A/N: "Please Forgive Me" written by Bryan Adams and Robert Lange. Performed by Bryan Adams. Released October 15, 1993 on the A&M label. "I Want to Hold Your Hand" written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Performed by the Beatles. Released November 29, 1963 in the UK and December 26, 1963 in the US on the EMI label.

Chapter 15

"So, that's it?" Phyllis asked. "Jetta and her gang are cleared for entry?"

The answer wasn't long in coming. Jerrica's voice was clear on the other end of the phone, as she said, "contingent on their doing the benefit. I heard their demo and they're good. Really good," she added.

"Good enough that we would have tried poaching them from you back in the day?" Phyllis laughed, and Jerrica sighed.

"Probably, but since Jetta's one of them, I don't think I would have fought nearly as hard. Back then," she added."

Phyllis laughed. "I hear you. Okay. So. Jem and the Holograms are on the bill. The Misfits are on the bill. The Stingers—I assume—are on the bill. Kaleidoscope Haze—which includes two Holograms and a Misfit are on the bill. This Irish jazz quartet that includes a Misfit… And the Misfits are now including a Starlight girl…" she chuckled and Jerrica followed suit.

"We're just one big happy family, aren't we?" she asked.

"One big happy dysfunctional family, yeah," Phyllis smirked. "And we're gonna rock so hard that I bet we raise enough cash to cure Parkinson's in the next five years."

When the Shadow wasn't roaming the realms looking for Lost Boys or others who might further Pan's aims, it generally hovered near Neverland's ruler, but it only hovered in front of him when it had something to report.

As much as Pan loved good sport and adventure, he never forgot that, in addition to the usual mischief and hijinks he encouraged in his companions, he was playing one rather long game. So, when he stepped out of his lean-to to find the Shadow waiting overhead, he quickly rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stepped forward, a gleam of anticipation in his blue eyes. "What news?" he greeted his visitor.

For answer, the Shadow dipped its head slightly in what might be generously termed a bow. "You asked me to watch for another pawn," it replied. "It's surfaced."

Pan laughed. "So the game's on, then," he replied. "This should be fun. Who is it?"

For answer, the Shadow shimmered. Its form solidified, taking on the illusion of flesh, hair, facial features, and clothing. Even so, the young man looked curiously average. Pan rather thought him the sort whom one might see every day and yet be hard-pressed to describe a single feature. That sort of invisibility did have its uses. "Intriguing," he said. "Do I know him?"

The Shadow nodded. "He dreamed his way here over a decade ago," it said dispassionately. "He caught your interest for his belief in magic in a land that has none." Its features blurred again, now taking on the mien of a ten-year-old boy with haunted eyes and tight lips. "For a time, you even considered that he might be—"

"A Truest Believer, yes," Pan nodded, remembering. Like Saviors, Truest Believers cropped up every now and again, and while Pan knew that his power would be best strengthened by the heart of a Truest Believer of his own bloodline, the sand in the great hourglass at Skull Rock was draining away rapidly enough that he'd been willing to consider settling for second-best. "At least," Pan sighed, "until I realized that his belief in magic didn't stem from a leap of faith, but from his own lived experiences." His eyes brightened. "But even if he wasn't the right lad for the job, I've since learned he is destined to one day deliver the real one to me."

All fairies had the gift of future sight. Not all were as skilled in it as the Reul Ghorm, perhaps, but all—even a bitter and disgraced one who'd lost her wings—possessed the gift. He'd struck a good bargain the day she'd arrived on his island: he would grant her the shelter and survival skills she'd need if she was to make her home here. In exchange, she would use her talent in his service, whenever he might ask. He had the better end of that deal, he knew.

A feral grin split his face. "So, Owen Flynn has resurfaced," he said. "Well. It's still a bit early for the Truest Believer to appear, but it shan't be much longer." He nodded. "Not in the grand scheme of things." Businesslike, he nodded to the Shadow once more. "You were right to tell me. I do think we'll need keep a closer eye on him, so we can have him in position when it's time for him to make his move. So. Where is he, now?"

