Oh, the Cleverness of You

For the first time that Thistle could remember, time passed slowly. Usually it hardly existed for her; she was always so caught up in her dreams to notice morning from evening, April from September, and one year from the next. She hardly noticed herself growing, for she still felt so young.

She found herself on this evening curled around her window sill, mindlessly crocheting what would probably end up being a scarf. She started this without any intentions on its outcome, for it was simply something to keep her hands busy as she gazed out the window expectantly. She hated this feeling -- this waiting for something to happen. Her entire life she had only found beauty in the now, the present, so that she had no interest in the future. This constant feeling of expectations gnawed at her imagination, making it nearly impossible for her to dive into depths with mermaids or find herself locked in battle with giants. Was this the “growing up” that she had been told to do so many times? For if it was, Thistle wanted none of it.

A black and white spotted fluffball leapt into Thistle’s lap, completely covering her long-forgotten crocheting. It mewed and nudged at her legs and arms until she moved her hands out of the way for the cat the curl up happily. It immediately began to purr, in such a way that Thistle could never bring herself to remove the cat so she could move; what could she say? She had a weakness for beauty.

Still, her eyes were glued to the ever-changing scenery outside her window. The over-ripe petals that fell from the decorative trees danced together along the sidewalk and the street, enjoying their last moments of livelihood. In a matter of days they would be broken, stamped into the ground once more as dirt to fuel the new petals blooming next season. Nothing outside of Thistle’s window stayed the same -- it was as ever-changing as the rest of the planet, and like the petals short existence, Thistle’s life would soon be gone, and she would find herself stamped into the dirt as well, quite like that Wendy.

All of a sudden, the fluffball that had previously been napping leapt up, its claws digging into Thistle’s unprotected legs before throwing itself off her lap and out the door. With a hiss, Thistle stood up slowly to find a tissue or pillowcase to stop the bleeding. Pursing her lips, she sat on her bed to face the window once more and pressed the fabric into her skin. But before she could concentrate on the task at hand for more than a moment, a crisp breeze blew through her fiery hair, causing her to lift her eyes to the window she had just been occupying. Her heart skipped a beat as her eyes found the silhouette of the green boy -- at least, she figured he was still wearing green. He stood lazily in the open frame, his arms resting on one side and his head propped against his hand.

“Hello, Just Thistle,” he greeted warmly, a smile lighting up his face as he stepped into the room.

“Hello,” she said in return, remembering for a moment to press the fabric to her cuts to keep them from bleeding too much. She didn’t think to ask how he got into her window sill, because she was just happy that he had returned.

Peter opened his mouth to say something in return, but stopped once he saw her leg. He scampered forward to get a better look at the sheet, which now held little flecks of drying burgundy blood. He squatted next to her crossed legs, lifting the fabric to see the little lines drawn across her skin.

“What did you do to yourself?” he asked with a little laugh in his voice.

Thistle frowned, pressing the sheet back to her skin once more. “I didn’t do anything to myself, my cat just scratched me,” she replied indignantly.

The green boy laughed and simply shook his head, proving that he didn’t believe her. Thistle scowled at him before he stood, reaching for something behind him. What he produced was so enchanting that when Thistle leaned forward, she almost got blood on her shirt. Not that she would have minded, but her mother surely would have.

“What is that? Like -- moon dust?”

The golden glitter shimmered with such unnatural light that Thistle was willing to believe any impossible answer came to her mind. Peter smiled at his ability to gain the girl’s interest so easily. “Look closer. She’s a pixie.”

Thistle’s mouth dropped open as she scooted closer and squinted her eyes, because now she could see the faint outline of a girl no bigger than the palm of Peter’s hand.

“Her name’s Tink. She usually doesn’t glow this much, but I told her to make some extra pixie dust for you.”

Thistle tore he gaze from the pixie and to Peter’s face. It took a moment for the black dots to fade from her vision and for her to be able to see the boy’s grinning face. “Pixie dust?”

With a laugh, Peter nodded. “It can help your leg, too. Lemme see...”

She gingerly lifted the cloth to reveal her still-bleeding cuts. Peter plucked the pixie from his hand and sprinkled the glitter remaining there onto Thistle’s legs. Almost immediately, her legs rose into the air and were beyond Thistle’s control. Peter had to leap out of the way as she was lifted into the air by her feet, her head and hair hanging down as she laughed uncontrollably for the longest time.

“Peter!” she gasped between giggles. “Help me down! What did you do?!”

Peter was laughing as well, and his eyes lit up in a way that Thistle hadn’t seen in him before.

“I didn’t -- I didn’t think you would fly so fast...” he laughed, clutched his sides as Thistle wrapped his arms around the bedpost as to not knock the ceiling fan down. “The others -- I had to at least tell the others what to do.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?!”

Peter stepped up into the air lightly to reach for Thistle’s legs before pulling them and himself back down to the floor. Thistle untangled herself from the bedpost and sat in front of the green boy once more, waiting for an answer.

“You just have to think happy thoughts,” he said with a quite smile.

“But I’m always happy,” Thistle pointed out, pushing her leg back down before it could escape and fly back to the ceiling once more. The boy chuckled, dusting more of the glitter on her once more, but this time from her hair down.

“And that’s why I like you,” he stated in a matter-of-fact way. Grabbing the crook of her arm, he jumped up once more, carrying Thistle with him. Then with a smirk in her direction, he pushed his legs out like he was leaping once more, and the soared to the other side of the room.

Thistle thrashed about, her brow knit in concentration as she tried to control where she was going. Before she knew it, Peter was saying that he had something he wanted to show her, and he was guiding her out the opened window and over Essex towards downtown London.

“But won’t anybody see us?” she asked, peering down at the ant-like people under the two.

The green boy scoffed. “Grown-ups. They’re so blind.”

Thee answer must have been good enough for Thistle, because she quickly forgot about it and flew out of Peter’s grip, flying clumsy summersaults and loop-de-loops as he chased after her. As she was twirling, she caught sight of her leg once more, and slowed down for Peter to catch up to her.

“Boy, this pixie dust didn’t actually help my leg at all,” she accused lightly, motioning to the now-dried blood.

Peter just giggled and shook his head. “But it got your mind off of it, didn’t it?”