Another Pan (11 page)

One day, as Wendy was walking down the halls with Connor’s arm on her shoulder, Peter passed by with the girl, and he and Wendy exchanged a long look, a look that made him smirk and put his arm around the dark-haired RA. A look that made the angry brunette glare as though to say that she was very capable of doing Wendy bodily harm. Wendy pulled away from Connor just as she came shoulder to shoulder with Peter, but she was pretty sure neither boy noticed. Next time, she would introduce herself — just to legitimize their future interactions, because after all, why should she be avoiding a member of the Marlowe staff? She had done nothing, would do nothing, to make herself behave with so much guilt and awkwardness. And she wanted that involuntary part of her mind, the part that turned on when she was asleep or exercising or was supposed to be thinking about homework or exercising, to stop.

She didn’t have to wait long for an introduction. After school, as she was leaving the building, she saw John at the center of a very amused circle of boarding boys, including Peter the RA.

“Lost Boys?” John was saying. “I can dig that name. . . . LBs . . . that’s cool. How about you let me join your crew? I got mad skills.”

“Our crew?” said one of the boys with a laugh.

“Yeah, crew. Like, lookin’ out for the otha. Poppin’ caps in the suckas. Rollin’ ten deep. Havin’ love for the street. Hustlin’ till we’re bustlin’.” John made all the appropriate hand signs to illustrate his point.

“Where did you learn to talk like that?” asked a newly minted LB.

“Gaming, mostly. Everyone talks like that on Xbox LIVE. I got brothas and hos all up on the World Wide Weezy, you know?” said John.

“We don’t really call girls hos anymore,” said Peter.

“Why?” said John.

“Although,” interjected Peter, “we should definitely start saying World Wide Weezy.”

The boys had a laugh. One of them slapped John on the back, which almost knocked him down. John grew red.

“I’m just kidding,” said Peter. “You can roll with us anytime you like. Might need to catch up a little, but that’s cool.”

Wendy instinctively reached for John and pulled him back by his shoulder. He jerked her hand off and muttered, “Leave me alone, Wen.” He was obviously insulted and humiliated by Peter’s brush-off. Still, Wendy knew John wouldn’t back off. She didn’t like that he was beginning to idolize the boarding kids. Everyone at Marlowe knew how rough they could be. They had all the money and freedom in the world and absolutely no one to give them rules or advice. The Marlowe faculty didn’t care. They received massive donations to keep these kids happy and educated — and to overlook any infraction that could be chalked up to loneliness or lack of family. Wendy felt sad for them. They were like a super-rich version of herself, because they too didn’t have mothers who loved them enough to stay. They were like orphans, forced to live at school because no one else wanted them. But then again, they were the most entitled bunch of playboys she’d ever met. So her sympathy only went so far.

She wished that John could see all that: that the boarders were nothing to idolize, that they were very much like John and Wendy. But nowadays, all John cared about was looking cool enough or wealthy enough, and he brooded constantly over his failed Facebook reinvention maneuver. Well, at least she could give him
some
help, Wendy thought, making a mental note to ask Connor to invite John to work out again. It would be so much better for John to hang out with the lacrosse boys than with these criminals.

The thought of Connor made Wendy suddenly aware of Peter watching her. “I’m Wendy Darling,” she said.

Peter nodded as if he already knew, and he didn’t offer his name, as if he expected her to know it already. Instead he said, “Don’t worry so much about your brother, Wendy. These guys are cool. We’re just talking about this exhibit we want to see.”

Wendy raised an eyebrow. Peter may have been cute, but this was exactly the kind of pretend-do-gooder comment that made her suspicious. She wasn’t the kind of girl who let herself be manipulated. If she knew anything, it was that people always lie to get you to like them just before they do something to disappoint you. That had been Wendy’s experience all her life. Might as well start off with a healthy dose of suspicion and never get caught off guard.

“Look,” she said distractedly, “the exhibit isn’t even open yet —” Wendy stopped herself, but it was too late. Peter was giving her a strange sideways glance.

“How’d you know we were talking about the Egyptian exhibit?”

A smile grew on Peter’s lips as Wendy blanched and the boys laughed. Peter knew she had been watching him, and now she looked like some kind of stalker. Peter didn’t take his eyes off Wendy.

