Another Pan (24 page)

He got to his feet, a little wobbly, and unhooked the forearm bone from the junk all around. It was a pretty awesome souvenir. He turned it over in his hands — the bone had been strong enough to hold his weight.
Must be pretty new, then. Probably the last hero who tried to get out of the underworld
. He imagined a babe like Binky Lacelass on his arm, exploring his Batcave, asking, “What’s that?” And he’d say, “That? That’s just a little something I took from a god.” And she’d swoon and say, “Oh, Johnny.” And it’d fade to black, ’cause Adventurators don’t kiss and tell.

John was smirking as he walked down the hall, still a little disoriented and woozy, the book hidden in his backpack, the bone flung over his back the way James Bond flings a tuxedo jacket over his. As he strolled the marble halls, John saw Connor Wirth passing by, flanked by a group of jocks. He walked up to Connor and tapped him on the shoulder with the bone. “Hey, Con-man,” he said. “Wuzzup, bro?”

The guys burst into laughter, slapping Connor’s arm for a reaction. But Connor smiled indulgently at his girlfriend’s quirky brother. “Don’t be late for class, kid,” he said, tapping his watch in a way that told John that he was making the watch thing their own inside joke. John tucked the bone into his backpack and zipped it tight.

“No worries,” he said, slurring his words just a little. “I have the hours memorized.” He knew Connor didn’t get it. But John didn’t care. He was his own adoring audience. An audience that now, as the heatstroke hit him, was getting more and more audible inside his head. John had taken two more steps when he collapsed in the hall.

He woke up twenty minutes later in the tiny, stuffy nurse’s office on the highest floor of Marlowe. Connor, who must have delivered him here, had already left for class.

“How’s that arm?” said the new nurse. Her voice had a creepy reverberation to it.

“That what?” said John. He looked at his newly healed arm, still tingly from the bonedust, and wondered if there was some sign of the injury still left.

“You landed on your arm,” said the new nurse as she picked up a clipboard and swatted a fly away from her face. “When you fell. . . . Just want to make sure everything’s OK.”

“Oh . . . what happened to your eye?” John said as the nurse turned toward him, giving him a full view of her face. She was wearing a black patch on her left eye, like a pirate.

“Infected,” said the nurse. “But let’s focus on you, dear. How are you feeling?”

“Great,” said John, remembering his exploits. He made an instinctive grab for his backpack and breathed out when he found that everything was still there. The nurse was looking at him inquisitively, as if she was trying to read his mind. Something about her made John feel nervous . . . fidgety. “Um . . . thanks, ma’am, but I have to run.”

“Call me Nurse Neve,” she said. “What were you doing before you blacked out?”

“Having the world’s awesomest adventure,” said John proudly. Then he added, “Um . . . I was just hanging in the auditorium. It’s hot in there.”

“Why would a cool kid like you be
hanging
in the auditorium by himself?” said the nurse. She looked at him with her one good eye, almost lovingly, almost knowingly, though there was something off about her. John thought he knew what it was. She was so ordinary-looking, so plain. She had probably spent her whole life being overlooked, just like John. She probably used to be a little too smart in high school, too. John shrugged. “I know your father is a teacher here,” said the nurse. “It must be hard to make friends.”

“I don’t have a hard time,” said John defensively. Who was she to lump him in the same category as all the losers in the world? She was probably just projecting her own issues.

The nurse continued as if she hadn’t heard. “I’m just saying, you shouldn’t hide out alone in auditoriums. It seems to me like the answer to your problem is right in front of you.”

“What are you talking about?” said John, getting up to leave. “Look, I’ve got to go. And I don’t have any problems.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, brushing off another bug that was buzzing around her eye patch. She coughed a few times, demurely, probably because of all the dust. “I’ve seen you trying to make friends with that new RA. Peter, is it? Anyway, people like that will never be your friends, John. And why would you want them to be?” Then she leaned over and whispered in his ear, “
Real
winners don’t need validation from people like that. They don’t need to tag along. They just do what they want.”

Now John was listening. He had never heard an adult talk this way before.

There was a minute of silence when the mousy nurse went back to arranging her instruments. Needles and stethoscopes, and . . . was that
a hook
? John thought he must be crazy, because ever since his attack, everything looked like a hook.

Finally, she spoke again. “I recently met Simon Grin . . . your father’s new assistant.” She turned away again, and John realized that each time she did that, he forgot the details of her face. She must have had the most forgettable face on the planet.

“So?” John said.

“Nothing,” said the nurse. “He said you were the smartest kid he’s ever met.”

“He did?” John asked, trying not to seem too excited.

“Yes, but . . .” She trailed off for a moment and then said in a soft, almost worried voice, “I just hope you don’t screw it up for yourself . . . waste time that could be spent with a real mentor by chasing more lonely auditorium
adventures
.”

John began chewing his nails. Worry lines began to form around his eyes as he got up. “Thanks for the checkup,” he said before bounding out of her dusty office.

