Another Pan

by Daniel Nayeri

  “All right, everybody gather around.” Peter waved a hand to the eleven boys who made up his advisee group — the kids who lived in the hall he now ruled. To these longtime residents of the boys’ dormitory, the guy standing in the doorway of the RA room and signaling them to follow him inside didn’t seem much older than a student. Usually, resident advisers were twenty-something burnouts desperate to sidle up close to one of Marlowe’s famous professors. Once there was a girl who became an RA just so she could advise the daughter of a music mogul. Apparently, she had a demo CD. But Peter looked young, like he could be a senior at Marlowe — not an authority figure, but one of their own. They had already met the girl next to him, Tina, who had a bridge ’n’ tunnel sleazy-sexy bad-grammar thing going on that made the boarding kids imagine she’d treat their parents like garbage. Basically, they fell in love with her image. No one bothered to ask why she was at the boys’ dorm meeting. She was just always there. And they loved it — even though she had been the one to rip out their tooth with pliers (except for the two senior boys, Poet and Cornrow, who had been members of Peter’s crew for all the years they had attended Marlowe).

  “Listen up,” said Peter, standing in the middle of his sparsely furnished room. The eleven boys of his hall were now packed inside. The room was old, and badly lit, with a nonworking fireplace and mismatched bricks in the walls. Apparently, Marlowe couldn’t be bothered to revamp historical buildings like the dorms. In one corner, two twin beds had been pushed together to form a king, which was covered with a gray-and-navy, standard-issue Marlowe comforter. In another corner stood a desk and one chair. Peter hadn’t bought a couch or a coffee table, as most RAs did. He wasn’t exactly planning to throw weekly study breaks. “I know you guys are new, but you have to use your heads,” he said, tapping his forehead. “You can’t just go up to a bunch of players and demand money.” He spoke slowly, as if they were very dumb children. “If you need to shake ’em down, you pick the weakest one. And always, always, leave a physical reminder — nothing huge — just a bruise, a cut. These guys aren’t from the streets. No need to break bones. Oh, and do it off campus.”

  The boys were nodding excitedly.

  “That Connor kid’s a bad target,” said Peter. “He’s the kind that goes running to Mommy. Watch him, though. His girlfriend’s a teacher’s kid, right?” Peter looked thoughtful. But he didn’t say any more about the Darlings or the exhibit he had chased all the way from London. Tina was now picking up his lecture where he had left off.

  “And if someone doesn’t pay, you call me, got it?” said Tina.

  Once again, no one objected.

  When the new RAs had first arrived and Peter had taken out the boys from his hall and introduced them to the real New York and all the destructive possibilities of being LBs, not a single one of them had hesitated. Peter was an underground god — a legend that Cornrow and Poet had spread throughout the Marlowe dorms.

  “Look,” Peter went on, “I’m supposed to give you an intro meeting.” He looked at a stack of papers that had been mailed to him by the residential advising department of the school. He looked disgusted as he read through it. “So, let’s get this over with. I’m the new RA. You got crap to deal with, help with your homework, or life advice, find it online. I don’t do ‘life coach,’ and I don’t counsel overprivileged monkeys on the existential questions of youth.” The boys shuffled around, smirking and nudging one another as they drank up his every word. “In fact, don’t think of me as your RA at all.” Peter took a permanent marker out of his pocket. He turned and crossed out the capital A on his door. Next to it he wrote a lowercase a. One kid in the back (probably the only one who had ever heard of Ra, the sun god) snickered. “Think of me as a figure in your life that is bigger than you, harder than you, and willing to cut you to pieces. Think of me as someone you want to keep on your side.”

  The advisee group, the new LBs of the Marlowe School, grew quiet, none of them willing to admit how nervous this guy made them. In his haste to look cool, one of them pulled out a cigarette. Peter waited for him to light it before yanking it out of his mouth and putting it out on the kid’s jacket.

