Another Pan Read online

  A week before the start of the new school year, on yet another “family breakfast” morning, which Professor Darling insisted they do all through the summer, Wendy stood two feet behind her father and watched him cook eggs. He was burning the undersides, and the whites were still runny on top. When he turned to make toast, she lowered the heat, stirred the eggs, and added more butter.

  “Honey, can you set the table?” George Darling asked his daughter, his scholarly puff of hair disheveled, his sensible beige slacks pulled up just a bit too high by his twenty-year-old suspenders.

  Wendy picked out a piece of blue lint from her father’s snow-white head and said, “Sure, Daddy.” At sixteen, Wendy was already running the house.

  Their mother had disappeared only a year before, when John and Wendy were twelve and fifteen. She left in the middle of the night, probably thinking the kids would handle it better that way. Like a bad TV mom, she must have thought she did it for them, telling herself it would be easier for them to wake up to a whole new life without the bother of saying good-bye or having to listen to made-up reasons. She slipped away with her suitcase as Wendy watched from her bedroom window and thought about her father, who had once been handsome and adventurous. Watching her mother leave was the one event she had felt most acutely in her entire life.

  Now, a year later, Wendy was in charge of almost everything around the house. Not because had anyone told her to but just because someone had to fill the void. Her father was way too preoccupied with his work. Besides, he could barely keep himself together. He had spent the better part of the last hour searching for his glasses. He finally located them near the coffeepot. He turned back to the eggs, replacing his glasses on his nose. They were all fogged up. “Ah,” he said, giving a satisfied nod to the eggs. “See, honey? Your mom couldn’t have done any better than this.”

  “Nope.” Wendy shook her strawberry-blond head. She adjusted the setting of the toaster behind her back, smiling at Professor Darling, who was now rocking on his feet, suspenders in hand, crowing to himself for having made edible eggs. It would be a shame to ruin this proud moment for her aging father. “Mom would’ve burnt those eggs.”

  “Daddy, I have news,” Wendy said as she arranged the toast on four plates.

  Professor Darling glanced at the extra plate and said, “Not again, Wendy. Doesn’t that boy get fed back at his house? Last I checked, he had a whole slew of servants.”

  For the past week, ever since Wendy had revealed her relationship with Connor Wirth to her family, Connor had eaten at least one meal a day at their house.

  “Yes, but he likes eating with us,” said Wendy, putting on her most patient tone. “You never like any of my boyfriends.”

  “You don’t need a boyfriend at your age,” said Professor Darling. “You need to focus on your grades and on college.”

  “OK, Daddy, but I have news.”

  “What?” Professor Darling asked, his lined face breaking into a multitiered fleshy smile, oblivious to the wily ways of teenage girls.

  “I got an after-school job,” she said, not looking up from the plates. Wendy was a lot shorter than her father. It was easy to hide her motives under wispy bangs and downcast eyes. “At a café near Marlowe . . . I start on the first day of school.”

  Professor Darling, who had already begun buttering a piece of toast, dropped the bread onto his plate and said, “No, Wendy. We already discussed this. School comes first. Straight As are not optional.”

  Wendy looked pleadingly at her father. “Daddy, I’m sixteen now, which means it’s totally legal, and it pays really well. I spoke to one of the waitresses, and the tips —”

  “No. We are not so destitute that my daughter has to waste her exceptional brain on measuring out coffee.” Professor Darling’s lips had almost disappeared now, and he was obviously trying very hard to keep his voice down.

  “I promise my grades won’t suffer,” said Wendy, “and I can use the cash for John, too.”

  Professor Darling’s perfect volume control now flew away, along with his temper. “I will take care of John’s needs.”

  Wendy flinched. She glanced at the door. Connor would be arriving any minute now, and here she was in the middle of a family fight over money. She didn’t understand why her father was so rigid on this point. Wendy and John never had enough spending money. Poor John was always making excuses to the few kids who were willing to be his friend (You go ahead — I went to that concert on opening night . . . Nah, bro, I tore my ACL, so I can’t ski ever again . . . Please, MoFo, Cape Cod is so played). Wendy felt bad for her brother, who had no clue how transparent he was. She had even asked Connor to include John in a few things, and Connor had reported back (shocked) that John had turned down his offer to play paintball.

