I'm taking things from the book and three movies: the 2003 and Disney versions, and Hook. The book's probably the most reliable but I took the image of Peter Pan from my own imagination. I once had an imaginary friend remarkably like him, but his name was Marty, I think. Anyway, Maggie is me, when I was younger, a bit of a brat I know, and I plan on this being a pretty in-depth story. Oh! If only I could show you my outlines! ahem dork

More in Store. Read and Review.

"No! I will NOT wear this stupid dress!"

She threw it down and spat on it. Ms. Brummel gasped. Surely, this wasn't her daughter behaving so poorly? A great tiredness grew in her eyes. She had tried. She had tried awfully hard to be both mother and father to the poor girl, but she was falling behind on her duties. The drawers of Maggie's mind were full of cobwebs. They'd been so long without their nightly dusting. Her lanky limbs, spread in that awfully cocky fashion, reflected late or never microwave dinners, and that damned baseball cap, pulled low over her flashing green eyes, must have been surgically attached to her head. True, the dress was a hideous thing, pink and extravagantly decorated with all sorts of lace and ribbons and bows, but it was all she could afford as a father/mother both and Maggie, since she had to come along to the banquet, absolutely had to be presentable. Tonight could mean a promotion, and Ms. Brummel could use the extra money.

"I won't! I won't! I won't!" she yelled.

Ms. Brummel knew she should be patient, but as it so often is when a person gets older, it was much easier to get angry than it was to get sad.

"You put on that dress right now, little missy, or I'll spank your hide raw! Is that what you want?

You are too old for this nonsense and I will not have it in this house! Really! Almost eight years old and having such a temper tantrum!"

Fresh, salty tears poured down Maggie's infuriated face. She blubbered, making great heaving sounds unashamedly.

"You stop that crying right now or so help me-"

And she did, striking Maggie full across the face and cursing, as a mother should never ever do.

Maggie stopped crying for a moment. Her eyes turned wide and searching. She'd just been made aware of a cruel injustice in the world of fair play and decided she would hate her mother forever because of it. She longed to hit her back, smack her one good, right on the kisser, but she daren't. Her mind, messy though it was, could not process that behavior. Instead she stared at her mother, eyes cinder red and boiling. Ms. Brummel turned away, both scared and ashamed to see such hatred in her daughter's eyes. Those feelings, too, made themselves known through anger.

"Get on up to your room! Quickly now. I'll give you five minutes to calm down and God help you if you're still full of this nonsense by the time I get up there."

Maggie scowled and shot her mother/father a dirty look, sticking out her tongue then running up the stairs as fast as her legs could carry her, much afeared of any retaliation.

Ms. Brummel watched her daughter disappear up the stairs with a shocked look on her face, shocked both by her actions and her daughter's. The strain was more than she could bear. She wished she had a Mr. Brummel to comfort her, but alas, she did not. That was the fate of every mother/father, the quiet after anger without consolation.

Upstairs in her room, Maggie was not calming down at all. No, she was working herself into a frenzy. She threw books off the shelves and pulled the sheets off her bed. Then she eyed the window. It had been bared since her and her mother/father had moved in, but she'd heard the stories. Missing children. Happened in HER house but few centuries ago. Their parents were nut jobs. Convinced by their dog (who was also the children's nurse, no wonder) that the children had left by the window they kept it open day and night to wait for their return. If the children hadn't returned, very mysteriously, a few weeks later with tales (lies) of ridiculous adventures, the Darlings would have caught their death. It was even said that Mr. Daring, thinking his bad behavior to his dog in feeding it some of his medicine caused the whole incident, slept in the doghouse for the entire time they were away and had back problems for many years afterward. It was all very preposterous indeed.

Only, Maggie didn't think so. She rushed to the window and pulled off some of the wooden planks. She was rather strong for such a small girl but while her female classmates were playing dress-up and house with baby dolls and learning to make cookies, Maggie had been making mud pies and playing sports, wrestling with the boys, and making up great adventures involving swords and knives and daggers. Soon she successfully had the window open with a great rush of air, like it was gasping for breath after years of holding its breath. The cold winter wind tingled her wet face. She grabbed her cap to keep it from falling off. It had belonged to her father. She searched far as she could with her little eyes through the darkness, up on tiptoe and leaning over the windowsill toward the street below.

