What We Hide

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “You’re all very lively today!” said Amy. “Am I missing something?”

  Nico heard his name as part of a raunchy mutter from Adrian and willed himself not to turn around. He’d have been joking along if it were one of the others … but, honestly, it would never be one of the others, would it?

  He had these moments where he couldn’t understand what he was doing here. He expected his mother to ring up any second and tell him he’d passed the test, he’d shown his mettle in the foulest of circumstances, and he could come home now. He could go to day school in London and have the life he deserved. In any other situation, he would not be friends with these boys. How did someone like Adrian Mortimer end up as his best mate? He was good for a laugh and he’d try anything, but seriously! Look at his tattered cuffs, hanging two inches above raw, bony wrists. Imagine him standing at the buffet after a film screening at Cannes! He’d likely shovel in the shrimp like a whale devouring plankton.

  Nico glanced around, continuing the survey. Percy was an odd, skinny bloke, but with his own weirdly hip style. Those knotted dreadlocks were amazing, like the headdress of a tribal warlord. He didn’t seem to care about the way Adrian bullied him to pulp, just kept humming along to some tune in his own dweeby head. But poor old No-Face, a local accent so thick he was practically speaking Bulgarian. What would No-Face do at a reception in Cambridge, watching Thea Nevos receive an honorary doctorate? Or Henry, meeting someone like that dolly bird Nico had fondled after the gallery opening his last weekend in London? Henry’s pathetic effort at growing a moustache and goatee to cover his spots looked like a child’s face paint at a fete.

  If Thea Nevos hadn’t gone to Illington, if his grandparents hadn’t lifted hammers and dragged around pails of paint to help restore the place, this would not be the sort of school where Nico belonged. In his opinion. But his mother insisted that community living was an essential step on the road to manhood. Ha. Manhood.

  “Nico?” Amy waved fingers in front of his nose. “You seem super distracted today.”

  The inevitable ooh from the yobs in the back row caused Amy to blink and blush.

  “Excuse me, Amy?” said Penelope. “Can you tell us the name of the book that got Nico into such a snit yesterday?”

  Foul little slag!

  This time, Amy did not look at him. “We’ve decided,” she said, “to keep that book out of classroom discussion.”

  “We’ve decided?” said Henry.

  “But if you’re keen to seek it out on your own—”

  “No,” said Nico.

  “It’s called Raising Nicky. Starring our very own—”

  “Oh!” said Jenny. “My mom has that. I didn’t realize …” She stared at Nico. “Oh, wow! Nicky equals Nico! Duh. That’s wild. I read bits of that when it was lying around the house.” She began to laugh. “Oh my god. That’s you!”

  Could he walk out of the lesson two days in a row? The whole room was shimmying to attention. How the hell could he stop this?

  “Whoops,” said Jenny, covering her mouth. “Sorry.”

  “Never take yourself too seriously,” he heard his mother say. “You’ll only look foolish.” Why did he hear his mother’s voice instead of his own?

  “Hey,” he said, shrugging. Not a care in the world. “You’re the one who had to read it. No wonder you’re sorry.”

  Nico nabbed Jenny after tea. “Are you going to the Swamp? May I walk with you?”

  “I suppose,” said Jenny. “Are you planning to buy my silence?”

  “Do I have to?” he said. “Buy it?”

  “Isn’t this how blackmail begins?” she said. “One person knows something seriously damaging about the other person, and …”

  It was already dark on the path to the woods, the branches clicking with cold as they swayed in the wind.

  “It’s a bit chilly for the Swamp,” said Jenny. “Since neither of us smokes.”

  He nearly suggested the woodworking shed, but they went to sit in the library, where he had to think about Amy’s sweater and the almost kiss.

  “Do you really think, seriously damaging?” he said.

  Jenny laughed. “Don’t be daft.” She said daft with an American accent, making it sound actually daft, like a bark. “I don’t blame you, though, not wanting those oafs you live with to get their hands on a document that describes details about your potty training. I love when your mother says, ‘Nico! If you’re going to pee on the floor, please do it in the kitchen, where it’s easy to clean!’ ”

  “On the lino,” he said. “I actually remember doing that. Hitting the black squares.” His face sank to the table with his arms folded over his head.

  “Oh, and when you pleaded for flowered underpants—I mean, knickers? And your mother bought them for you, thinking she was being all open-minded? That might haunt you for life.”

  “That never happened.” He turned his head, speaking from under the tent of his arms. “I swear. An episode fabricated to take a stand against boy-girl stereotyping.”

  “You might just not remember,” said Jenny. “You were only three. Or else your mother is a liar.”

  “Unreliable,” he mumbled.

  “Right,” said Jenny. “Like with every other embarrassing incident?”

  Nico winced.

  “Aw, come on! I’m teasing you! Nobody really cares. Anyway, how are you going to stop them from reading it?”

