What We Hide

by Marthe Jocelyn

  He went back to rubbing his chin.

  “Oh.” Brenda tried to sound impressed, but she was thinking, Huh? “That’s a really nice poem, Richard. But could you explain a bit further?”

  “I like to think that it means we should follow our hearts,” he said. “That we may not understand our choices until we are looking back upon what they led us to.”

  “Do you think deep all the time?” Brenda asked.

  Richard smiled and stood up, not even mentioning detention. “Happily for Mrs. Willis, your road converged with hers today.”

  Brenda felt that warmth again, as if she’d stepped into a patch of sunshine. “Yeah,” she said. “She’ll have a little more road to be looking back on. Because of me.”

  Richard drove a funny old Citroën that he said he’d bought twenty-four years ago. He collected Brenda after tea the next afternoon, said he’d take her to visit the woman she’d rescued. It felt dead strange to be sitting up front in the headmaster’s car, in Isobel’s usual spot, her things in the pocket: the eyeglass case, a tin of sour lemon drops, a crumpled tissue.

  “I don’t often think about the double lives of our day students,” Richard was saying. “I thank you for reminding me how rich your experience is, steeped in the world of the town as well as that of Illington Hall.”

  “Ha,” said Brenda. “Rich is the very last word I’d use. Nobody’s got nothin’ among the townies. Apart from the ones who run the hotel, perhaps, and a couple of blokes who make a lucky guess at the racetrack.”

  “You have a great deal more than you realize,” said Richard. “Time will show that you have gathered much of value.”

  The headmaster announced that he would wait in the car while she was in the hospital. “Take your time,” he said. “Be the neighbour you’d wish to have.”

  Brenda watched Mrs. Willis nap, quite grateful not to find her awake. That might have been dead awkward, considering the knickers and such that Brenda had witnessed. She tore out a page from her history notebook and drew a cheery daisy with Get Well Soon scrawled over it.

  The idea had come to her in the Citroën that she might ask about Robbie Muldoon while she was here. It had worked out nicely, Richard letting her do the visiting on her own.

  Robbie’s arms had just been rebandaged. “Stiff as pricks,” he said. “Can’t even bend at the elbows.” He waved them about to prove it. “They’re letting me out tonight.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll say who did it,” said Brenda.

  “Don’t suppose I will,” he said. “Best for everyone if I didn’t see.”

  “What if they go on and hurt someone else?”

  “It was me they wanted,” said Robbie.

  She didn’t quite have the pluck to ask, Was it true what was scratched under those wrappings? She’d never met a boy like that before.

  “Well, ta-ta, then,” said Brenda. “For now.”

  He lifted a long white arm. “Dead nice of you to come.”

  The elevator took an age. When the doors opened, Brenda was face to face with Dr. Sperm. Holy crap.

  “Hello there.” His smile was warm as mittens. Panic banged in her chest as she stepped in, staring at the numbers, anywhere but at him. Which road? A shadowy side path or the bright glare of a motorway with oncoming cars?

  “You should know,” said Brenda. “Your son Michael is a mate of mine.”

  “I didn’t realize,” said the doctor, “that he knew any girls.”

  “Oh yeah, we’re good chums.”

  Now or never. “And I won’t tell him you touched me, unless I hear you’ve done it to someone else at my school. Clear enough?”

  The elevator dinged for the ground floor. Her face had never been as red as this, Brenda was certain. She let the doctor exit in front of her so she could go the other way.

