Four Years Earlier

"I heard that she was kidnapped by these criminals and they abused her so badly she went crazy." The whispers were never quiet enough for me to believe that I wasn't supposed to hear them. I sunk lower in my desk chair, cheeks flushed with heat. Colors seemed too harsh, every sound buzzed in my ears, and I couldn't stay warm no matter how tightly I wrapped my sweater around my body. "Well I heard that she ran away with some older boy and the police pulled her from his basement kicking and screaming."

Please come rescue me. Please don't make me stay here. I would've sacrificed anything if it granted me safety from their acquisitory stares and fake pity. The pats on the back, the one-armed hugs, the promise to spend time together soon. I hadn't been invited anywhere since the return. It didn't work that way. Once anyone thought that you ran away with an older man, no mothers would ever let you cross your doorstep.

"Miss Darling?" My blood ran cold in my veins when I saw my name leave the teacher's lips. "What is the answer?"

There was no kindness in his steely gray eyes, his hooked nose, the harsh bend of his glasses. Of course he couldn't repeat the question for me. I knew what was going to happen before he did anything, and I slid my piece of paper under my arithmetic book. Sure enough, he stalked over, each stride longer than the last. "Miss Darling, you are not paying attention in my class again. It seems as if our conference did not help you find your focus. Let me see your notebook."

My face burned and my throat went dry at what this meant. I would be raked over the coals for their selfish viewing yet again, and the whispers would only grow louder. "Do not make me ask again, Miss Darling."

I watched my hands move the textbook. I wouldn't disobey him, but I would rather die than lift the notebook for him and everyone around me to see it better. Usually, it was stories scrawled in the margins of old assignments, but words didn't come to my brain and tongue with ease anymore. So I resorted to pictures, which were much more incriminating pieces of evidence. No one ever cared much to read stories.

It was of a boy, hair disarrayed in wild curls and a grin on his face. Freckles dusted his nose, and his limbs were long and lean, wrapped with bands of muscle like at the end of the summer. The last time I saw that grin was on the Jolly Roger, accompanied soon after by a joyous whoop of victory. I hadn't heard laughter since.

"Miss Darling," he began, milking my misery for all it was worth. "Who is this boy?"

I sunk lower in my seat, hands disappearing inside the sleeves of my sweater. I would rather them be crushed by a horse than answer that cruel man. He didn't care, as long as everyone knew he was in charge. Nonetheless, he continued, "Miss Darling, I do not like repeating questions."

"He's her lover," a boy snickered from the corner, and Mr. Taylor's head whipped around to glare at him. And yet, there was never a word spoken against any of them who taunted me.

"Miss Darling, I ask one more time," he repeated as if I could ever forget that he was talking to me.

When I didn't answer, there was no point in waiting. I rose from my chair and walked to the front of the classroom with as much dignity as I could manage. I offered the ruler to him myself and extended my hands, so small and pale.

"You wicked girl," he snapped as he yanked the tool from me. "You will learn to speak when you are spoken to, or you will not be welcome at this school again."

And suddenly, I could find words. "Good," I whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

The only sound that followed was the resounding whack, and my hands were no longer white.

"George, you must do something," my mother whispered as she spread a chilly salve over the marks from Mr. Taylor. It happened so often that my hands never healed before the next punishment. "Wendy cannot be walking around town like -"

"Hush, Mary," my father snapped as he paced before the fireplace, clouds of smoke from his pipe wrapping around his head. "Hush! Let me think."

I thought I saw a tear drip from my mother's eye, but she bent her head to care for my hand before I could be certain. Her hair was the color of the soft caramels we would eat in the summer, each tendril so carefully placed on top of her head. Did father ever notice how much time she spent on it?

"What are we to do with you, Wendy?" He snapped, staring at me as if I was a curiosity in the circus. "Your brothers are adjusting well."

Michael cried every night and John was suddenly infamous for bringing girls behind the school building for a moment alone. But he continued, "Their marks in school are fine, and their teachers never complain about them. What am I supposed to think when you come home with new marks from Mr. Taylor every single day? Do you ever consider what this means for me at the bank?!"

"George, please," my mother whispered, her chest heaving in and out of her bodice as her panic rose. I suddenly wished I was young enough to rest my head against it once more. "You cannot allow this man to keep disciplining our child so -"

"I said quiet!" He snapped, and the snarl on his face suddenly reminded me of Hook. "You must learn your place, woman, she hears you speaking to me like this -"

"Father." He whipped around when he saw John standing in the doorway. I didn't know when my brother grew so old. His face was gaunt and pale, his jaw stronger, his chest starting to fill out. His voice had started to drop, and father finally stopped to listen when he spoke. "This is not mother's fault. Let us have a nice dinner, alright?"

Father mumbled something under his breath about how we had no respect for him, but sure enough, he ambled toward the dining room.

"Listen, sweet girl," Mother began, her voice quick and desperate as she took my face in her hands. "I know how you hurt. Please, Wendy, please. Focus on all that you have here. You are not alone."

"Mary!" Father barked again. "Mary, I will not have her postponing dinner too. If my roast is cold -"

"It will not be," she assured him. I watched her glide over, press an impossibly soft kiss against his cheek, and whisper something in his ear. Father's face visibly relaxed, and he made a small noise of approval before disappearing into the dining room.

How could she have such power over him? If I would have kissed Peter, he would have been a raving lunatic, swiping at his face as if my lips were diseased. So how did father melt?

"Come." John offered me his arm. "You will never survive until you learn to play their game, Wendy bird."