What We Hide

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “Not sure why he’s such a fan,” said Kirsten. “The country fair in The Mayor of Casterbridge is where the bloke sells his wife and baby to a sailor, effectively ruining everyone’s lives. I suppose Richard has faith that none of his students will sink so low.”

  “None of us are married,” said Esther, in a typical moment of clarity.

  “Right.”

  “Do you think he’ll cancel Saturday lessons?” asked Oona. “He did that one time.”

  “You’ve conveniently forgotten why they were reinstated,” said Kirsten. “The boys that year went to the cider booth at half past nine on Saturday morning and were completely sozzled by noon.”

  “In the meantime,” came Hairy Mary’s voice from the doorway, “this morning’s lessons will proceed as scheduled. The bell for breakfast will ring in two minutes and I see altogether too many undergarments in the Jane Austen dormitory.”

  “What power does an unreliable narrator have upon a story?” asked Jasper. He jingled the change in his pockets and looked around the classroom. “Hmmm?”

  His trademark Hmmm? was deeply irritating.

  Fifth-form comments on Jasper:

  Hmmm’s like a deranged wasp.

  Trousers like a butler.

  Ear bristles like a privet hedge.

  Goatee like a girl’s pubes.

  “How does the reader absorb what he is being told, before and then after he recognizes a narrator as being untrustworthy?”

  Zero response in the fifth form. Nico was tipping his chair, rocking on the back two legs.

  “Excuse me, Jasper?”

  “Ah! Esther!”

  “There’s something I don’t understand.”

  Esther was so dependably dorky that everyone kind of loved her. She could distract a teacher for an entire lesson, following some teeny-weeny point down a bumpy, shadowy path.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Well, it seems to me that each of us just sees the world, you know, the way we see it. Since we’re each living our own story. So wouldn’t that mean that—”

  “Yes!” Nico landed his chair legs with a thud. “Sorry to interrupt, Esther, but—”

  Esther’s face was now the color of Plum Loco lip gloss. Getting attention from Nico might be enough to cause a seizure.

  “I think about this all the time,” said Nico. “Like, for instance, who is telling this story?”

  “Which story?” Jasper seemed a bit bemused.

  “This one!” said Nico. “The story of the English lesson on Friday morning in a shabby ex-stable that hasn’t had the windows washed in a hundred years. We have”—he looked around—“sixteen stories in here, right? And all of them are true, right? According to the”—he twitched his fingers to show that he was quoting—“narrators. But all of them are unreliable, if you’re one of the other fifteen people. So how can it be some literary genre, the unreliable narrator? There isn’t anything else.”

  “That’s heavy, man,” said Adrian.

  “I agree with Nico,” I said. My turn to get the sunshine of that amazing smile. “But … isn’t there a difference between someone telling a story from his—or her—point of view, and … and …” Suddenly I didn’t want to finish the sentence.

  “And purposely lying?” said Penelope.

  “Misdirection is perhaps a more suitable term,” said Jasper. “In the literary sense. And that brings us back, thank you, to the unreliable narrator.”

  By the end of the day the mood in the dormitories was practically giddy. The Autumn Fair was only a carousel, a miniature Ferris wheel, and a few tacky games booths, but you’d think we were off to Las Vegas. Richard made us wait until after tea and then he laid out the rules. There would be no drinking of alcoholic beverages, including hard cider. There would be no disrespectful language or behavior toward the townspeople. There was a curfew of nine o’clock for first through third forms, and ten o’clock for the rest of us. “ ‘Go then merrily!’ ” he said, quoting some antique poet.

  “Luke’s found a townie.” Kirsten pointed to where her brother was chatting with a boy from the village. “How do people just start nattering to strangers? I can never do that.”

  “Watch and learn.” Penelope flexed her muscles, as if she were going to demonstrate tree-cutting techniques. “Hey, Alec!” she called.

  “That doesn’t count,” said Kirsten. “You already know that grimy lot.”

  I recognized Alec from my first day at Ill Hall. He’d been one of Penelope’s boys in the chip shop. His head was still shaved, and when he grinned at Penelope we could see a new tattoo over his eyebrow, like a worm crawling across his face.

