Pan's Revenge by Anna Katmore Page A

probably quite expensive too.”
    Peter places his ankle on his other thigh and
grabs his shin with both hands. “My father was rich. He sort of
horded a treasure before he died.”
    That reminds me in a terrible way of how I
put my foot into my mouth last time we sat on the very same bench.
To avoid going down that road again, I change topic. “How do you
like your new home?”
    “The house is big. Way too big for me alone.”
He shrugs. “But I like the neighbors.”
    “You already got too meet some of them?”
    He gives me a lopsided smile. “One.”
    I smile back. “Now, that’s not really a lot,
is it?”
    “Enough for me.” Peter winks, and there it
is—the first moment where he looks like a totally ordinary young
man. My cheeks grow a little warmer.
    When he tilts his head a little more, a
strand of his tousled brown hair falls forward into his eyes. I
want to reach out and brush it away. My fingers actually itch to do
it. Luckily, Brittney Renae’s call from down by the little round
pond breaks this awkward moment between us.
    “Angel! Paulina won't give me the camera. I
want to take pictures now. Tell her she should give it to me.”
    While my baby
sister obviously has no trouble with screaming the birds away in
the park, I refuse to do the same. Rising to my feet, I look back
at Peter. I don’t want to leave him just yet, and from his boyish
pout I suppose he doesn’t want me to go either. But words evade me.
So I nod over my shoulder in the direction of the pond, sweep my
arm in a come-along-gesture, and finally I shrug, not to forget my
silly grimace.
    Peter laughs, gets up and comes with me.
    My hands tucked into the pockets of my coat
that I wear over my long sleeved shirt and the light blue pair of
jeans, I amble next to Peter and try to distinguish that funny
scent on him. Considering it’s rude to tell him he smells like he
slept in a coal cellar last night, I rather not to mention it.
    Ducks chatter
in the water and it doesn’t take long until we make out Paulina
squatting in front of them, taking more pictures. Brittney Renae
stands behind her, tapping her tiny foot on the pebbled ground. Her
face takes on a hopeful shine when she sees me nearing.
    “Come on, Paulina. Give your sister the
camera.”
    “But why?” the honey bunny protests, rising.
“She’ll only take more pictures of grass.”
    “That’s not true. I was going to take
pictures of Angel.”
    Again , I think. But I suppress a
sigh and, at my stern look and holding out my hand, Paulina hands
over the camera.
    “ What’s
that?” Peter asks me then. Obviously, he never s aw one like this before. My generation takes pictures with
their phones or maybe even with a digital camera. I’m probably the
only girl my age who wanted a relic like this for her
birthday.
    “It’s a Polaroid,” I tell him. “An
old-fashioned camera.”
    He just keeps staring at me as though I
switched to a different language.
    “To take pictures?” I continue. “Wait, I’ll
show you.” Lifting the camera so that I can look through the lens,
I take a photo of him which then comes out at the bottom of the
camera. After shaking it, I show him his dazed portrait and laugh
at his even funnier expression when he studies it.
    “Wicked,” he breathes.
    A smile pulls at the corners of my lips.
Sometimes he’s just sweet.
    “Now let me take one,” Brittney Renae urges
and tugs on my coat. I hand her the Polaroid and she targets
me.
    I glance over
my shoulder to Peter. “Want to be on the picture, too?”
    He shrugs. “Sure.”
    I feel how he stands behind me, the warmth of
his body seeping though my clothes at my back. “Ready?”
    “On three,” Brittney Renae exclaims.
“One…”
    On two, Peter startles me as he scoops me up
in his arms and cuddles me against his chest. On three, I already
have my arms wrapped around his neck and laugh out loud. There’s a
click, then the Polaroid spits out the picture and Brittney holds
it out to me