“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.
All I used to be is
Five times two
With nuthin’ to do
Just a kid on the stoop
Always lovin’ my troop
Always list’nin’ to Snoop
LBs took mah teeth
So my nanny packed soup
But I didn’t have a care
’Cuz I didn’t have a coop
I was quick to the hoop
My eyes didn’t droop
If my daddy was rare
At least Peter was there
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.
Peter opened his eyes. Wendy was gone. He turned and walked back down the avenue, thinking of Wendy’s disheveled hair, the freckles on the back of her neck, and repeating his mother’s happy mantra that death is not for the young.
If there’s one thing John understood about being street, it was that you give people their props when they help you out. And even though Wendy was too busy being this super-cool junior, hanging with her boyfriend and basically rubbing it all in John’s face, he knew why she had taken the job at the exhibit. There was a wad of ones and fives in his pocket that said he owed her something. So he’d agreed to go and meet the British guy who was supposed to watch over the exhibit items. Besides, his dad had been hounding him about giving this guy a chance. Anyway, John didn’t mind helping — the exhibit was pretty cool. He caught himself thinking that and shook his head sadly. If his classmates could read minds, they’d give him the gold medal for the dweeb Olympics. He wished he could be one of the LBs — just change his image completely and be a badass.
Then he remembered his misfire with the lacrosse boys and pulled out his phone to update his Facebook status:
John Darling says screw this.
John Darling doesn’t give a damn.
John Darling is
John tried to imagine what the new exhibit assistant could be like. Most people who worked for John’s dad were suck-ups — jumping over one another to assist the kindly professor, with his whimsical beliefs in myths and his amusing stories about dig sites. Then again, his dad could be a slave driver when it came to his work. It reminded John of Thutmose III’s ironfisted rule in the Eighteenth Dynasty, culminating in his campaign against the Nubian tribes in the Upper Nile. Oh, no. John glanced around to make sure no one saw him thinking about the fifteenth century BC.
As he rounded a corner toward his dad’s office, John saw Connor slamming shut his locker. “Hey, little buddy,” said Connor, a big smile spreading across his face.
“Hey, man,” said John, trying to think of something cool to say. He wished Connor hadn’t called him little buddy.
“I was just looking for you,” said Connor, hoisting his gym bag over his shoulder. “Sorry about the guys the other day. Tim’s just a jerk. Anyway, my parents have a box at MSG and a bunch of us are going to watch the Knicks. Wanna come?”
“To watch the Knicks?” said John excitedly. “At Madison Square Garden?” This definitely sounded like something for rea
l friends only. Connor nodded. “In your parents’ box?” John knew what that meant. A private box meant free of charge. And that meant he wouldn’t have to make up some excuse to avoid spending money he didn’t have.
“Yep,” said Connor, throwing an arm around John’s shoulder as they walked down the hall. John pulled himself to his full height. He was still several inches shorter than Connor. “And afterward, we’re all going for steaks and imported beers at a new place near there. I know a waiter, so European party rules apply. No IDs.”
John was practically salivating. He’d never even tasted beer before, much less beer from Holland or wherever it was they imported it from. He fingered the small stack of bills in his pocket. Would thirty-seven dollars be enough for a steak and beer? Plus tax and tip? Probably not. And Connor’s mom wouldn’t be there to pay for the steaks. Probably, it would be one of those things where all the guys split the bill equally, so John would end up with a huge charge, even if he didn’t order much. For a second, John considered asking Connor to cover him. He was only thirteen, after all, and these kids were so casual about their cash. He might even look less poor if he just admitted it. But that thought only lasted for an instant before John dismissed it as utterly stupid.
“Nah, man,” John mumbled, hating himself for having to miss out on a private box just because of some dinner afterward. But he couldn’t go to the game and then skip out on the meal. Then everyone would know. “I have things to do.”
“Are you serious?” said Connor. “You don’t have to worry about the guys. They’ll be cool. And I already told Wendy —”
“I’m not worried about the guys,” John snapped, and quickened his pace, his fist tight around the wad of useless bills. “Thanks, Connor, but I have to go.”
Connor shrugged as he turned to walk away. “Suit yourself, kid.”
Stupid school. John would definitely have to join the LBs. He’d have to become as street as he possibly could so he’d have something other than money to offer the crew. And it wouldn’t be easy, because that stupid RA was out to make him look like a little kid — and on top of it all, the jerk was sweet-talking his sister. Gross. John had overheard Professor Darling talking to Wendy about Peter. “Honey,” their dad had said, “I don’t want you spending time with older boys. Focus on your grades.” And John couldn’t agree more. Peter was a poser. Why did he have to make fun of John’s street talk? Couldn’t he just be cool about it? John was just chillin’ with the LBs. That’s what dudes did. They chilled like villains. Which is exactly what John was doing, with some possibly new friends, and Peter had called him out in front of his new bros. But still, maybe he should give Peter a chance. It wasn’t like John was in any position to be weeding out his friends’ list. Last week, even the gaming geeks had told him to get lost (Sanjeev said John was a poser online), and so John’s social calendar consisted of hanging with his sister and waiting for her boyfriend to ask him to tag along (and half the time he had to say no).
John wondered if his dad would get mad if he knocked out one of his teeth to match the LBs. That’d be pretty sick — like he was in the club. Then the next time someone picked on him at Marlowe, he’d be like, “Biznatch, we can take this to the street, go crew by crew, na’meen? They’ll cut you, son.” John felt so gangsta just for talking with the LBs that he almost popped the collar of his polo shirt.
