Free Another Pan by Daniel Nayeri

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.
    Cornrow 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