What We Hide

by Marthe Jocelyn

  I stepped in next to him and his eyes popped open.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Oh, uh, hi?” He glanced into the street.

  “They’re gone,” I said. His face was even nicer up close. A bit tan, a few freckles, hair flopping across his eyes.

  “Oh.” He seemed freaked that I knew he’d been hiding from the girls.

  “You want one?” I offered.

  He shook his head. “I don’t smoke.”

  I put the packet away. Didn’t want ciggy breath if this was going to work out the way I hoped. “Have you got a mint?” I said.

  He jerked back, the git, bumped into the doorframe, hitting the bell with his shoulder. We could hear it ring inside. We stared—click—into each other’s eyes for half a second and then pelted along the road, laughing as if we’d broken a window at the very least, not just blipped a doorbell.

  We turned off the shopping street, down Tupper’s Lane and around the back of the chip shop where there’s a picnic table outside. We dropped onto the benches, panting.

  “You saw me?” he said. “Take the candy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m a tosser.”

  “Not really.” I was going to add, I only saw because I was staring at your bum, but maybe it was too soon for that. “Chance.”

  “Lucky it was only you.”

  “Only me,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean …”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Hey, boys.” Suze, from the chip shop doorway. “Table’s for customers only.”

  “Yeah, yeah. We’re off,” I said. “Unless, do you want chips?”

  “No,” he said. “I should get back.” He tapped his wrist where a watch would have been, if he’d had one. Funny how no one has watches except old men, but we all know what that means, tapping a wrist.

  “I’ll walk with you,” I said. “I’m going that way.”

  He likely wouldn’t know, not being from here, that there was nowhere out that road except the school or the woods, unless I was completely barmy and going to visit bubble-lips, cushion-hips Daisy Danforth at her dad’s farm next to the school.

  My brother Simon used to get with Daisy Danforth when I was little, around nine or ten, and him nearly four years older. We hiked out there one time toward the end of a summer term so he could meet her, despite the heat lying over us like a woolly blanket. I remember how suffering hot it was. Simon must have been in charge of me that night, since I had to tag along with his pals Benj and Felix. Daisy was meant to be at the back of her meadow where it meets the school property and there’s a grove of trees around a pond. It was dark by the time we got there, and no Daisy in sight.

  But there were lanterns strung from trees and some of the teachers were having a swim. Men and women both, and every one of them stripped to the skinny. No wonder the school’s got a reputation for being a bit of a loony bin.

  “ ’Allo, ’allo, what have we here?” said Simon, quiet and laughing. This was his kind of heaven, and the others were pretty stoked too, all those bums gleaming and splashing. Even I could see the joke of it, naked grown-ups flitting about. Simon started cawing, harsh and phony, so they clambered out after a bit, grabbing for towels and hooting back and forth as they stumbled off through the trees like plump and pasty wood sprites.

  “Our turn!”

  Simon was out of his jeans and into the water bare-assed before you could say “Lick me.” The rest of us were close behind, hurtling off the planks set up as a dock. The air being hot, I didn’t expect the water to be frigid. Knocked the breath out of me. The pond was murky and reedy too, bloody scary in the dark. I scrambled up the bank—no towel—and back into my clothes, nearly crying with the shock. The others faked it a little longer but not much.

  “Good thing Daisy didn’t show,” said Simon, shivering in spite of himself. “My nuts are the size of gooseberries.”

  “Like she’d ever touch your nuts,” said Benj.

  “Or know the difference,” said Felix.

  They shoved each other back and forth, my-prick’s-bigger-than-yours-you-tosser sort of thing, and then, chilled through, we set off at a trot across the Danforth meadow toward town, crunching whatever was growing.

  “Hey!” Simon stopped after only a few steps. “You’ve got some ales in your rucksack, haven’t you, Felix?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then stop bleeding running, you eejit, you’re making fizz!”

  So then we all had to stop, and they opened the beer tins and soaked each other, as if we weren’t wet enough already and covered in pond scum, and then they began slurping what was left.

  That’s when Daisy turned up, crashing through the stalks like a rhinoceros, waving a torch around as if she were trying to flag down an aeroplane.