  Quickly, Wendy texted Connor not to come over. Have2Cancel. XX. Sorry.

  Professor Darling lowered his voice again, and with an apologetic look in his eyes said, “You should be volunteering on the new Egyptian exhibit with me. Last spring I received a whole shipment of things from the British Museum. They gave me almost everything I asked for. It’s all been in the basement for the summer, of course, but someone needs to go through it all —” Wendy sighed loudly, but her father ignored her and went on. “Come here. Let me show you what I dug up on the Book of Gates. . . .”

  “Maybe,” Wendy offered listlessly, trying hard not to hurt her father’s feelings.

  “It would be very educational,” said the professor, straightening his glasses. “I think I’ve got a very early copy. And did I tell you about the Neferat statue? It is exquisite. A dark female deity, previously unknown, that could not only prove the validity of all five legends but could also cast serious doubt on Anubis as the identity of the death god —”

  “Hey, John,” Wendy interrupted as John came pounding down the stairs.

  John filled his plate to overflowing and said through a mouthful of eggs, “What are we talking about?”

  “About how great it would be if I got a job.”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” said John. “You can’t, Wendy!”

  Wendy stared at her brother, confused. “Why not? We could both use the cash.”

  “’Cause I can’t have a sister working at the Shake Shack! Everyone’d know!”

  “Oh, John.” Professor Darling looked disappointed. “No one at school is concerned with your financial situation.”

  “You’d be surprised.” John looked like a startled animal, his eyes flashing with anxiety.

  “We live in a nice house,” Professor Darling pointed out, his voice dropping.

  Wendy looked around: at the African bust in the corner, the antique wood cupboard, the watercolors in the hallway, all the pretty things that didn’t belong to her family. She knew better than to mention it, but John, who was far less tactful, said what they were both thinking: “Everyone knows the house belongs to Marlowe.” But it was hardly necessary. Professor Darling already knew. None of his fancy degrees could get his family much respect in this town. Why? Because he didn’t own his own coffee table.

  After a few minutes of silence, John added, “And everyone’s still talking about us.”

  Professor Darling didn’t respond. That part was true. For a year, he had been the teacher with the wife scandal. The faculty lounge was abuzz with it. To everyone even remotely connected to Marlowe, he was the crazy old Egyptologist with a notebook full of unproven theories — no one of them was all that surprised when Mrs. Darling left.

  “Give it a rest, John,” warned Wendy. The comment about their mother stung more than anything. But she knew that to John the money stuff was far worse. Divorces and scandals were hardly new at Marlowe. And all John wanted was to fit in.

  John was perfectly aware (from his many Facebook stalkings) that a nerd at Marlowe could lead a fairly peaceful life provided he had one of three things: money (like Akhbar Husseini, who wore thick Armani glasses and used an inhaler blinged out by Jacob the Jeweler), a famous name (like Emily Va
nderbilt-Hearst-Mountbatten, who had criminal acne, bad teeth, and a stable of Photoshop artists for her Page Six close-ups); or a media-worthy talent (like James O’Kelly, who looked like a unwashed rag but spent his lunch hours fending off novice journalists who’d caught the scent of “child genius” all the way from the far reaches of New Jersey). Those kids never got picked on. They may have to throw around some cash to get a prom date or promise face time with their dad for good lunch seats, but they didn’t get gang-wedgied in the hall the way John had all through middle school. And as far as Marlowe was concerned, John was coming in with no support system, no trick in his back pocket. If he didn’t fix his image fast, he would become Marlowe’s official human stress ball.

  “Can you at least consider the job?” Wendy begged.

  “OK,” said Professor Darling. “If you consider working at the exhibit.”

  “Fine,” said Wendy.

  “So where’s Connor, then?” John asked.

  “I texted him not to come,” said Wendy, getting up from the table. “I have to run.”

