The thirtieth of may in all its annual repetition wasn’t a day of significance for most. for peter however — although, mind you, he was a boy of little patience and the tendency to get bored so easily, a boy who hated the ever happening passing of time too, the day carried a special place in his heart. starting the week prior, an excited smile was plastered non-stop across his lips and this year, more than the ones before, he’d become busy; cheap excuses were made and his behaviour became secretive, making it obvious for everyone who knew and did not know him that peter pan was planning something, and by the hints which were dropped by sheer accident ( probably, seemingly because peter was too excited to keep his own secret safe ) one could only assume it was a party — massive and loud and crowded, and absolutely not what peter had planned for tink’s birthday but he liked her to believe that he did.
He’d watched the realisation grow in her eyes over the weeks and the question mark practically hovering over her head as she pondered about possible ways to tell him she did not want to celebrate her birthday with all of her friends, their friends and the friends of their friends who’d all come swarming like bees around the honeypot because they did not want to miss a party thrown and planned by someone as megalomaniacal as peter pan. it wasn’t exactly nice of him, but for the sake of the surprise – and for the sake of his own amusement for he had trouble not to burst into laughter every time she seemed incapable of finding a solution; one that would not ruin his excitement and wipe the smile of his face – he did so without remorse.
“ Tink !! “ peter called, his voice loud and boisterous ringing through the street she lived in and without a doubt, reaching her window too. the smile on his lips was possibly the brightest it had been so far in this week. “ come here, birthday girl !! i’ve a surprise for you !! “ and spread arms waiting for her as soon as she came outside.
At the sound of his voice, Tink’s nimble fingers froze, mid-way in their reach for a tiny pair of scissors to cut a piece of thread. Her whole face started to heat up like it was set on a burner, brightly; and she shrugged her shoulders up to her ears in an attempt to hide her blush in the big, gray hoodie of Peter’s that she was wearing ( knowing, even as she did so, that her efforts were mostly in vain. He didn’t have to see her for him to know she was blushing, and she knew he knew this ). Carefully, Tink set aside the miscellany of her project, before inching towards her window and peeking outside. Peter stood center-street, radiant in the bars of sunlight that cut through the spaces between the trees lining the road. She felt her heart skip a beat, as it always did in the wake of him, its rhythm knocked off-tune simply by the force of his presence. She noticed his toothy grin spread wider as he spotted her, and, quickly, she ducked back, reaching a hand up to smooth the fly-aways of her bun, suddenly filled with a jangly sort of energy; a trembling nervousness.
Peter had been acting strange-- and not just because of what had transpired between them in the weeks before. Not awkward, not unsure. Nothing like that. Strange like shady-- like he was keeping a secret ( or trying to, but not very hard ). Whispering to one of the boys when they were all together, and glancing at her as he did so; sending quick texts every couple of seconds with the screen tilted away from her. Avoiding her pointed questions with a sly grin and a nondescript shrug of his broad shoulders. Listing items like baking soda and bottle rockets under his breath. Like he was planning something big. She wasn’t stupid. Sometimes, Tink lost track of the days-- especially when she spent them all in a sleepless blur with Peter and the boys-- but she was ( perhaps now more so than ever before ) acutely aware of her birthday’s approach, and she linked this dreadful event to Peter’s suddenly suspicious behavior. It was the only explanation-- and it freaked her out.
Nineteen was no special age. It was unremarkable. A final claim to teenage rebellion that most people squandered. More than that, it was her nineteenth birthday-- and who cared? She could count, on one hand, the list of people that might. But whatever Peter seemed to be planning, for her, left the impression of a celebration that included a lot more people than she could count on one hand. Or two. Or even if she included all of her toes. And whatever it was, it was happening today. She considered ignoring him-- but he’d already seen her, and she knew he would scale his way up to her window before he’d let her get out of this. So, with deep reluctance, Tink tugged on a pair of denim shorts, marred with sharpie around the back pockets, and also stuffed a tank top into her bottomless black purse, in case the sweatshirt she donned became too much to bear in the Californian summer. She hesitated at the door, groaning softly, cracking her knuckles-- creating meaningless space between now and the moment she would have to face her well-meaning, totally off-track-with-this-stupid-not-so-secret-party idea Peter Pan. And then she twisted the knob, took a flight of stairs, pushed open the front door, and stepped outside.