“Well, Wendy Darling, since we’re on the subject, what’s up with this exhibit? Have you seen it yet?” He said the
Darling
with emphasis, as if it was a very important part of her name.

Wendy stifled a laugh, amused at the way Peter allowed himself to be so transparent in his manipulation — as if, for him alone, it wasn’t such a bad thing to do.

Peter kept prodding. “Is there an old book called —?”

At the mention of the book, Wendy remembered something. She interrupted Peter —“I have to go”— and checked her watch. She had been on her way to the basement, where the exhibit’s items were waiting to be dusted, cataloged, and readied for display. The job her father had finagled for her didn’t pay as much as the café, but Wendy wasn’t going to turn down a paying gig. And she appreciated the trouble he had gone to. Besides, for once John didn’t object (since she was tucked away in a basement, away from judgmental eyes, working on a project that even John secretly geeked out over). “I’m starting a new job today. John, let’s go.”

“Why do
I
have to go?” John whined, and then caught himself.

“Come on, little bro.” Wendy put an arm around her brother’s shoulder. “You love poking around in Dad’s junk. And if you keep me company, I’ll share the paycheck.”

As they walked away, John again shrugged off her arm and said (loud enough to ensure the LBs heard), “Only ’cause I need the dough.” When they were out of earshot, John said, “That guy’s kind of a punk. He talked to me like I was five or something.”

“He’s an RA. He’s just doing his job,” said Wendy.

“No way. He rolls up like he’s 800 on the verbal. Look at the way he keeps looking at his shadow and fixing his hair.”

“You fix your hair all the time!” said Wendy. “I don’t even think hair’s supposed to stand up like that.” She ran her hand over his spikes.

“Whatever,” said John, for once not pushing away his sister’s hand.

I’ve met that kid somewhere before,
Professor Darling mused as he watched his children through the glass of Marlowe’s giant double doors. He had been observing John’s conversation with the boarding boys, hoping that he would lose interest in that particular social group, when he had noticed the new RA. Now the old man stood watching Peter, wondering where on earth they could have met before.

When John and Wendy had disappeared into the back entrance that led down into the basement, George Darling decided that he would introduce himself to this new Marlowe staff member. He strolled outside and approached the pack of boys that were still hanging on to Peter’s every word. As he stepped outside, he couldn’t help but notice the strange gloom hanging over the school.
Strange,
he thought, since New York was usually beautiful this time of year. The last few days had been bizarre. First a moth infestation, then the strange smell that seemed to permeate half the classrooms on the first floor, and now this dark, dreary weather.

Peter stepped forward and offered his hand in that overtly deferential yet clearly superior manner that future politicians use with their elders when they are still rule-breaking, troublemaking teens. “I’m Peter,” he said. “Pleasure to make your esteemed acquaintance.”

Professor Darling looked hard into the boy’s face. He pursed his lips, then looked away, coughing into his hand.

“Have we met?” Peter asked suddenly. He peered at Professor Darling, trying to connect him to a place or time before this trip to Marlowe. Peter looked with disgust at Darling’s wrinkled face. He squinted, as if trying to take in the look of the man’s face while sifting out all the irksome signs of old age. “It couldn’t be. I don’t know any old people.”

One of the boys grinned.

Then another.

Like a stroke of lightning, the sight of their missing teeth sent shock waves through Professor Darling. He stood dumbfounded a few feet away from the group.

The city lights were like ten thousand little lamps keeping the bedroom monsters away. A night wind swooping across the avenue chilled the back of Peter’s soaked undershirt. He had woken up in a sweat again and needed to distract himself. Without really thinking about it, he headed toward the Darling house. From the street corner on the residential block, he could see Wendy’s window. The light was still on. She was reading at the window, probably something for class. Her hair was up in a bun, with a pencil holding it up. She had another pencil in her mouth and a mild scowl of concentration on her face. Peter barely knew her, but just staring at her seemed to calm him. Maybe it was that she had lost her mother, too.

Peter closed his eyes. The nightmare was still there, waiting behind his eyelids: He is young, very young, and his mother sits at her mirror. He holds on to her knees. She leans forward and examines her gaunt cheeks, her sunken eyes. The sickness will take her soon. Peter stares at the sparrow on her jewelry box in order to save himself from crying. His mother looks down and attempts a smile. She says, “Don’t worry. I will be old, very old, before I go.” But only one week later, Peter is standing at a fresh grave.