  oona

  NEARLY HALF-TERM

  Hallo there, Toronto,

  BIG DRAMA!!! I found a body in the ladies’ toilet at the Red Lion!!!!!! Well, not actually expired, but nearly. Dead exciting! (Excuse the pun.) It was me and Brenda (roly-poly day girl, remember her?). You should have been there! The funny bit was that we were skiving at the time, with American Jenny, but all was well in the end. We totally saved the old bag’s life and hardly got a wigging from Richard, just Early Bed for two nights. Jenny, by the way, seems to be getting the hang of Illington, though she made the fatal mistake of befriending Penelope at the outset, little knowing what inevitable woe awaits. Her peculiar fashion statement—the slashed-up uniforms—becomes ever more bizarre as the laundry does its share in turning every dangly bit into a frayed rag (in the case of the blouses) or a knotted lump of lint (jumpers & skirts). But she goes along with American aplomb, thinking she’s the coolest chick in the farmyard. She’s mad on letter writing, mostly to her tragically military boyfriend in Vietnam. She milks it a bit, if you ask me, but she and Percy sit there scribbling away on what they apparently believe to be great works of art: his film script and her portfolio of love letters.

  Last night, Kirby took a vanload of us to Leeds, to hear a band called Lindisfarne. Val Matron went as the other staff member (and speaking of members, I suspect that she is more than a little interested in that which belongs in Kirby’s trousers).

  It was me, Jenny, Carrie, Adrian, Percy (who wore a tie for some unfathomable reason), Henry, and … Nico!

  I confess to looking rawther fetching in a new top from Marks and Sparks (defying their usual humble attempts at design and providing a flattering view of the upper-chest region). Adrian made several lewd comments, as did Henry (which was quite gratifying as we’ve had only one Cellar encounter since that heated display of affection after the Spring Fling dance last term). However, Gentleman Nico told them to shut their gobs, which was most noble of him. He can be dead sweet, can’t he?

  Wouldn’t you know it, I was squished in next to him on the ride to Leeds, so we had the opportunity to discuss our mutual Canadian friend, i.e., you. We did, however, manage a couple of minutes of alternate discourse. Imagine that! Nico sat between Jenny and Percy on the way home, while Henry fell asleep and drooled on my scoop-neck top!

  I have been on a beautification kick, using polish to stop biting nails and attempting to diet, which is not SO hard if you remember Vera D’s exquisite cuisine. Kirsten smuggled an electric kettle to stash in the Girls’ Changing Room so we can make tea or bouillon. I’ve been living on Oxo cubes and Tuc crackers.

  Much love from your friend with an actual waistline!

  PS Band was brill!!!!!

  TUESDAY

  Hello, gorgeous and all the usual rather boring introductory crap …

  Extra Bonus Feature! Today Only!

  Genuine handwritten notes from

  Odd Assortment of Cellar Dwellers (skiving off Assembly) …

  SARAH!! Kirsten here. Austen dorm without you is not nearly as great as Brontë WITH you! Come baaaack! xxoo

  Hi, this is me, Nico. Sorry I haven’t written. We sure miss you.

  I’ll write soon on my own. Love you, N

  How cold is Canada? Not as cold as the breakfast porridge I’m sure.

  Cheers, Percy.

  Kirsten says I have to say hello, so hello. Luke.

  Hallo there, wish we’d been here together—you are talked about all the time! xx Jenny, “the new girl”

  Hello, Oona again. Doesn’t all that just toast your toes?

  FOUR DAYS LATER

  Whoops, just found this in Bio notebook, will send at once.

  xx

  PPS Thanks for letter! Not long enough …

  PPPS I don’t actually see Nico as often as I mention him—I just assume you’ll be interested.…

  Whoops again, now writing from bedroom at home in Lowestoft, long weekend due to strep throat. I’d rather die than let Dr. Sperm touch my virginal being.…

  Guess who rang up my first night back? To be completely honest, Nico rang me because I rang him first. Don’t worry, it was all business, asking
about getting a signed book from his mother for the camping trip raffle.

  Otherwise, blah! Home! Nice for the first few meals and then deadly. More soon. xxxxxxxxooooooo

  Still at HOME. BLAH.

  BORED as HELL!

  As much as school can be claustrophobic and the food sickening, there’s always something going on. I am PINING for entertainment.

  Instead, I shall turn my attention to answering some of the one hundred and nine urgent questions in your last letter.…

  Yes

  No

  Sometimes

  Etc.

  Ha ha, only joking!