  Then Peter went to the mini-fridge next to his desk and pulled out five cartons of ice cream. “Now, I’m supposed to host something like five events every semester.” He tossed out the half gallons to several kids. “This is your first one. An ice-cream social. Eat in your rooms.” Peter walked to the door and held it open, expecting them to leave.

  “Wait, that’s it?” said the South Asian kid with royal parents, who was now covered in bling and holding a carton of cookies ’n’ cream. “What about the . . . you know . . . the thing?” He pointed to his missing tooth. “What’s the next thing?”

  “We tell you when to talk about the thing,” said Tina, playing with the pliers like she was itching to pull another tooth.

  “I got business with one of your professors right now,” said Peter.

  “Psh,” said the Chinese kid with a crew cut. “Shoulda figured you was a punk. Man, you just another old wannabe. Whatever, man . . .”

  A droplet of sweat shivered down Peter’s thumping temple. A twitch. He said, “Did you just call me old?” Peter snapped the pliers out of Tina’s hand and walked toward the smart-mouth. The kid stepped back.

  “Yo, Peter Panic, ease up, son,” said one of the boys in the back.

  “What?” said Peter, lifting an eyebrow, clicking the pliers like the jaws of a crocodile. “What did you just say to me?”

  Even Tina seemed unnerved. She leaned toward the two veteran LBs. Cornrow, a banker’s kid with baby-pink skin and blond cornrows, was well known at Marlowe for getting away with all sorts of crap. Everyone knew that this guy never got in trouble. And anytime something went wrong, everyone knew he was behind it. The kid was like a money-dropping, school-skipping, trouble-shirking ghost. And not just because his dad had the best lawyers. The other boy, a thick-shouldered black guy with thin-rimmed glasses and an adult-size goatee, looked like he had been held back for ten years. Peter called him Poet, not just because his dad was a famous rapper but also because of his poet glasses.

  “That is not a happy thought,” Tina said, leaning over to whisper to the two.

  Cornrow nodded and smiled. Tina looked on curiously as the two boys began to whisper to each other.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Just watch,” said Poet. “One order of happy thoughts, coming up.”

  Cornrow and Poet each pulled out their fancy phones and started searching the Internet. Peter had the Chinese kid by the collar and was lining up the pliers to pull more teeth. The kid was wrenching his head so that Peter couldn’t get a good grip.

  “OK, what about this?” said Cornrow, showing Poet a story about stock prices.

  Poet shook his head. “That’s stupid.”

  Poet pulled up a video of a cat jumping out of a hedge and pouncing on a baby.

  Tina laughed, but said, “Nah, he only cares about one thing.”

  “Got it,” said Poet with a nod.

  One thing they all knew about Peter was that he hated the idea of growing old. He stared at Marlowe’s middle-aged teachers with revulsion, counting each line and wrinkle, assessing every sunspot, crinkling his nose at every bald spot and paunchy belly. He critiqued the signs of their surrender with nothing less than scorn — those cowardly reading glasses, that outmoded hair, the pathetic layers of amorphous cloth meant to drape and hide. Peter had a complex — a need to live forever, sort of like the ancient Egyptians who couldn’t stand to let their dead decay and be lost. Peter was like them, with his never-ending quest for bonedust. He had a hunger. A mummy complex as rigid and unchanging as the ages. A rigor mortis of the spirit.

  The Chinese kid squealed as Peter took hold of one of his teeth and prepared to yank.

  “Here!” said Cornrow loudly. “Check this out.”

  “What?” Peter turned, loosening his grip on the boy.

  Cor
nrow continued, “Some fifty-year-old lady that still gets carded at clubs. Pig placenta in the antiaging cream. Can you believe it? It has, like, a ninety-percent success rate.”

  “Really?” said Peter. “Huh.” He turned back to the Chinese boy but seemed a little less interested in hurting him.

  “Hey, Pete,” said Poet. “Just got an e-mail from the school.”

  “So?” said Peter.

  “It’s about the new staff,” said Poet. “There’s a bit about you, man.”

  Poet handed Peter his iPhone. Peter dropped the Chinese kid and began reading the e-mail out loud. Suddenly a smile rose up from his lips and spread all over his face.