"Peter?" she whispered into the darkness, the wind stripping her voice away into nothingness. Oh yes, she knew the story, as all children do, and she wanted nothing more than to be away, having adventures in Neverland. After all, it was her house, and that, that was Peter's window. But as she waited she began to lose hope. There was nothing in the darkness but the silent falling of the coldest snow known to man. She left the window open and threw herself onto her bed weeping uncontrollably at the unfairness of it all. So entirely engrossed was she in her despair that she did not hear the soft fall of able feet on the nursery floor and did not see her guest until he opened his mouth to speak.

"Hello, Wendy," said he with the gayest of all voices.

She fell silent.

"Girl, why are you crying?" he asked, giggling at his own cleverness.

She turned slowly and smiled widely.

"You are Peter Pan?"

He face grew dreadful serious.

"You are not Wendy."

Then the seriousness wiped away, in a moment gone and forgotten with a childish laugh.

"But you are here, in Wendy's window so you must be her. So how are you, Wendy?"

"I am not Wendy."

"Oh, but you are!"

This made Maggie very indignant. Imagine! Him trying to tell her what her own name was!

"No, I most certainly am NOT. My name is Margaret Jamie Brummel."

He laughed.

"What a silly game you play, Wendy! Fine, I will call you Margaret, but you must know, Margaret is the name of all terribly ugly girls."

Maggie was outraged. In truth, Peter had known only one other girl in his life, but he, like all young boys, was an expert on most everything. She shoved him without thinking. He pushed her back and they scowled at one another.

"You're not very fun as Margaret. Be Wendy, now, please. You need to come tell us stories," and he looked at her with the saddest most confused expression that Maggie couldn't help but laugh.

He apparently didn't like the joke at his expense. He raised an eyebrow and took a step toward the window.


Maggie suddenly remembered how badly she had wanted him there. He couldn't leave!

He stopped.

"Take me with you. Take me with you to Neverland, Peter!"

He smiled, such a cocky smile.

"But... Margaret, if you are no Wendy, why would I take you? Wendy is our mother. She tells us stories."

"I could tell stories!"

"Do you know Snow White? Cinderella? Sleeping Beauty?"

Maggie made a face.

"Yuck! Those are all girly stories!"

He leaned in closer.

"But Miss Margaret, you are a girly."

"But what I mean is that I know better stories."

She leaned forward as well, so that their noses were almost touching over the end of her bed.

"Robinson Crusoe, about a man who's lost at sea. Guilliver's Travel, about a man who travels round the world."

He scowled.

"I do not wish to hear the stories of men."

"Stories of boys then. Huckleberry Finn? Or Treasure Island!!! Yes," and her eyes gleamed, "Treasure Island, about a cabin boy fighting Long John Silver and his boat of scurvy seadogs!"


"Why of course it's a story about pirates!"

Just then feet made their little pitter-patter up the stairs. Mother was coming. Peter drew his sword, and Maggie did a very naughty thing. She locked the door.

"Please Peter! Don't make me stay here with her!"

"Margaret, dear? Who's that? Who are you talking to?" but she knew who it was. She banged on the door.

"Margaret Jamie Brummel, you open this door right now or so help me!"

Maggie ignored her. Peter bared his teeth at the door where he knew the grown-up to be.

"Please, Peter."

It was such a polite, soft little thing to say. Peter was immediately reminded of Wendy, his first kiss. He looked at this girl named Maggie, who was decidedly NOT Wendy, but she knew stories and she said "please, Peter," ever so sweetly. He nodded.

"After all, a girl's worth twenty boys."

She smiled.

"But you must be our mother."

She frowned.

"But- I don't know how to be a mother. Can I not just play and tell stories, Peter? Please, Peter. The game of mothers is so fitfully boring! I have one already, a mother/father, in fact, and look what good it's done me. No good at all I say."

The knocking at the door and a low scream of rage seemed to agree with her, and despite the fact that Peter had no idea what a mother/father was, he thought Maggie's offer sounded pretty good indeed.

"No. I've changed my mind. I don't want you to be a mother. You can just tell us stories and go on adventures with us. If you don't agree, you can't go. No mothers are allowed in Neverland."

"But Peter, that's what I just said!"

He ignored her.

"Fine, I agree. Can we go?"

Her impatience was well deserved, Ms. Brummel was getting ready to burst through the door. It was amazing that she hadn't already.

"We should probably go now," he said. This time it was Maggie's time to ignore him. She just wanted out. He whistled toward the window, where a fat, balding faery was waiting. He shook him over Maggie's head, grabbed her hand and off they went. Second star to the left and straight on till morning. Maggie's only happy thought was escape.

When, Ms. Brummel finally got through the door, precious too many moments too late, she knew what had happened. She walked over to the window...and shut it.