  “Hallo, Pen,” he said. I had the idea that maybe he couldn’t pronounce her whole name. Two other boys were with him, neither of them with more hair than fuzz on a peach. It made them look like aliens, especially since the boys at school all had long hair. Wild hippie hair like Luke’s, or soft brown waves like Nico’s, falling across the eyes. These boys were weirdly clean. A bit scary. They all had tight pants, tidy sweaters, and boots with thick dangerous soles. One wore suspenders.

  “I’m going to borrow a quid from my brother.” Kirsten gave a quick wave, leaving me there with Penelope’s conquests.

  “This is Jenny,” said Penelope. “She’s from America.”

  “I hate Americans,” said one of Alec’s friends.

  “America hates you,” said Penelope. “So everybody’s happy.”

  Lucky for us he thought that was funny, since he looked the type to chew his way through a car fender.

  “I’m not really from America,” I said. “I was born in Madagascar. That’s an island off the coast of Africa. Lots of monkeys. My parents are monkey smugglers.”

  “What the hell?” said Alec.

  “We only live in America for cover,” I said. “The zoos over there are big clients. Sometimes they’ll pay, like, half a million dollars for a rare monkey.”

  “A pregnant monkey,” said Penelope. “Isn’t that what you told me, Jenny?”

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “That’s like getting two monkeys for the price of one. So the cost goes up.”

  “So you’re rich,” said the boy with navy-blue suspenders.

  “I hate rich people,” said the other one.

  “And rich people hate you,” said Penelope. “In America, everyone is rich.”

  “How the hell do you know?” said Alec.

  “From when I was there last year,” she said. “Right, Jenny?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We went to this amazing ice cream parlor,” said Penelope. “Where the film stars go. I brought home sundae cups as a souvenir.”

  “I remember,” I said. “The night we met Robert Redford, who played the Sundance Kid.”

  “You’re bonkers,” said Alec.

  A crowd of boys from school showed up, so we peeled away. Adrian, Henry, Nico, and some fourth-formers. Enough to surround us while our straight faces slipped into massive laughter.

  We tried the tossing games, losing fistfuls of shillings. We ate sugar buns that looked better than they tasted. And then somehow it was Nico and me, the next two in line for the Ferris wheel, which was so small it had only six swinging chairs, each fitting two people. Probably made of tin. I asked myself afterward, did he plan to be next to me like that? Or was it spur of the moment? One certain thing is that Nico smelled delicious, like walking into your grammy’s kitchen when she’s baking spice cake.

  He nudged me, sending vibes of Hello there, it’s you and me, kid! the way big brothers do in movies, with a wide-open smile that makes you think you’re the favorite. My own big brother was a little more jaded. The old carny guy held open the carriage door and Nico slid in after me, already fussing about the seat belt. As if a seat belt would do anything if the entire ride tipped over. Cool as anything, he draped his arm across the back of the seat so I could feel it there, warm and chummy—Here we are, about to have fun!

  Our chair rocked forward, rolling the
next one into place beside the loading platform. Brenda and her townie boyfriend climbed in. I wanted to twist around to see who else was there, but then Nico might have taken his arm away. And I liked it where it was.

  Finally the music started, crackling up from a speaker next to the operator, and the wheel creaked into motion. Nico tipped his chin toward the view of Illington Hall at twilight. “Picture postcard, eh?”

  “They should take a photo from up here for their next brochure,” I said. “And update the clothing list while they’re at it.”

  His fingers ruffled the fringe at the neck of my sweater, making it feel as if a cat’s whiskers were tickling my cheek. “I wondered why you wear these weirdo togs,” he said. I was kind of queasy from being so close to Nico, and being up in the air right over the stench of burning gasoline from the Ferris wheel engine. And then he kissed me.

  Right at the top of the wheel, in front of everyone in Yorkshire. A real kiss.

  For a second I was just … gobsmacked, as they say in England. His lips were, oh, warm … His hand was cupping my face and even though the rest of me was thinking, Yikes! my lips were kissing him back and then his tongue was there at the same second that I heard hooting and clapping. I pulled away, with shivers creeping up my spine.