  John shrugged. He didn’t care, anyway. He was perfectly secure that he and Connor were best buds — he didn’t need Connor to come here every day to prove it. He shrugged again.

  “Everything all right?” Professor Darling asked his son, who was now on his third shrug.

  “Whatever, that’s all,” said John. “Whatever.”

  Professor Darling sipped his coffee and stared at his son. Thirteen had definitely not been like this for Wendy, and frankly, George Darling thought that maybe he was better at raising girls. What’s wrong with the boy? For the last three months, he had forsaken everything Professor Darling had taught him — about being an independent thinker, a free mind, a leader of men. Instead, Darling had to watch his teenage son following other boys like a trained pet. If John was craving a role model, if he needed someone to idolize and learn from, then why not choose someone the least bit respectable? “What if you and I do something today?” he said. “You know”— he cleared his throat —“men things.”

  “Nah,” said John. “I’m busy.”

  “Oh . . .” said Professor Darling. “All right, well . . . later, then.”

  John started getting up, probably to go back to his summer program of nonstop computer social networking. “John?” Professor Darling called after him. “You know, we’re getting a new teaching assistant for the exhibit . . . um . . . Simon Grin.”

  “So?” John said from the staircase.

  “I think you would get along. He’s very well read . . . mostly Old Kingdom, I believe. . . .”

  “Please,” said John. “Sounds like a total noob. Besides, I don’t want to make a huge show about that stuff at Marlowe, OK, Dad?”

  “OK, son.” The professor wiped the coffee from his gray mustache and began picking up the dishes. Then to no one in particular, he said, “Too bad . . . wasting all that knowledge.”

  OK, so John had done his fair share of nerdery (in his chosen fields of gaming, comics, and ancient Egypt). But those days were over. This was the Year of John. This was the Year of Getting Respect. John knew why his dad was worried. He was probably thinking that John’s change of image would mean that he’d let his grades slip or wouldn’t work hard anymore. But John wasn’t that stupid. He wasn’t about to give up on his favorite activities or on the bright academic future he deserved. He’d just play it cool from now on — watch out how he came across. And if this Simon Grin guy knew his stuff, OK, fine, they could hang (because John wasn’t the kind of jerk who’d hassle the new teaching assistant) — but it’d have to be somewhere away from campus.

  No problem, thought John. He could lead a double life. He had a game plan.

  As he settled in front of his computer and typed his Facebook password, John promised himself that this year he would have it all.

  John Darling is heading out to swim a mile. Screw swim team and their mandatory follicle testing, man, ’cause they need John Darling, bad . . .

  Comment from Rory Latchly: WTF?

  Comment from Isaac Chang: Just ignore him. He’ll get over it.

  Comment from Connor Wirth: Way to go, bud!

  I was at a sleepover for Sanford Marshall’s birthday and we crammed Coke and Oreos all night (I ate the most) and had a Smash Bros. tournament, which I won using not even my best characters. Then we played blackjack and I won that easy. And then we played with his Airsoft guns. You can’t really win that, but I definitely got shot the least. I hit a plastic figure off his bed and Sanford said, “Good one, bro.” So we were totally cool.

  Mom and I went to a lecture Dad was giving to the entire British Museum about his research on an Egyptian book. I couldn’t have been older than three, but I remember everything. Dad was nervous, and Mom had stuffed his jacket pockets with handkerchiefs. We knew he hadn’t found them, because he kept wiping his sweat on his jacket sleeve while he spoke. There weren’t enough seats, so Mom had pulled me onto her lap. She had her arms wrapped around me, and when I’d lean back to look up at her, she’d kiss my forehead. I wasn’t worried about anything, not even what the adults thought, when I yelled, “Daddy, look in your pockets!”

  London (early autumn)

  Everywhere Assistant Professor Simon Grin went that day, he had the feeling he was being followed. As he struggled to carry his duffel bag down the narrow stairs of his flat, he imagined there were upside-down faces watching him through the windows, as though kids were leaning over the roof. But every time he glanced over, he managed only to catch a glimpse of something that might have been the last wisp of hair pulling out of view. When he fell down the last few stairs and landed on his bag, which burst like a ketchup packet and sent his toiletries flying, he thought he heard giggling.