  I suppose I’m just avoiding the sticky matter of Nico’s communication habits.…

  We’ve been pretty occupied with A-level practice exams so that’s one possible reason.… But yes, we’ve been spending a bit of time together. He’s possibly my best male friend at the moment, so from the insider point of view, I’d say he’s not writing because he’s trying to face the fact that you aren’t here, and staying in touch perhaps prolongs the pain?

  Look for fun in merry old Toronto, since that’s where you must remain.…

  Anyway, must go,

  Ta-ta for now

  Oooooooona!

  THURSDAY

  Sparkling sunshine for your special day!

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR GRANNY,

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOOOOOOU!

  I thought particularly about your drastic aging during Richard’s uplifting poetic offering last Meeting, by some old codger named Robert Herrick: Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.

  Cheerful, eh?

  No time to linger but wanted to wish you many many many happy returns of this memorable day. Thinking of you from far far away …

  xx a sp-OONA-ful of sugar …

  (WAITING FOR SUNDAY MEETING)

  Hi, Sarah,

  Did you have a loverly birthday? Any particular wishes you’d like to come true this year?

  I wonder how much you think about us. I wonder if I’ll ever see you again. Perhaps when we’re old ladies like our mothers and drag our creaking limbs to a reunion, motoring around the Lake District or something … Do we ever cross your mind? Since Illington has no effect on your life anymore? Are you possibly reunited with Tony?

  Anyway, just saying hello.

  Nico had a long weekend in the South of France with his mother, did you know that?

  Loads of things happening, can’t write it all down, I’d be scribbling half the night. Sooo, just thinking about you. Sad you’re so far away.

  Cheerio,

  Love you,

  Oona

  Dear Sarah,

  This is actually quite an awkward letter to write, but I am going to come right out and say it. Even while you’re hating me, I trust that once you stop shredding my photo to let it sink in, you will understand completely.

  The truth is that Nico and I have become rather close over the past week, and by close I mean … We don’t really talk that much but there’s a sort of spiritual connection that doesn’t need words to thrive. However, it now goes beyond the spiritual. Yes, it happened a while ago, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell you right away. I admit he is the sexiest bloke I have ever met, let alone kissed, let alone the rest of it. It comes clear why you seemed to have a sudden interest in woodworking your last term. Who knew there was a lock conveniently located on the inside of the supply room?

  This may be hard for you to read, but … you live in another country … and Nico has moved on. I happen to be the one he has moved on to.

  In the beginning we both genuinely missed you so much that we had that as our common ground. Then we found out that we were having fun. I am totally in love and I think he feels the same way even if he hasn’t said it yet. He wants to keep our relationship a secret for now, out of respect for you.

  That’s the story. Please write me when you’re ready to find it in your heart to be happy for us.

  Your true friend, even though it may not feel like it right now,

  O

  Sarah,

  I don’t really think all the name-calling was necessary. You left months ago! So it’s not exactly a “heinous betrayal,” is it? You claim you wouldn’t care except that I lied to you, but aren’t you actually lying to yourself? Nico says you were never really as close as you pretended to me, that he liked you, so he wasn’t faking or anything, but it was a much bigger deal for you. So don’t go around calling me a bitch when your idea of the relationship was just a tad inflated.

  I know you’re hurting, but don’t take it out on me.

  Your friend, Oona

  DURING BIO

  Dear (I really mean it) Sarah,

  Haven’t heard from you, so I’m wondering …?

  I knew you’d be upset, but I couldn’t call myself a friend if I didn’t tell you the truth about what is happening.

  Though I honestly expected you to be slightly more rational about it.

  I’m in love with someone and so are you, but I’m here and you’re not, so what did you suppose was going to happen?

  Hurting you was the last thing we wanted, and believe me, Nico feels the guilt. He has been quite withdrawn lately.