As he headed back down the hallway, John thought about what the nurse had said. Why should he follow Peter around? Why should he follow anyone around? This realization felt so new, so exciting, because now that he thought about it, John realized that he didn’t need anyone at all. He had friends. He had a friend in Simon, and in the Egyptian exhibit, and in his books and computer.
Everyone else can shove it
. This felt good — as if a lifelong desperation had suddenly come to an end. . . . But he’d have to be careful not to screw it up. What if he already had? He turned left, realizing that he needed to freshen up and shake the sand out of his underpants. John swaggered into the boys’ room, unafraid of a swirly.

As John was washing his face at the sink, he heard a flush and Simon came out of one of the stalls. “What’re you doing here?” demanded Simon.

“Nothing,” said John — the paranoia of having picked the wrong idol already taking over.

“Where’s your hall pass?” Simon asked.

“How do you like the exhibit so far?” said John, hoping Simon wouldn’t bust him.

The subject of himself immediately distracted Simon. “What? It’s amateur. The only good thing about it is that it’s short.”

John couldn’t help but wonder about the exhibits Simon oversaw at the British Museum. They must have been pretty amazing.

Simon walked over and began washing his hands, making sure to stick his watch conspicuously under the water.
“It’s waterproof up to 300 feet below sea level.”
He looked over and noticed the deposit of wet sand in John’s sink, the miniature dune at his feet. He shook his head knowingly.

“The track-and-field kids buried you in the long-jump pit?”

“Uh, yeah,” said John, “something like that.”

“You should get some baby powder. Helps with the chafing,” said Simon.

John gave a knowing half smile that only a couple of dorks like he and Simon could understand. Simon may not be stacked like Connor, or slick like Peter, but he really
was
a lot like John. He was smart, and sad, and bitter . . . and that was only because he’d probably spent his entire childhood, like John, being misunderstood by the bigger, dumber, less-visionary plebeians of the world. A guy like Peter could never understand the two of them, and John wished that Wendy would just
get it
and stop her obsession with the new RA. And even though John liked Connor and the LBs, they could never get it either. It was like the nurse had said:
Real winners don’t need validation from people like that
.

When John unzipped his backpack to look for his eyedrops, Simon noticed the bone inside. “What is that?” he asked.

John sucked in his breath. “That? Uhh, that’s —”

“Is it from the exhibit?”

“Uh, yeah,
yeah,
” said John. “It wasn’t cataloged.”

“And you were going to use it to bludgeon the track kids,” added Simon.

“I thought about it,” said John. They both laughed at the shared fantasy.

Simon patted John on the back approvingly. John couldn’t help but admire Simon. He remembered what the nurse had said and realized how badly he wanted to be liked by Simon. “You can have it,” John blurted out.

Simon paused, then said, “If it’s not in the catalog, it’s not on any of the books.”

John thought he understood Simon’s meaning. One of them could keep it. It would make quite a paperweight for the up-and-coming preeminent scholar in the field. John could see that Simon wanted it.

“Go ahead and take it,” said John. He knew that only a guy like Simon could really appreciate the artifact anyway. Why should it rot away in an exhibit for the rich Marlowe kids who had no clue? And this way, he wouldn’t lose Simon’s respect, as the nurse had implied. Why burn bridges?

“You sure?” asked Simon.

“Yeah,” said John, feeling generous.

“We won’t say anything to your father,” said Simon absentmindedly.

“Uh . . . yeah.”

“Well, thank you,” said Simon with a nod. He snatched the bone.

A small pause, and John said, “I should get ready for class.”

Thinking back on his adventure as he walked back into the halls of Marlowe during the next passing period, John felt invincible. He’d skipped advanced biology, as if it wasn’t even a big deal or anything. He’d snuck into a lost magic kingdom of a god, where all the myths were real. He’d survived being stranded in the desert. And now he’d impressed Simon — who was ten times better than Peter — with a gift. For a second, he wondered if it was OK, if he shouldn’t have shown the bone to Wendy first. Did this count as one of those brother-sister obligations that Wendy was always going on about? But then he remembered what the nurse had said about tagging along with his big sister, and how cool Simon had been in the bathroom. He would never tell on him for taking an artifact. And he had no way of knowing where it came from.

John swiveled around the cliques, oblivious to all the other kids. He’d have to go back to the basement before his next class and replace the book so no one would know. He puffed out his chest and took the steps two by two, replaying his adventure over and over in his head. This exhibit was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Peter dreamed of himself . . . without the bonedust, with his patchy white hair and sagging arms, with his papery skin and bushy eyebrows. He saw himself as he could be, as he
would
be, if he were to fail. And then, he saw
them
— the guardians. He touched the scars from the two he had faced. During the day, these scars were his trophies. But at night, they frightened him. How could he overcome three more?

Peter breathed hard. He tried to steady himself.
Something’s gone wrong
. It was a strange feeling, like a twin might have when the other dies. Had the bonedust fallen into other hands?
Give up,
the dark seemed to say,
give up and avoid tumbling into eternal night
.