**Diary Entry**
Of course, he remembered everything perfectly.
*”I dont remember because it never happened!”* said Peter Redford with all the solemnity of an old man, looking at her with honest, aged eyes.
The conversation died out, and they each went their separate ways.
*Why did he lie?* thought Grace. *It was plain as day in his eyes that he was lying.*
Back when they were eleven, Peterwiry, small for his age, with ears that stuck outhad once asked Grace Sullivan, the girl he fancied in their class:
*”Dyou want me to be your Peter Pan?”*
Grace had blinked. *”What do you mean, Peter Pan?”*
*”You know, like in the story! Wendy saves him from Captain Hook!”*
*”Wendy?* Its *Wendy* who saves him?” Grace scoffed. *”Honestly, have you even read *Peter Pan*?”*
*”Whats the difference? Grace, Wendysame thing,”* Peter dismissed, never one to fuss over details. *”Im askingdyou want me to be yours?”*
Grace didnt. Peter was scrawny, shorter than her, and his ears stuck out like jug handles. Though, she supposed, rescuing someone smaller mightve been easier.
But she was sturdy, half a head tallerhow would they look walking together after the *rescue*? Embarrassing.
No chance. Besides, her heart already belonged to someone elseMichael Barnes, the class dunce.
And as it happened, Michael was standing nearby, listening in with amusement.
Grace straightened her hair ribbon and, loud enough for Michael to hear, said:
*”Peter Pan? Youre not even fit to be one of the Lost Boys! So, Peterfly off and dont bother me!”*
Michael burst out laughing. Peter flinched, shot a terrified glance his way, and fled.
The next day, in front of the whole class, he retaliated by dubbing Grace *”Gracie-Gravy”**Ill have my revenge, and itll be terrible!*
Well, what did you expect, Grace? Not every man takes rejection lightly.
Peter mightve been slight, but his sharp wit more than made up for his lack of brawn.
Only, yesterday, blindsided by her cruelty, hed frozenanyone would have.
Soon, the whole class was laughing*Gracie-Gravy* caught on. It was *hilarious*, even if the word hadnt been in fashion yet.
Of course, when Grace complained at home, her parents soothed her.
But one evening, her father lost patience while helping with algebra.
*”You know,”* he muttered, *”that Peters righttheres nothing but gravy up there!”*
Then, chuckling: *”Give him my regards.”*
Peter was to blame for this, tooher father had never spoken to her like that before.
By graduation, old grudges had fadedchildhood crushes, petty squabbles, all forgotten. They even danced together a few times.
Peter had shot up, grown broad-shouldered from sports. Michael had been packed off to a vocational schoolback then, they didnt tolerate slackers.
Grace went to teacher training college; Peter, ever the brainbox, studied engineering.
Occasionally, theyd bump into each otherthey still lived nearbyexchanging a few polite words.
Then life pulled them apartmarriages, moves. Visits to their parents street grew rare.
Class reunions? A depressing parade of balding, beer-bellied men and women whod let themselves go. Grace was no exceptionstout, formidable, a headmistress now.
Peter, though, stayed lean, as if frozen in time.
The ’90s hit hard. Graces daughter, Zoe, brought home a jobless fiancé*were having a baby!*
The factory where hed worked as a weldergood wages, perkswas now a rented-out conference hall.
*”Personal growth seminars,”* they called them. As if people couldnt grow on their own.
But who needed welders now?
*”Go sell coats at the market,”* they told him. *”Thats what people need!”*
Zoes fiancé refused*”Im a welder, not a salesman!”*
Grace and her husband, also an engineer, scrambledshe started importing coats from Spain. *So much for education.*
By the decades end, things stabilised. Then came the crash.
Overnight, their dollar savingsenough for a two-bed flatmade them unexpectedly comfortable.
At last, they could move Zoe and her family out.
Grace returned to teaching*hard-nosed women like her were always needed.*
Peter? She barely saw him.
At sixty, her husband left. *”You smothered me,”* he said. *”Im a person, too.”*
*Thanks, personal growth gurus.*
Seventy came. Retirement.
And now, here they weretwo pensioners, back in their childhood homes.
Peters wife had passed. Grace lived alone.
They met by chance outside the supermarket, chatting idlyswinging between memories like a pendulum.
Youth had been simpler. Brighter.
*”Remember when you wanted to be my Peter Pan?”* Grace asked suddenly.
Theyd never spoken of it.
*”When did I ever say that?”* Peter frowned.
*”Year five, I think.”*
*”Me? Peter Pan?”* He scoffed. *”Grace, have you gone daft? Never happened. Look at these earsdo I look like Peter Pan?”*
*”And you were no Wendy,”* he added. *”Couldnt even climb a rope. A pirate, maybebut Wendy? Pull the other one.”*
*”You remember the rope,”* Grace said archly, *”but not Peter Pan? Selective memory, is it? Detention for you!”*
*”I dont remember because it never happened,”* Peter said firmly, his old eyes steady.
Perhaps the mind scrubbed away old humiliationswhat was mortifying at sixty now burned at seventy.
But if he didnt remember, it might as well not have happened.
The conversation lapsed. They parted ways.
*Why lie?* Grace thought. *His eyes gave him away.*
And Peter?
Of course he remembered.
A womans first rejection isnt something a man forgets.
*Serves you right, Gracie-Gravy.*
