Another Pan by Daniel Nayeri Page B

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