Another Pan Read Online Free PDF Page A

else touches my can, I’ll stuff your head in a toilet. Got it?”
    Yeah, that was it . . .
    “Peter’s flying to New York in a couple of hours to start his new job. We need you guys to keep an eye out on the museum while we’re gone,” said Tina.
    “Yeah, yeah. We know the drill,” said a redheaded kid in the back. “Old Egyptian books. Got it.” His name was Red. All the boys had nicknames like this so that Peter wouldn’t have to bother with tedious chores like remembering their real names.
Red. Steroid. Hoodie. Newbie. Fattie. Spock
. And so on. Only Tina got to be herself, because Tina was Peter’s undisputed favorite.
    “What’s the new gig?” asked Hoodie.
    “Peter and me, we’re gonna be RAs at some fancy school in New York,” said Tina almost proudly.
    “I heard he nicked the book from the British Museum,” said Newbie.
    “Nah, man, if he had the book, it’d all be over,” said Spock.
    “I heard he killed someone.”
    Tina rolled her eyes. Peter’s legend just wouldn’t stop growing. His fanboys knew him as a god of street kids and orphans. A phantom criminal. An underworld adventurer with a worldwide network of lost boys bent on finding one lost treasure.
    “What’s an RA?” asked Red from the back. “Hey, can we come?”
    “Don’t worry about it.” Tina shrugged. As she walked away, she added, “The LBs in New York would cut y’all open and sell you for parts.”

    Simon sat in the airport lounge, waiting for his flight and texting his mother. He was looking down when he heard, “Anybody sitting here, pardner?”
    Simon looked up to see a young man dressed like a cowboy. He had on Levi’s jeans, a white shirt, and a straw hat. His eyebrows and sideburns looked too thick to be real, and they were a darker shade of brown than the hair on his head. The cowboy gave him a wink and a smile.
    He had a not-too-tall, not-too-lanky body. He was a handsome boy, tan-faced, cocoa-haired, with eyes just a shade too hazel. He wasn’t thin, or fat, or tall, or short. He was just an American cowboy, tightly packed and nimble, able to blend in or stand out on a whim, and completely unrecognizable as the young man who had driven Simon to his meeting that very morning.
    Simon shook his head.
    “Great,” said the cowboy. “My name’s Petey Peterschmidt. Put ’er there.”
    The cowboy shook Simon’s hand up and down. He sat next to Simon and propped his muddy boots on the facing row of chairs. He let out a loud sigh. “Well, friend,” said Petey the cowboy, slapping Simon on the back, “you headed out of town on business or pleasure?”
    Simon was already uncomfortable, huddling down and putting away the message to his mom. “Business,” said Simon.
    “That’s a shame,” said Petey. “You coulda hit the town with your buddy Pete, here.”
    “Important business,” Simon added.
    “Ooh, well, don’t let me stop you. You seem like one of those genius types. Am I right? Somebody payin’ you the big bucks for that brain of yours?”
    Simon smiled. It was nice to have his genius noticed. Maybe this cowboy wasn’t as stupid as he looked. Simon didn’t want to brag. “I’m a very important man, actually.”
    “Seems that way,” said Petey.
    “I’m overseeing a major Egyptian exhibit in New York.”
    “Like,
Egypt
Egypt? Must be at the United Nations or some such. You’re like an ambassador?”
    “Well, kind of. Yes, yes, I guess I am,” said Simon. Simon went on telling Petey about every detail of his important exhibit, with just a few things left out or exaggerated here or there. After Simon had exhausted every subject revolving around himself, he finally turned to Petey and said, “So what do
you
do?”
    “Well,” said Petey, “I’m no ambassador to Middle Eastern peacekeeping, but, you know, I do well for myself.” Then Petey gave a conspicuous look-see this way and that (presumably to make sure the coast was clear). He leaned in to Simon and said in a conspiratorial