Page 51 of Losing Wendy
After dinner,Simon agrees to help me clean dishes, explaining that he feels guilty for forcing me into Nettle’s snooty presence. I try to tell him Nettle wasn’t so bad, to which Simon appears suspicious. I can’t exactly tell Simon that Nettle’s memory of his past life is wrapped up in the boundaries of a nursery rhyme. Pity and compassion might be the reaction I’d be going for, but I’m not confident those won’t be lost on the pointed ears of a sixteen-year-old boy.
“Oh, even you must not hate him so much,” I say. “You take his onions, after all.”
Simon chuckles. “I would take onions from a loose convict. I love them.”
I smile slightly before finally working up the courage to ask him about the boy. Rather, I pull the folded picture from my pocket and show it to him.
“I found this tucked away in the closet. It’s pretty impressive. Which one of you draws?” I ask, careful not to actually mention the boy.
“Oh, it’s Victor who draws,” says Simon without looking at the picture, as he’s focused on scrubbing a piece of gristle off one of the pots. But then he wipes his forehead with his clean wrist and glances my way. As soon as he sees the picture, his entire body goes still, his eyes flickering quickly away from the left corner of the page, where the unfamiliar boy’s likeness lies.
“Does this look like one of Victor’s?” I ask innocently.
Simon pales. “Um. I guess so. It’s not like I pay attention to his drawing style or anything.”
There’s a defensiveness in his voice I’ve yet to hear.
“Oh, I was noticing, too—who’s this boy? I don’t think I’ve met him yet.”
Simon isn’t looking at the picture anymore. In fact, he’s looking anywhere but the picture, his eyes darting around, searching for somewhere to land. He runs his hands through his glossy black hair, seemingly unaware that he hasn’t washed the dish soap from them yet. It leaves grimy little bubbles in between his thick strands.
“Simon?”
When he says nothing, I ask, “Victor didn’t draw this, did he?”
He clears his throat. “We’re not supposed to talk about Thomas.”
Thomas.
Something about the name fits the boy’s face. His vibrant grin and round cheeks.
“Thomas was always sketching stuff like this,” Simon says, turning his attention back to the parchment.
I pause. We’re on shaky ground here, and I don’t want Simon to shut me out. But now that I have momentum, I can’t help but push. “Who’s Thomas?”
Simon’s attention snaps back to me. “I said we’re not supposed to talk about him, okay?” He must realize how harsh he sounds, because he blushes, the ire draining from his face. “I’m sorry. I just—can we drop it?”
I bite my lip, nodding.
The worm in my stomach is still gnawing, but this time, it’s not anxiety alone feeding the sensation.
Because now I’ve got a name for the Lost Boy.
On the wayto my room that night, a hand grips my shoulder. I go rigid underneath the touch, but then a voice swims out of the darkness.
“I just wanted to thank you.”
I turn to find Joel behind me, his hand still on my shoulder.
Worms gnaw at my insides at the feel of his touch. The faint singe of burning rat hair taps on my memory.
“For what?” I ask, wriggling myself from his grasp.
He clears his throat, tucking his hands behind his back. “For not telling anyone about what you saw.” His green eyes flicker. “You…haven’t told anyone, have you?”
“About what?” I ask, wondering now if there’s rat remains in the hearth.
He lets out a relieved smile, running his hands through his silky black hair. “Good. You haven’t snitched. I just…I’d really appreciate it if you kept it our secret.” He scrunches his forehead as he squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m not exactly proud of my little problem. It started after Peter taught me to hunt. He doesn’t let me do that anymore, though. Says I’m better at tending to the garden, but I know it’s because he started to notice…” Joel swallows, his eyes glazing with tears. “Anyway, I don’t want to be this way. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’d rather them not think I’m a freak.”