  He knew it couldn’t be hoodlums. After all, he was the assistant professor of Egyptology and second correspondent curator to the British Museum now. He had badgered the dean of faculty housing until he was given a flat in a very up-and-coming part of town. That’s how Simon saw himself, up-and-coming. So it made sense to live there with no flatmate. This was all very important. Up-and-coming professors (soon to be tenured professor, and then dean of history by thirty-seven) did not share rent.

  Simon scowled at himself in the mirror with his sharp, fidgety eyes before heading out. His face was too white, almost pink, and his hair was too red, too carefully brushed, gelled, and parted down the side.

  As he was locking up the front door, Simon thought he heard shuffling behind the neighbor’s shrubs. Then he thought he heard a “Shhh, you eejit, he’ll hear.” Simon knew that in lesser neighborhoods it was dangerous to let people know you’d be out of town for a long time. Uneducated thugs would break in and take all your things. Of course, Simon Grin didn’t have anything but history books and a fridge full of Vienna sausages. He prided himself on not owning a television, gaming console, or stereo. The only DVDs he had were footage of archeology digs in the lower Nile.

  Simon checked his military-grade multifunction watch — with built-in compass, barometer, and gas-filled luminous tracer lamps, capable of withstanding a whole array of activities that Simon would never undertake — and saw that he was running late. When he lugged his bag to the corner, a cab was already waiting for him. Strange, he thought. Cabs don’t usually loiter in the up-and-coming parts of London. Simon jumped in anyway. He couldn’t keep the director of the museum waiting.

  The cabbie looked like a teenager, olive-skinned and wearing a fisherman’s cap. “Where to, sahib?” he said in a mixed-up Bengali accent. Simon squinted behind his spectacles. The driver’s tangle of brown wavy hair reminded him of the ancient Greek frescoes depicting playful satyrs and dashing hunters. Simon couldn’t quite decide whether this guy was a hunter or a satyr. But he definitely wasn’t Bengali. “Tick-tock, sahib,” said the cabbie. “Where will it be?”

  Simon could have sworn this kid was no more than seventeen. He looked at the ID card behind the driver’s seat. Naamkaran Jarmoosh. The pictu
re was of a graying Indian man with pocks all over his face, scowling at the camera.

  “This isn’t you,” Simon said in his most accusing tone.

  “My old man,” said the cabbie.

  Simon shrugged. He was in too much of a hurry to get involved in the details of father-son cab-sharing customs — in Bengal or any other place. “The British Museum, Junior Jarmoosh, and hurry!”

  “You’re the boss,” said the cabbie in a clearly insubordinate tone that intensified Simon’s suspicions.

  The cab tore through the narrow London streets with Simon in the backseat, clutching his bag to his chest. A few times, when the car flew over a small hill, the cabbie would shout, “That was some wicked air.” And then he’d catch himself and add, “Eh, sahib?”

  By the time they reached the museum, Simon was green with nausea. The cabbie swerved in front of the building and parked with two wheels on the curb. Simon paid him and nodded good-bye. He rushed past the guard and through the front door, even though the museum wouldn’t open for another hour. When he looked back, he caught a glimpse of the cab, still lingering in front of the museum.

  Simon teetered onward toward the director’s office. Through the frosted glass, Simon saw the old man bent over his desk, as usual. “Grin, is that you? Get in here.”

  Simon patted himself down, made sure his tie was straight, and checked his multi-watch. Six hundred and twelve seconds early, facing due west. He rushed into his boss’s office.

  “Sit down, Grin.”

  “Sir, I’d just like to say thank you for the opportunity to oversee this exhibit to New York. I couldn’t be more —”

  “You aren’t overseeing anything. You’re babysitting the bloody things and making sure that nutter, Professor Darling, doesn’t shame us with his mummy stories.”

  Simon paused. “Professor Darling? I thought George Darling was the curator.”