  “About time,” said Simon.

  “I couldn’t find you,” she whined. Lights from her house glinted faintly behind her. “Until I stopped to listen and heard a pack of rowdy yobs.”

  “Very funny.” Simon circled her waist and let his hand slide all the way around to rub her titty.

  “Ooh!” She swatted his hand away. “Give me a beer, would you? I’m parched.”

  Felix passed her the last one. Nobody mentioned there’d been some agitation, all of us greedy for the pffft and the wail. She got a full-face shower.

  “Join the club,” said Felix.

  “Hey,” said Simon. “The rites. Time for Robbie to take rites, what do you think?”

  “What do you mean, rites?” I’d learned to not trust a single thing my brother said. “What for?” We were standing close, all of us, it being night in a field far from home.

  “To be one of us,” said Simon.

  Benj belched a good one.

  “What for?” I said.

  “You have to pass a couple of skill-testing tests,” said Simon. “And then you’re a man.”

  “What kind of tests?” I said.

  “First,” said Benj.

  “First,” said Simon. “You’ve got to touch a girl’s titty.”

  “Bare titty,” said Benj.

  Daisy sighed.

  “Go on, then.” She lifted her frilly top and pulled one pale, wobbling breast out of its cup. This was horrible. She grabbed my hand and pressed it to cover the brown nipple, squishy and soft with a tough nub in the middle. The boys whooped.

  “I dunno why boys get such a thrill,” said Daisy. “Fancy if I was a pig and had fourteen!” That set them off for a bit, so I could reclaim my hand and quietly scrape it against my jeans. But then Simon remembered he was inducting me into manhood.

  “Round two,” he said. “You’ve got to drink … something … that your mummy wouldn’t like.” He waggled his beer tin back and forth.

  “The kid is nine, Si,” said Felix.

  “Nearly ten,” I said. Having a sip of beer couldn’t be as nasty as touching Daisy Danforth.

  “Oh dear,” said Simon. “Nanny Felix says no beer.” His voice had shifted a bit, the signal to leave the room if we’d been at home. Benj belched again.

  Simon undid his fly and turned away from Daisy, trying to piss through the little hole in the top of the tin. We could hear some tinkling but see his hand getting half of it. He swore up a storm but got enough in the tin to make him happy.

  “Step up, Robbie,” he said. “It’s your big moment.”

  “Ooh, you never!” squealed Daisy.

  “Zip your fly, man,” said Felix, taking the pissed-in beer to free up Simon’s hands.

  I looked around, out across the black fields. Teeny squares of light from Daisy’s house shone on the one side and from the boarding school on the other. Distant headlights flashed briefly on a curve, showing where the road must be. All the civilised world was out of earshot. They’d snare me in an instant if I tried to run.

  “And after drinking piss?” I yelled. “I’ll be a big man like you?”

  Simon just laughed. “Drink up, sport.” He waved at Felix to hand ov
er the beer.

  “Aw, Simon,” said Daisy. “Does he have to?” She slid her hand into his jeans pocket and moved it around.

  “Bugger off.” Simon wriggled away. “Come on, Robbie. Hold him, Benj.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “No one has to hold me.” I nodded to Felix. He held the can to my lips and tipped it. Warm beer gushed into my mouth. Beer, not piss. Felix had done a switch. He whacked me on the back at the same instant, forcing me to gag. I’m pretty sure he winked as I leaned over to spit, but perhaps not. Simon was laughing too hard to notice a thing.

  “Aw, you’re a trouper, kid,” said Daisy. “You want to feel under my skirt next time?”

  “No thanks,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”

  Benj punched my arm. Felix turned to the empty field and hurled the can as far as Scotland. Simon corralled my head with his arm. “My brother, the man, eh?”

  I got randy when I was twelve, maybe a bit younger. Simon was out there bonking girls like he was a studhorse. He’d slide in late, crashing down on my bed, cigarettes and beer stinking his breath, and something else on his fingers that he wouldn’t wash off.