The Shadow returned to its usual appearance. "Los Angeles. Not far away at all from either the Darlings or the Savior."

Pan's grin widened. "Perfect…"

On the balcony of John's apartment, he and Wendy waited until the Shadow flew off before turning to each other with identical troubled expressions on their faces. "It's not that I can't do it, you understand," Wendy said hesitantly.

"Good," John nodded.

"Or that I won't. I know what's at stake… who's at stake," she amended, closing her eyes. "I'll play my part. Only…"

John exhaled. "Wendy… there's no 'only'. We may not be in Neverland right now, but Pan's still piping the tune, and we've no choice but to dance to it. He's talked in the past about letting us go one day. I suppose growing up means recognizing when one's just being strung along like a diabolo spool. He might toss us free for a brief spell, but then we're caught on the cord again. Pan won't change that; we're toys to him, and if he gives up his toys, he can't play with us anymore, d'you see? And since he shan't grow up, he shan't outgrow us, not ever."

"And if we've outgrown him?"

John shook his head. "Why should that matter to him?" His lip curled derisively. "He still wants to play."

Wendy shuddered. "But what's he playing at now, John? Why does he want Tamara to believe in magic? And who is this other person, this… Owen?"

"I don't know," John admitted. "But it's my job to see that he's in position on Saturday."

"Why?" Wendy demanded. "What can Pan want with him, with Tamara, with…?"

"I've learned," John said heavily, as he placed a comforting hand on his sister's shoulder that did nothing to comfort her at all, "that it's better not to wonder about such things. It's hardly as though knowing the answer would make us feel any better about what we're doing."

Wendy bit her lip and blinked back tears, as she thought about what might befall Michael if she or John were to balk at their instructions at this juncture.

John left Wendy in the apartment the following morning to 'catch up on more of what she'd missed'.

In other words, she'd proclaimed shrilly, you mean for me to watch more of that telly-vision box or read from that stack of dull machinery books you bought at the second-hand shop, while you go off doing who knows what!

John understood her frustration, but Pan had sent him on an assignment—one whose details his sister had heard last night as well—and he couldn't risk her showing shock or fear at some technological improvement that people in this time and place took for granted. Not when the person he was to approach might be just knowledgeable enough to guess what such ignorance could mean.

With these thoughts in mind, he now walked along Venice Beach, making his way toward a small vendor's stand.

The vendor was a young man; twenty-one or so, according to Pan's Shadow, but his hairline was already receding and there was a dead weariness to his eyes. Idly, John wondered whether the same look might be observed in his own face. Childhood trauma didn't always leave its stamp so obviously, but on some occasions, it could and did. Absently, John picked up a braided lanyard from the table and examined it.

"It's one of my better pieces," the vendor said softly. "If you're interested, I can give you a good price."

John smiled. "I am interested," he said, "but not in a single small purchase."

The vendor blinked. "Well, there's a lot more on the counter," he said, breaking into an answering smile. "Earrings, zipper pulls…" He stooped down for a moment, and when he rose again, he was holding a snail woven of the same flat, plastic cording as the rest of his wares. "I've been experimenting with these, too."

"Jolly fine," John said, with a low whistle. "Actually, I'm glad I came to the beach today. You see," he fished a business card out of his pocket (Michael had designed a number of them for various occasions, some time back), "I'm currently coordinating a craft fair. It's to be held in Griffith Park on Saturday, just by the bird sanctuary; you know the place?"

"I know of it," the vendor said, frowning a bit. "Never been, though."

"Well, I've had several of our scheduled vendors pull out at the last moment, and that frees up space for a few more tables. Normally, there's a fee to participate, but honestly, at the moment, I'm trying to ensure that there'll be a wide range of crafts on display and I'm scouring the streets and beaches looking for prospects. If you're able to get there by noon on the day, I'll waive the registration."