  “Hey,” said Nico. “Where you going? You’ve got a great mouth.”

  He leaned in again, but I said, “Wait, stop.” No one had ever said that about my mouth before. No one this good-looking had ever been near me before. But our carriage was at the bottom of the cycle and we were practically face to face with Adrian and Henry. They were doing a slow clap, chanting, “Go, go, Nic-Oh! Go, go, Nic-Oh!”

  I felt like a total dupe. I’d let him … Part of some dare or showing off, and I’d fallen, plunk, into the trap.

  “You … you … sod!” I thunked him in the chest with my fist. Mostly it was so embarrassing because we’d been really kissing!

  “Aw, come on, Jenny.” He scooped his hand under my hair, cradling my neck with gentle fingers. “You can’t blame me for them being idiots! Be fair!”

  The ride slowed, thankfully us being the first ones off. The boys on the ground made sweeping bows as if welcoming a grand lady from a gilded coach. I would have stomped off in a mighty fit, but my path was blocked by Penelope.

  “The worst thing,” I told Percy and Kirsten later, “was trying to get away from the stupid boys and having Penelope smirk like I’d set out to make it happen.”

  “She’s just jealous,” said Kirsten. “Nico ignores her.”

  “Well, I wish he’d ignored me.” I was lying.

  “It’s pretty much a law around here,” said Percy. “That Nico gets what Nico wants.”

  Yeah, but what Nico wanted was to kiss me. Me. Even if it was partly showing off for those other jerks, Nico was the cutest boy who had ever even flirted with me, let alone … did stuff.… But because of Matt, I had to pretend I didn’t care. I’d lied myself out of the chance to … to what?

  Two or three times a week I used Assignments Hour to write a funny letter to friends in Philly, sometimes to Mom, or, most often, to Matt. I drew pictures of the teachers and told him gossip and included an entry in the gross-food contest. I tried not to think about what he was seeing. How he might be crawling around with enormous deadly spiders or lying sick with a tropical fever. Firing bullets at other boys far from home. Just plain miserably lonely and scared.

  But still no letter back. Obviously Matt had better things to do with his evenings than write to friends’ little sisters. As if evening had any meaning in war. As if he were lying on a couch after basketball practice instead of huddled in some bog with mosquitoes the size of bats, and bats the size of eagles. Evening probably meant that dark was coming, and dark in a jungle must be … I shuddered. Sometimes I’d wake up, imagining that it wasn’t a dormitory around me, but a dark full of slithering ghosts and creeping invisible enemies and sudden noises that made your earlobes vibrate and your stomach twist and your eyes blink in gratitude that it was a noise and not an end. An explosion that scared you to bits instead of killing you was what you hoped for.

  I’d got into the habit of Matt being almost a diary. I didn’t even expect him to answer anymore. I tried not to think it meant he was dead. What was he supposed to say? War sucks?

  I thought about him every day.

  It was almost Halloween at home, but here they were collecting wood for a colossal bonfire on Guy Fawkes Day. On November fifth all of England celebrates the demise of some bloke who tried to blow up King James a few hundred years ago.

  “The rule is to build the fire in the middle of the playing field,” explained Kirsten, “so we don’t burn the school down.”

  Middle of the playing field meant a long way to drag branches from the woods, but it was Kirsten’s favorite night of the year, so she corralled her brother and a few other boys, including Nico without his shirt on, to do the major hauling. His shoulders were just about as broad as Matt’s.

  “Did you tell Matt about your liaison with Nico? Is that why he never writes?” Penelope was having a smoke. It was past dark and the last few of us were huddled together at the Swamp, keeping her company and waiting for the Cocoa bell.

  “He’s in Vietnam,” I said. “Remember? It’s not like there’s regular mail service on the battlefield.”