  He’d stick those fingers under my nose and whisper, “That’s Carrie,” or, “Take a whiff of Lanny.” He’d moan, just thinking about it while he waited for sleep. “Oh baby,” he’d say. Then he’d punch my shoulder, flop an arm across my back. “Your turn next, mate,” he’d say. “You won’t believe what’s out there.”

  There weren’t any books at our house, but who needed them with nightly installments of The Adventures of Simon the Rutter, and pretty good it sounded too. Once he’d snored off, I’d turn over and work myself to glory, with his back warm against mine and a towel in my hand.

  Eventually, Simon took me along, pushing his girls at me, telling them, “Go on, make the kid’s night.” That’s when the worry started. I didn’t like it much.

  My first boy was an accident, me not realizing that’s what I wanted, me not knowing that anyone did. I’d heard the words queer and faggot and poofter a million times, just other words for ugly or yob or piss off.

  By fourteen I could get my own girls if I wanted, but Simon still took me along with his crowd, like a football mascot, or a clever dog, trying to get me a good bonking.

  “Come on, kid, how about Lanny? She’s got titties that’ll stop your heart.”

  “I’m going to find my own someone for the first time,” I finally told him. “I don’t want one of yours.”

  Simon was meant to be at that party too, but he’d stuck me with Abigail and then pissed off because he had a date with Kath. Later, Kath had his first kid, my nephew, Jerry, but we didn’t know that yet. Abigail was a dim cow, but loyal. While we waited in her garden for people to arrive—why was I first?—she began telling me how lovely my brother was and wasn’t I lucky? Her brother was in prison for nicking a car.

  A pack of Simon’s mates turned up, shouting about football. Andrew, Benj, Dickie the Dick, and Felix, who was also Abigail’s cousin, each of them trying to prove something.

  The girls arrived in pairs, smoothing their hair, smelling of baby powder and lilacs, wearing shoes with teetery heels. Abigail rubbed my shoulder like she meant to polish it for inspection. The girls thought it was adorable to call me Simon’s Brother.

  “Ooh, Simon’s Brother, ’bout time you showed up at Abigail’s Naughty Parlour. Aren’t you in for some fun?”

  “Simon’s Brother, are you as cheeky as Simon is?”

  One of the oafs, Andrew, pushed me out of the way while demonstrating his recent match-winning save.

  “Piss off, yob,” I said.

  “Ooh, Simon’s Brother,” he crooned at me. “A softie, eh?”

  It was dark enough he couldn’t see my blood rise. Felix slung an arm around me. “Not worth a black eye,” he said. “Come on downstairs.”

  Abigail’s parents let her use the cellar however she pleased. Simon told me she’d gone about filching chairs and sofa cushions from rubbish heaps, so it was one huge grotty den of lust down there.

  The cellar routine was: first, drinking games; next, Truth or Dare. No one chose Truth, as it turned out. You were a wuss if you chose Truth. It was all about Dare.

  It started pretty tame. Benj had to sing a Beatles song in his underpants. Abigail and Rachel had to trade shirts. Dickie had to drink Andrew’s piss.

  Then it was my turn.

  “Make out for two minutes,” said Andrew. “With another boy.”

  “Who the hell is going to do that with him?” said Benj.

  “The good news is, not you, yob,” I said, but I wanted to crawl under a mouldy cushion and stay there.

  “For the cause.” Felix stepped up. “Eh, Simon’s Brother? But only if the lights are out.”

  “How will we know you did it?” asked Dickie the Dick. “If it’s dark?”

  “You’ll know,” said Felix. He snatched up Abigail’s little purse from her lap and snapped it open while she squeaked and grabbed to get it back. He pulled out a lipstick tube and dropped the bag into Abigail’s reaching hands. He took off the cap and twisted the colour up. No one laughed or made noise, all just staring. My blood zimmed like a fiddle in my ears.

  Felix rolled the lipstick across his lips, like he was an expert, a girl, making his mouth look as if he’d sucked blood. He winked at me—big jolly jeers broke out all round—and pulled me over to stand in the middle of the room.

  “Who’s timing this?” His hand slid down my arm, burning through my shirt.

  “Me, I will,” said Dickie, showing us a nerdy light-up watch.