This time, the smile on the vendor's face reached his eyes and looked to have drained several years away from them. "That's… wow," he said, examining the business card that read J.N. Darling, Exhibition Coordinator, Vendor Relations. "Wow, yeah, sure. Sounds great. I-I'll be there. Uh…" He fished into his pocket and came up with a card of his own. "If you need to reach me, this is probably the best way," he said. "My flip-phone's on it," he added, as though John might have missed the contact information.

John nodded and extended his hand. "I look forward to seeing you there, Mr. Flynn," he said.

"Owen," the vendor said, clasping John's hand and giving it a firm shake.

Jerrica coaxed a note of sadness into her voice, "No, Ashley," she said sympathetically. "That's fine. Of course, your grades are more important. Don't worry about it. We've got a few other bands lined up." Then she hung up the phone and allowed herself a sigh of relief.

She'd seen the posters going up on the dormitory floor with more than a little apprehension. She'd never expected Ashley to try to start up the band she'd organized back in middle school, and she'd certainly never had any intention of having the band perform for the benefit. She should have headed Ashley off at the very beginning, but she'd forgotten how gung-ho her former foster daughter could be sometimes. And the girls had been getting excited, too. Jerrica felt a pang. She'd noticed that Emma seemed to be settling in, and that she'd also been getting involved with the band. She hadn't wanted to quash Emma's hopes, just when the newest girl in residence seemed to be starting to open up.

She'd even toyed with the idea that maybe, there could be a way of letting the girls open.

Rory wouldn't stand for it. The man was a professional and a perfectionist and the benefit was his idea. He'd probably pat her girls on their heads and tell them to run along and 'let the grownups work'. And while Jerrica couldn't say she liked his patronizing attitude, she also couldn't disagree that the benefit was looking for professional artists, not a group of enthusiastic amateurs who'd never performed on stage together.

Ashley's backing out pretty much pulled the plug on the Starlights' pitch. Jerrica wasn't going to have to be the bad guy and tell them that they couldn't go out there. This was for the best.

Her heart sank. She was still going to have to deliver this bit of bad news to them, though. And she would. Tonight, after supper, before they started practicing.

"She doesn't bite," Stephanie stage-whispered, nudging Emma forward into the common area. "Just ask her!"

"I can't," Emma protested. "What I wrote, it's… it's okay, but it's not something I'd want to show her."

"But it's something you want the Starlights to sing, right?"

Emma winced. She didn't have a good answer, but the last thing she wanted to do was show Kimber Benton—who wrote and performed her own songs all over the world—to see what she'd done. "Besides, I can't even write music and I bet my tune is something that I heard on the radio a long time ago and forgot about and now I think it's mine and…" Emma's voice trailed off, as she realized that Kimber was no longer seated on the sofa watching TV. In fact, she was walking over, leaving her keytar on the cushion beside her.

"Did I hear right?" she asked. "You write songs?"

Emma looked at the floor and jammed her hands in her pockets. "Sorta…" she muttered. "I mean, the lyrics are stupid and I can't write music…"

Kimber put a hand on her shoulder. "Come over here," she said, motioning to the sofa. "I want to show you something."

Shaking her head, Emma let Kimber lead her over. The rocker picked up a ruled notepad from the coffee table and, after frowning for a moment, set it down over her keytar case and leaned over it a bit awkwardly to write. "Sorry if it's messy," she said, scrawling several lines on the notepad. "Okay. Do me a favor?"

"Wh-what? I mean, sure! What do you need?"

Kimber grinned. "I just need you to read this out loud," she said, holding the pad out to her.

Emma blinked. "O… kay," she said slowly, squinting a bit at the lines. "It still feels like our first night together," she read. "Feels like the first kiss," she rolled her eyes a little. "It's getting better baby. No one can better this. Still holding on…"

"Sound familiar?"

Emma frowned. "Sort of. Yeah. That's Bryan Adams, right?"

"Number seven on the Billboard Hot One Hundred last November," Kimber nodded. "It's a great song. But the lyrics on their own? Well, you tell me: does it sound like Shakespeare to you?"

Emma snorted. "I understood them, so that's a no."

