had first shown him the book, thinking he would just forget about it like any other child. The ageless nanny with the moth-eaten clothes who had tried to corrupt him with her stories but had created a hunger instead. The hateful nanny with the antique metal hook, a gray mist in his mind that chased him for all these years.
“All right, everybody gather around.” Peter waved a hand to the eleven boys who made up his advisee group — the kids who lived in the hall he now ruled. To these longtime residents of the boys’ dormitory, the guy standing in the doorway of the RA room and signaling them to follow him inside didn’t seem much older than a student. Usually, resident advisers were twenty-something burnouts desperate to sidle up close to one of Marlowe’s famous professors. Once there was a girl who became an RA just so she could advise the daughter of a music mogul. Apparently, she had a demo CD. But Peter looked young, like he could be a senior at Marlowe — not an authority figure, but one of their own. They had already met the girl next to him, Tina, who had a bridge ’n’ tunnel sleazy-sexy bad-grammar thing going on that made the boarding kids imagine she’d treat their parents like garbage. Basically, they fell in love with her image. No one bothered to ask why she was at the boys’ dorm meeting. She was just always there. And they loved it — even though she had been the one to rip out their tooth with pliers (except for the two senior boys, Poet and Cornrow, who had been members of Peter’s crew for all the years they had attended Marlowe).
“Listen up,” said Peter, standing in the middle of his sparsely furnished room. The eleven boys of his hall were now packed inside. The room was old, and badly lit, with a nonworking fireplace and mismatched bricks in the walls. Apparently, Marlowe couldn’t be bothered to revamp historical buildings like the dorms. In one corner, two twin beds had been pushed together to form a king, which was covered with a gray-and-navy, standard-issue Marlowe comforter. In another corner stood a desk and one chair. Peter hadn’t bought a couch or a coffee table, as most RAs did. He wasn’t exactly planning to throw weekly study breaks. “I know you guys are new, but you have to use your heads,” he said, tapping his forehead. “You can’t just go up to a bunch of players and demand money.” He spoke slowly, as if they were very dumb children. “If you need to shake ’em down, you pick the weakest one. And always,
always,
leave a physical reminder — nothing huge — just a bruise, a cut. These guys aren’t from the streets. No need to break bones. Oh, and do it off campus.”
The boys were nodding excitedly.
“That Connor kid’s a bad target,” said Peter. “He’s the kind that goes running to Mommy. Watch him, though. His girlfriend’s a teacher’s kid, right?” Peter looked thoughtful. But he didn’t say any more about the Darlings or the exhibit he had chased all the way from London. Tina was now picking up his lecture where he had left off.
“And if someone doesn’t pay, you call
me,
got it?” said Tina.
Once again, no one objected.
When the new RAs had first arrived and Peter had taken out the boys from his hall and introduced them to the real New York and all the destructive possibilities of being LBs, not a single one of them had hesitated. Peter was an underground god — a legend that Cornrow and Poet had spread throughout the Marlowe dorms.
“Look,” Peter went on, “I’m supposed to give you an intro meeting.” He looked at a stack of papers that had been mailed to him by the residential advising department of the school. He looked disgusted as he read through it. “So, let’s get this over with. I’m the new RA. You got crap to deal with, help with your homework, or life advice, find it online. I don’t do ‘life coach,’ and I don’t counsel overprivileged monkeys on the existential questions of youth.” The boys
“All right, everybody gather around.” Peter waved a hand to the eleven boys who made up his advisee group — the kids who lived in the hall he now ruled. To these longtime residents of the boys’ dormitory, the guy standing in the doorway of the RA room and signaling them to follow him inside didn’t seem much older than a student. Usually, resident advisers were twenty-something burnouts desperate to sidle up close to one of Marlowe’s famous professors. Once there was a girl who became an RA just so she could advise the daughter of a music mogul. Apparently, she had a demo CD. But Peter looked young, like he could be a senior at Marlowe — not an authority figure, but one of their own. They had already met the girl next to him, Tina, who had a bridge ’n’ tunnel sleazy-sexy bad-grammar thing going on that made the boarding kids imagine she’d treat their parents like garbage. Basically, they fell in love with her image. No one bothered to ask why she was at the boys’ dorm meeting. She was just always there. And they loved it — even though she had been the one to rip out their tooth with pliers (except for the two senior boys, Poet and Cornrow, who had been members of Peter’s crew for all the years they had attended Marlowe).
“Listen up,” said Peter, standing in the middle of his sparsely furnished room. The eleven boys of his hall were now packed inside. The room was old, and badly lit, with a nonworking fireplace and mismatched bricks in the walls. Apparently, Marlowe couldn’t be bothered to revamp historical buildings like the dorms. In one corner, two twin beds had been pushed together to form a king, which was covered with a gray-and-navy, standard-issue Marlowe comforter. In another corner stood a desk and one chair. Peter hadn’t bought a couch or a coffee table, as most RAs did. He wasn’t exactly planning to throw weekly study breaks. “I know you guys are new, but you have to use your heads,” he said, tapping his forehead. “You can’t just go up to a bunch of players and demand money.” He spoke slowly, as if they were very dumb children. “If you need to shake ’em down, you pick the weakest one. And always,
always,
leave a physical reminder — nothing huge — just a bruise, a cut. These guys aren’t from the streets. No need to break bones. Oh, and do it off campus.”
The boys were nodding excitedly.
“That Connor kid’s a bad target,” said Peter. “He’s the kind that goes running to Mommy. Watch him, though. His girlfriend’s a teacher’s kid, right?” Peter looked thoughtful. But he didn’t say any more about the Darlings or the exhibit he had chased all the way from London. Tina was now picking up his lecture where he had left off.
“And if someone doesn’t pay, you call
me,
got it?” said Tina.
Once again, no one objected.
When the new RAs had first arrived and Peter had taken out the boys from his hall and introduced them to the real New York and all the destructive possibilities of being LBs, not a single one of them had hesitated. Peter was an underground god — a legend that Cornrow and Poet had spread throughout the Marlowe dorms.
“Look,” Peter went on, “I’m supposed to give you an intro meeting.” He looked at a stack of papers that had been mailed to him by the residential advising department of the school. He looked disgusted as he read through it. “So, let’s get this over with. I’m the new RA. You got crap to deal with, help with your homework, or life advice, find it online. I don’t do ‘life coach,’ and I don’t counsel overprivileged monkeys on the existential questions of youth.” The boys
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