  “Introducing three new staff members: Ms. Neve Verat, our new nurse, and two resident advisers . . . including the youngest member of our staff, the new resident adviser for the boys’ dormitory . . .”

  “Nice,” said Peter.

  “I wonder if the new nurse is hot,” said one of the boys.

  “Nah,” said another. “She’s a mouse.”

  Tina looked at the two veterans with obvious admiration. No, this wasn’t the Cockney street gang from London, with their cheap technology and haul-ass mentality. These kids were sophisticated — rich LBs with expensive toys.

  “A’ight,” said Poet. “Is it cool if I bounce, Pete? I got an essay on The Picture of Dorian Gray. Gotta keep the numbers up, know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” said Peter, his interest piqued. His eyes twinkled as if he was thinking all kinds of very happy thoughts. “Keep up the numbers . . . know what you mean,” he said. Peter slapped the Chinese kid on the back; the boy rubbed his cheek and backed away as fast as he could. With a dreamy expression, Peter motioned for them all to get out of his room.

  That day, Wendy was particularly aware that none of the boarding boys showed up to any classes. She still saw them hanging around the main Marlowe building and the dorms, but that was no indication of what they were up to, since they lived at school. Maybe they were planning a ditch day. She saw them huddling as a posse on the street corner, smoking and whispering to that new RA who had appeared randomly on the lacrosse field. Since when do these guys hang out with an RA?

  Normally, she would ignore all this. Wendy had no interest in delving into the lives of self-absorbed, spoiled boys who thought they were above the rules. She wasn’t one of the girls who followed their every action eagerly, checking each Facebook update, (which there weren’t many of, anyway, since these guys liked to keep low profiles online), waiting for an iota of attention. But something about the new RA intrigued her. He was dark, moody, obviously their leader despite his lame job title, and most unnervingly, he stared blatantly at her each time they crossed paths. And not just her. He observed the school like a thief staking out a house — taking in everything and everyone. He was dark and peculiar, with a satisfied smile curling on his lips each time one of the other guys vied for his attention. He ran his hands through his hair and glanced at his shadow — just to make sure that every strand was still in place. He was good-looking, but standing here with his posse of rebels in private-school uniforms, he looked nothing like any of the guys she had ever known. How old was he? Wendy wondered. Sixteen? Seventeen? Must be older to get the RA job. Probably a college student.

  When Wendy came back out after third period, Peter was standing by the girls’ dorm, helping an eighth-grader figure out why her ID wasn’t working on the doors. He was obviously bored with the task (though he was nice enough to the girl) and cracked some joke about teaching her to break in. Wendy walked by with her gaze on the ground. His long, thin silhouette extended out, imposing itself on the sunny sidewalk as his shadow hand smoothed his shadow hair. Somehow, every time Wendy passed by the crosswalk near the dorms, he froze, his hand in midair. She felt singled out — as if he was watching her. She liked the idea very much, but she couldn’t help but notice that he had a girl, the other RA, who had been waiting for him on the far side of the lacrosse field, a girl that Wendy noticed stood very close to him when they spoke. And what did she care, anyway? She had a boyfriend who had been amazing to her.

  Later that week, Wendy saw the handsome RA walk toward the dark-haired girl and whisper something in her ear. She seemed delighted, leaning forward and looking down at her feet as he murmured his instructions. Lingering only a few feet away, Wendy could see that he was reaching for the girl’s hand and that the girl let him hold it — for only a second — before she threw her head back and laughed, raising her eyebrow at something he had told her. She must be his girlfriend. Wendy stepped closer. She couldn’t help it. Something about this boy made her want to listen, despite the guilt and the shame of wanting to be closer to him. So she pretended to walk by several times, hidden by other bystanders. She heard him say something about her father’s Egyptian exhibit, and she grew even more curious. Why would a guy like that, one who probably rides a motorcycle and goes to college parties and only has an RA job for the cash, care about a stupid Egyptian exhibit?

  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 sympa
thy 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.