  “Two minutes?” said Felix.

  “Yeah!” They all were laughing now, jazzed up on our behalf.

  “Lights,” said Felix. His hand was still on my wrist, circling, not holding. The lights clicked off, a couple of girls giggled.

  “Go,” said Dickie, and I saw the flash of his watch face before it went out, leaving the room sealed in dark. Felix’s hand left my wrist and cupped my bum, pulling me all the way close. I gasped, girls giggled again, but now I felt him hard inside his jeans, and nearly popped my own fly on the spot.

  It happened so fast, his one hand at the back and the other sliding down the front, while his mouth found mine with no trouble in the pitch bloody black. He wasn’t exactly kissing me, just smearing the lipstick back and forth on my lips and face, his slight moustache scraping my skin. His hand in front was trying to get past the elastic on my boxers. I’d have fallen over if he hadn’t been holding me up. Rustling in the audience and whispers. Their dark was not the same as my dark. I opened my eyes, not knowing I’d closed them, all this happening together. My prick was about to fly off, so happy and hot. Felix’s mouth devoured mine, tongue everywhere. Dickie’s watch flashed and he shouted out, “Thirty seconds left!” I moaned and someone snickered.

  He never got inside my boxers, but we were clamped together, and I came hard. He licked my lips and then licked my ear and whispered, “Not bad for a yob, eh?”

  “Time!” yelled Dickie. The lights slapped on, my eyes snapped shut against the clapping and raucous laughter. I felt like a kid caught peeing in the teacher’s garden.

  “Way to go, Robbie!” Someone poked me.

  “Your face, man!”

  “He got you good.… ”

  Felix was heading up the cellar stairs, chugging a Coke. I tried not to shake, surrounded by a crowd of grinning faces. Abigail shoved a makeup mirror into my hand and I saw my face, like a baby’s after eating spaghetti.

  “That was wicked,” said Abigail. “Can’t wait to tell Simon.”

  I wanted a blanket to wear over my head. They were having a big cackle, calling me queer boy and poofter. I laughed along, letting Abigail rub off the red smears, and I knew it was true. I was a queer boy. I’d just found an unimagined bliss.

  As promised, Abigail told it all to Simon. Did she think she’d score points for making him laugh? Simon smacked her, I heard later. “You think it’s a joke?” he�
��d hollered. “My brother acts like a fairy and you think it’s funny?”

  He thundered home and slammed into our room, knocking his football trophies off the dresser top.

  “I should cut your measly prick right off,” he said. “It’s not to be used for boys.”

  “What do you care? You use yours like a flippin’ stir stick.”

  He came at me, only I ducked and he cracked his head on the bedstead. I was out of the room before he stood up. I came back the next day to hear from Auntie Pat that Lanny Giles was knocked up and Simon was on the hook to marry her.

  I saw Felix from time to time, but only at a match or in the pub, always in a swarm of yobs. He never looked in my direction. I tried not to look in his.

  After Felix I only kissed girls. Passing the time with girls was no problem. If Felix could disguise himself amongst the yobs, so could I. My mate Alec was reliable cover, always on the prowl. The boarding school girls were his idea. One little hussy named Penelope could wank us both off at the same time and never stop talking.

  Then came Mint Boy.

  I liked him. We chatted, me wondering when he’d figure out there was nowhere I could be going, his school being the only destination.

  He’d been there two years, starting in third form, his sister went there too, yes he knew Penelope, his dad was boss of some slogan-writing business, his mum was tired of her husband never being home, the history teacher was a tosser, the food was foul, he liked Procol Harum too, and then, “Where are you going, anyway?”

  We’d cut across a field, one of Daisy Danforth’s, and I had no excuse. It was getting on dusky. We were past the pond area, alongside some kind of a shed. I leaned against it, giving him the gaze, cupping myself for an instant, just long enough for him to notice. His pretty eyes went wide and he flinched. Blew that, I thought. But then he didn’t move and I saw the flush creep up his neck. He glanced up at the school, as if to check if we were being watched from a window. I stepped around to the blind side of the shed, heart drumming. He followed.