at. The man smiled as he went to pick it up.
“I promised the girl. It’s my fault it didn’t get checked out before
now. Please, I’ll run it to the bus if I must.”
Mrs. Cosgrove rolled her eyes beneath closed lids. “It’s well above her
reading level,” she argued.
The man argued back. “Annabelle’s been quietly reading the book on the
table there, Peter Pan and Wendy, which happens to be at the same
reading level. She seemed quite involved in the story. I think she can handle
this one.”
“I doubt very much that she actually made out any of the more difficult
words.”
“But I did! I can even read philanthropist!”
Mrs. Cosgrove dropped her eyes on me, looking both surprised and upset
that I’d spoken up. I was shocked myself and shrunk from her reproachful glare.
The man covered up an amused grin with the book that was now in his
hands. “It will only take me a minute,” he said.
“Alright, fine,” my teacher sighed, a frustrated huff of resignation. “Anna,
I’m certain I told you to get in line.”
I nodded at my teacher, stealing a glance at the stranger who had come
to my rescue. He smiled before doing something no one else had ever done to me
before. He winked. I felt my heart flicker again. This was so foreign, such
misplaced kindness. I didn’t know how to react. Urged by a shove from Mrs.
Cosgrove, I hustled over to the line of waiting students.
The man in grey slacks met us outside and handed me the library book
before half the kids were loaded on the bus.
“Thank you,” I uttered.
“You’re more than welcome, Miss Annabelle. Enjoy your time in
Wonderland.”
I hugged the book to my chest and stepped onto the bus. Ginger plugged
her nose as I walked past. Lizzy screwed up her freckled face disgustedly. Jake
smashed his snout flat like a pig. Thomas stuck out his tongue while Charlie
uttered a lowly, “Ugly duck.” Leonard tried to trip me near the rear, but I
caught myself on the neighboring seat, keeping a tight grip on my precious
book. As usual, no one allowed me to sit beside them. I found a seat in the
very back all alone, but for some reason none of those things bothered me. For
the first time in my life I didn’t feel like the cold stone outside my window. A
peculiar sensation pressed against the walls inside me, buoying me up as if I
could actually take flight like the fairy tale boy, Peter Pan.
I felt as warm as sunbeams. It made my skin tingle.
I'm hooked (-: loving it so far... poor little girl makes me want to cry. i feel for her
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