Too bad now he had to go watch some assistant professor hit on his sister. John knew more about Egyptology than all the assistants combined. But they all tussled his hair like some puppy. John walked past the computer cluster, where his ex-friends had loaded a low-grav golden gun match with no mods — his specialty. He gritted his teeth as he approached the office.
It was brutally unfair, Wendy thought, that she — a junior who was already taking college-level classes and working on museum-quality artifacts (which her father had taught her to clean and preserve professionally), a girl who was pretty much independent and running the household — was forced to work with some pretentious British research assistant when she could very well handle the exhibit alone. Besides, she had John’s help. Wasn’t that enough? For a thirteen-year-old, that kid was an authority on Egypt. He had read every one of their father’s books, and, frankly, if he hadn’t been around, she would have categorized at least two Old Kingdom vases as Early Dynastic.
Not that John joined her in the basement that often. The hour after school ended was strategically crucial for social standings, and he was busy trying to fit in. After school was the time for practicing football drills, or working on debate speeches, or even getting a workout at the Marlowe gym. Wendy felt a spark of happiness when, after she had spoken to Connor, she had seen John resolutely lifting ten-pound dumbbells with the lacrosse team (twice). Something like that was worth mislabeling a few jars.
Recently, every time Wendy thought of Connor, her mind drifted in the direction of Peter. She knew that John didn’t like the new RA, that he thought Peter was too cocky and was stung by the way Peter had dismissed him. Besides that, her dad had warned her to stay away from Peter. Wendy suspected that Peter was misusing his position with the boarding kids. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who set up the whole point-shaving scheme with the lacrosse player. And on top of it all, he was a little too interested in the Egyptian exhibit. Still, something about him intrigued her, and despite the guilt of spending so much time thinking about someone other than her boyfriend, she reminded herself that Connor hadn’t been her boyfriend for that long.
“Excuse me,” said a deep, hollow voice that resonated down the hall. Lost in thought, Wendy had run right into the mousy new nurse — the same woman she had seen loitering alone outside the school before.
“I’m so sorry,” said Wendy with a smile. “Just thinking.”
“Happy thoughts?” the woman asked in her cryptic voice, then coughed into a lace cloth. There was a dead moth on her shoulder, and she watched Wendy with those observant eyes.
Wait — Wendy stared — her eye. One of the nurse’s deep blue eyes was broken. Suddenly feeling a wave of gloom and dread, Wendy forced another smile and rushed away, not waiting to hear nurse Neve Verat introduce herself. She searched her jacket pocket for her basement key and bounded toward her father’s office to meet the new exhibit assistant — thinking how much she hated grad students, fast forgetting every detail of the nondescript nurse whose talent was to blend in so easily.
The sound of John’s excited chatter reached Wendy even before she opened the door to her father’s office. He was already inside, talking animatedly with a stranger Wendy assumed was Simon Grin, while their father rifled through notes on his desk.
“Hello,” she said, and dropped her backpack on the ground. Instinctively, she put an arm on John’s shoulder, but he pushed it off with such force that Wendy swallowed the rest of her introduction. She looked at John, confused, but he was glaring straight ahead, almost fogging up his glasses with the heat coming from his eyes. Right. John’s most recent hang-up was being treated like a kid. Sometimes, Wendy felt like talking with John was like walking through a minefield. She tried to be sensitive, but sometimes it felt like he just wouldn’t let her off the hook.
She turned to the thirty-something man with thinning, greasy red hair, who was now showing John his state-of-the-art multi-watch.
“Slick,” muttered John as he pushed buttons on the timepiece. The constant tick-tock coming from Simon’s wrist was irritating, but John didn’t seem to notice.
The man stared rudely at Wendy. “Who’re you?” he said. The leering way he looked at her made Wendy want to turn and run out of there.
“I’m Wendy Darling,” she said, already hating him. “You know . . . the name on the door?”
Professor Darling cleared his throat and said, “Wendy . . . manners.”
“Are you the new assistant?” asked Wendy, putting on her most detached authoritative tone, a skill she had developed since her mother left.
The man straightened hi
mself, but his jacket stayed wrinkled.
“I’m Simon Grin, here by request of the British Museum. I’ll be supervising the exhibit.”
“Um, Dad,” said Wendy, turning to her father, “you said that I was supervising the exhibit. I thought I was getting an assistant.”
Simon laughed loudly (which made the always-polite professor go red in the face) and said in an oily voice, “Sixteen-year-olds, no matter how charming”— he winked and Wendy almost gagged —”don’t get PhD assistants from the world’s premiere museum.”
“Well, that is true,” muttered the professor.
“Don’t worry, Wen,” said John. “Simon’s cool. Not old or a kiss-ass or anything like the other poser assistants . . .”
Simon gave John a strange look. Professor Darling coughed loudly, and John said, “Sorry, man.”
“What took you so long, anyway?” Wendy demanded.
“I was held up by official business. I won’t bore your delicate ears. . . .” He obviously thought that he was being charming, but every time he looked at her, she wanted to whip out any proof of her underage status and have him arrested for being so disgusting.
“Dad said you got your bag stolen,” challenged Wendy.
Simon sneered. “I was attacked by . . . a splinter cell . . . possibly made up of nativist Egyptian operatives . . . looking to steal artifacts. . . . I stayed behind to . . . gather intel.” He cleared his throat.
“Wow,” said Wendy. “I didn’t realize assistant history professors had such action-packed lives.”
“As I said, you’re far too delicate a young lady for this talk, Darling.” He looked at the professor as if he expected him to appreciate the jest, but Professor Darling didn’t look amused (and Wendy had heard this joke about five hundred times already).
“I heard you spent two nights in the airport until they replaced your passport,” said Wendy, her tone cold.
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