"You know what I mean!" Kimber laughed. "But listen now," she went on, opening the case and pulling out her keytar. She played the few bars that were the song's intro and then sang softly. "It still feels like our first night together. Feels like our first kiss…" She smiled. "Here's another one. Before both our times, solid hit, but when you look at the lyrics in isolation..."

Emma looked at the second sheet. "Oh, yeah, I'll tell you something, I think you'll understand. When I say that something, I want to hold your hand. I want to hold your hand," she rolled her eyes slightly, "I want to hold your hand."

"I know, I know!" Kimber exclaimed. "And don't think I'm slamming the Beatles; they were fantastic! All the same..." she bent over her keytar again and played the song, "When you add in the music, the lyrics sound so much better, right?"

"Yeah," Emma said, "but I still can't write music."

"Well, I can!" Kimber said. "Stormer can, too! I don't know if I have time to write the whole thing, but maybe if the three of us put our heads together…"

"I can't write music, like, at all," Emma said. "I can't read it. Plunk me down on a piano and I can pick out… "Doe-A-Deer" o-or the Brady Bunch theme. Maybe. But I can't—"

"Do you hear a tune in your head when you're writing lyrics?"

"Not an original one," Emma admitted.

"Well, maybe you just need a chance. And if you really can't, well, come and sit in while we work on it anyway. It's your song and you don't want us to set it to music you hate."

As if she'd hate anything that they wrote! Emma sucked in her breath. "You really want me to work with you?" she asked. "I mean, is this your good deed for the day or…?" She clapped a hand to her mouth, wondering where that had come from. It wasn't like it mattered why Kimber was offering to help. Emma should be jumping at this chance. Except it did matter. She wanted help, but not if it was because Kimber felt sorry for her or was hoping that 'helping the poor, unwanted, foster kid' would be good publicity or something. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.

Kimber shook her head. "It's okay, Emma. Look, if you want to do this alone or… or not do it, that's okay, too. If it helps, if I could go back in time and offer my younger self some free help, she'd probably turn me down, too." She sighed. "I was kind of prickly back then. Actually," she said with a faint smile, "I think I was probably a little bit like you. So, maybe that's why I want to help. But I want to help, not do it all for you. Your call."

Emma hesitated. "And I can change my mind, right?"

"Any time you want to."

Emma took a deep breath. "Okay," she said, exhaling. "Okay. Let's do this." After all, the Starlights deserved a better song than she had a prayer of writing on her own.

"Now?" Kimber asked. And then, quickly, she continued, "I'm used to writing with Stormer more these days, but... sure, I used to write all the songs for Jem and the Holograms. Let's get started. If we're stuck," she grinned, "we can always call in Stormer then."

Working with Kimber, Emma lost track of the time, and it wasn't until she got up to stretch that she realized she'd missed dinner. She was glad that this wasn't like a couple of the group homes she'd lived in, where 'you snooze, you lose' had been the operating principle and not showing up for a meal meant you went hungry until the next one.

"That's outrageous!" Kimber had exclaimed angrily, when Emma had informed her. "C'mon. There are probably leftovers and if there aren't, I bet between us, we can cook up something!"

"Something," proved to be a stir-fry with more vegetables than Emma usually ate at one time and boiled chicken breast sliced in. Normally, Emma would have picked listlessly at anything this… healthy, but the sauce Kimber whipped up in a glass measuring cup, seeming barely to glance at the bottles she pulled out of the kitchen cabinet before adding a few squeezes of this and a generous glop of that, made all the difference. With a generous portion of the steamed rice that had evidently been part of everyone else's dinner tonight, Emma sat down to a late supper she thoroughly enjoyed.

Once she'd eaten, helped Kimber with the washing up, and thanked her profusely, Emma made her way to the common room. She'd barely gone two steps inside when the wave of gloom surrounded her. "What is it?" she asked, at once. "What's wrong?"

Casey and Joellen exchanged a long look. Then, Joellen said, "Ashley's dropped out of the Starlights. Without her… there's no band."

"And no performing at the benefit," Casey added dejectedly.