  “I don’t think Vietnam has battlefields,” stuck in Percy. The boys in his dorm were being dicks again, while we were nice, plus full of gossip for his movies. “Vietnam has thick hideous jungles full of razor-edged elephant grass and teeming with poisonous snakes.” He got up and hunched over, pretending to hold a rifle, darting crazy-looking eyes as he went into narrator mode: “The enemy, more determined than fire ants, stake out the undergrowth, silently waiting for you to fall into a pit full of sharpened bamboo spikes guaranteed to rupture your innards and expose your intestines to—”

  “Thanks, Percy,” said Kirsten. “Very sensitive.”

  “I’m sure it’s wretched,” I said. “So how could he write that? He wouldn’t want to bum me out with horrendous details. He not a whiner.” He was the most uncomplaining person I’d ever met.

  “But true love manages to conquer all?” Penelope needled. “Including interludes with tall Greek boys at your end? Including blatant silence?”

  “I’m not going to answer that.” I made my voice careless. “Who knows how anything turns out?”

  The bell clanged, sounding mystical from this distance. Penelope ditched her cigarette. It was generally agreed that Cocoa was Vera D’s best offering and not one to miss.

  Guy Fawkes night included a raging, and then a glowing, bonfire, a later-than-usual curfew, chocolate biscuits, silly dancing, and a starlit sky that seemed to reflect the sparking embers. All of it was ignored by the faculty who were off having their own party in the maths room.

  Nico and I ended up, accidentally on purpose, on a bench in the tangled and neglected rose garden. What if I pretended to get a letter in which Matt broke up with me? I’d have to be heartbroken for a while, but then … Nico was so cute. I was letting him kiss me again, and it was … so nice, and took us from sitting on the tilting wooden bench to lying down on the mossy ground.

  His hand was under my T-shirt, roaming around near my skipping heart. It slid around to the back and began to fiddle with the band of my bra. Except it was the bra with a hook at the front, under a tiny silk bow, so he wasn’t making any progress. His kissing got sort of … distracted, him not being able to find the fastener. I heard a roar of laughter from the kids by the fire. I imagined for a second that they were watching us, laughing their heads off. That they all knew I was a big fat liar. The moss was suddenly damp and chilly.

  “How do you undo this thing?” He sounded like a grumpy little boy grappling with the top of a cookie jar. Nico gets what Nico wants.

  “You don’t.” I rolled away from him, scrambled up, brushing off dirt and leaves, tugging down my T-shirt. “Sorry,” I said. “No che
ap thrills here.”

  “Hey, wait.” He was bent over, awkwardly getting up. “You can’t just walk off!”

  “Sorry. No, actually”—I had a flash of my mother’s libber jargon—“I’m not sorry. I’m … I’m … voicing my right to refuse.”

  “Is that another way of saying prickteaser?”

  All I wanted was to not be there. Nothing clever, no smart words to end the conversation.

  “G’bye,” I said. “I made a mistake.”

  “Nico already has a girlfriend,” said Penelope, back at the Swamp a few days later.

  “Uh-huh.” She’s delusional, I thought. “And I have a boyfriend.”

  “Her name is Sarah and she left at the end of summer term, in July. Her parents wanted her to do her final year at home in Toronto. It was dead sad, them saying goodbye to each other. I’m sure he still thinks about her all the time.”

  “Despite,” said Kirsten, “multiple efforts to distract him. From multiple sources, including one whose name begins with a P.”

  I laughed. Penelope scowled. “I’m only telling you so you don’t go and compromise your true love with Matt for some futile attempt to seduce Nico.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” I said. “Please stop being a nutjob. Nothing’s going on.”

  “So why do you make a point of looking everywhere in the room except at him?”

  She might have been a nutjob, but she paid attention.

  “Kind of hard,” said Penelope. “To break up with someone who’s away fighting a war.”

  “I’m not breaking up with him!”

  “Ohhh, so you have, like, an open relationship, the way the hippies do? Free love?”

  “You’re driving even me crazy,” said Kirsten. “And I’m not the one under the microscope! Penelope, shut it!”

  The letter came on a Monday, a heavy post day. Hairy Mary could barely keep order during distribution. The exotic stamps on my airmail envelope stood out, however, so I was surrounded at the Swamp. I wished I’d sneaked into a toilet stall to read alone, but they forced me to tear the flap and see Matt’s boy-scrawl across the page.