  Oona

  BRONTË DORM, MIDNIGHT

  Sarah,

  A word of advice. Not wise to ring Nico yesterday on his birthday “for old times’ sake.” He’s a little bruised by this whole transition, and it would be appreciated if you would avoid writing or trying to ring him again. I assure you that he is doing the right thing, but has no intention of grinding your face in it. So leave him alone, for your own mental health.

  O.

  FORGIVE ME PLEASE FORGIVE ME PLEASE

  FORGIVE ME PLEASE FORGIVE

  Dear Sarah,

  I would be surprised if you’ve even opened the envelope after the contents of the last one.

  I kneel before you in abject misery, begging your forgiveness. Hurting and betraying you is the worst thing I’ve ever done and I see that even more clearly now that I’ve been hurt and betrayed myself.

  Nico has revealed his true colours and they are ugly indeed. Even when he was with me, it turns out that I was not the only object of his attentions. He was also flirting and testing his charms with several others, beginning with Jenny-the-American-tart-with-a-boyfriend-at-war and moving on from there. Naturally, my meager appeal cannot compete with the apparent willingness of the entire female race.

  I realize now he was only using me. He claims he never meant to get off with me and that I was just a little too available! As if he wasn’t having a fondle-fest whenever he could!

  Every minute that I see him panting after some slag is a minute of scalding pain for me. As much as you suffered when I betrayed you, at least you didn’t have to watch.

  Please please pleeeeeeeease consider my supplication for renewed friendship.

  Yours forevermore,

  Oona

  nico

  The news whisked through school on Monday morning that Jasper, the English master, had broken an ankle over the weekend, hiking in the Cotswolds. A nasty break that needed surgery, a metal pin, an extended stay in hospital. A supply teacher had been hired, her first assignment. She would begin today, taking over lessons on the regular schedule. Had anyone seen her? She’d gone into Richard’s office before breakfast and had not yet emerged. Wasn’t it awful about poor Jasper?

  Nico and the other fifth-form boys were all faintly relieved about Jasper, none of them having finished the reading for the Monday quiz. By Wednesday, fifth-form opinion was mixed on the topic of Amy Storm, but no one gave poor Jasper another thought.

  The girls said: Too young to take seriously. Too bloody perky. Pretentious vocabulary. Trying to be everybody’s best mate. Snooty voice. Tits as round as bleeding grapefruits. Do you think she has a boyfriend?
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  The boys said: Hot.

  Nico did not like being one of a crowd, but he had to admit, Amy was hot. Extra hot today due to a dove-grey cashmere sweater snugly enhancing her young and perky body at the front of the chilly effing classroom in the bleakest corner of Yorkshire, where Nico could not believe that winter was only just beginning. Did he imagine that Amy seemed to smile in his direction more than anywhere else in the room? He tried to calculate; if she had gone to uni straight from school, with no work abroad or other do-gooder nonsense, she could be as young as twenty-three or twenty-four. Not so much older.

  “I’m going to veer a little from what Jasper was planning.” Amy tipped her head backward and shook out her long hair. Nico, watching closely, could almost feel the breeze on his own neck. “He wanted to focus for a few days on the important concept of point of view, and we’ll do that. But I’m super excited to use a different text as the groundwork for our study. We’re going to begin with a close look at the short story entitled ‘Lady’s Fancy.’ ”

  Oh no. Anything but that.

  “I’m sure you all know that this a-may-zing story was written by one of your very own Illington alumni”—her eyes sparkled at Nico—“under the pen name Miss Althea Neverly. And aren’t we so lucky to have Miss Neverly’s son right here in the room!”

  Nico tipped his chair back very slowly. As if Nico being born five years after the story had been written had anything to do with anything. As if the story was even worth discussing, his mother would holler.

  “Here we have a classic example of shifting points of view,” said Amy. “Neatly layered in a masterful narrative that calls out for close analytical reading. You’re in for a treat, my friends, if you are experiencing this story for the first time.”

  Nico rocked ever so slightly, willing his classmates to speak up.

  “Excuse me, Amy?”

  Thank you, Esther. Always willing to be the supreme nerd.