  Nico lifted his head. “I already took both copies, which my mother donated, from the library. I burned them down the woods. The book had been expunged from Illington until Amy came along. Nobody even knew it existed.”

  “That’s like Nazi censorship,” said Jenny. “And it won’t work for the ten million other copies out there in the world. But if you’re trying to contain the mess within reach, I guess you’ll have to steal Amy’s copy too. Before Pen gets her sticky paws on it. If she hasn’t already.”

  The Faculty Hallway was off-limits. Nico hadn’t been here before. Bit shabby, wasn’t it? Dingy light, grubby carpet. The student dormitories were quite flash by comparison, with their high ceilings and graceful moulding. Amy was apparently staying in Jasper’s room during her time at Ill Hall. How creepy was that? The door was smack in the middle of the row of the other single members of the teaching staff. Kirby, Fran, Beverly, and Jasper, all snuggled together.

  His plan was to nick the book, since he didn’t think she’d just hand it over. He tapped, face already warm. Movement inside. The door’s handle seemed to stick a bit before the door swung open.

  “Oh!” she said.

  “Hallo,” he managed.

  Her hair was damp, as if she’d just had a shower. She was wearing a pink shirt and jeans. “You’re not … Students aren’t supposed to …” But she was opening the door wider, stepping out of the way. Inviting him in.

  “This is kind of … urgent,” he said. He looked straight into her eyes, following his mother’s suggestion: Direct eye contact makes a good first impression. What was that scent? Not quite coconut. Almond bubble bath? Amy’s fingers fidgeted, doing up a button, but too late. He’d seen the silky glimmer beneath, a wisp of lingerie. He imagined it with his fingertips, sliding over the round—

  “Is this about the book?”

  “Sort of.” Now that he was here … was that why he was here?

  There was one light on, a shaded lamp beside what Nico realized was the bed.

  “Nico,” said Amy. But instead of edging away, she moved toward him, as though the heat in his jeans was a giant magnet.

  However many times he replayed the moment afterward, he couldn’t be certain who started the kiss and how exactly they’d gone from standing to lying down. Though lying down made it sound pretty bloody peaceful, not the writhing storm that took them over.

  Nico tried to be suave, willing himself to keep cool, keep cool. His hands tugged at her shirt with no luck, so he crazily cupped the soft denim over her bum, inhaling the sweet nutty smell warm from her body, hands roami
ng back up to her delicious titties in the same half minute. She made a little noise in her throat and he tried to swallow her face with his mouth. His balls were screaming hot, he’d never been this hard. She pressed her thigh exactly where … she moved … and bam—oh no! Please, nooo! He exploded, pulse after pulse, still zippered in.

  Amy must have felt it though his jeans, mighty and useless. She sat up, lips and face chafed and swollen.

  “Go,” she said. “This didn’t happen.”

  If only that were true. Nothing could be worse than this.

  Nico stumbled into the Faculty Hallway, fists grinding into the sides of his face, wiping tears and punishing himself.

  He was still a virgin. And he didn’t have the book.

  He skipped English the next day, told Adrian that Amy was beginning to piss him off. How could he arrange to never meet her again? Had he misread the signals so badly? Had there been signals? Had he jumped on a moment that wasn’t there? Oh god, her tits under that shirt … He wanted to cry all over again. What did she think of him?

  He wasn’t surprised when Kirby told him during Study Hall that the headmaster wanted a word. It was too small a school to play truant easily. It didn’t occur to him, until he saw Amy’s bum mincing away from Richard’s office, that his crime might be more serious.

  A copy of Raising Nicky lay on the grand wooden desk, like a tiny religious painting in a giant medieval frame.

  “I understand there have been some fraught moments this week,” said Richard. “Concerning your mother’s book.” He laid his palm over the jaunty font of the title.

  “Mmm.” Nico met the headmaster’s gaze.

  “And perhaps some other misguided actions as well?”

  Had Nico been seen going into Amy’s room? Had she made some kind of confession? What if she’d blamed him? How much did Richard know? Nico tried to clear his throat, but it was coated in silt.

  What was the bleeding truth? Whose point of view wins?

  “I just wish …,” said Nico. “I … don’t think this book should be …”

  Richard’s hair was salted with grey. His eyes were grey also, watching Nico quite kindly. He was a decent bloke, if you could keep him off the poetry.

  “Amy has suggested that her enthusiasm for your mother’s work exceeded the parameters of a teacher’s relationship with a pupil.”

  She did?

  “Any misstep on your part, entering the Faculty Hallway, for instance, will be overlooked on this occasion.”

  “Thank you.” Nico’s head buzzed with relief. She hadn’t said anything. “Is this her copy of the book?” he asked. “Could I borrow it?” He almost said sir. It was a sir situation, but Quakers weren’t sirs.

  “It’s mine,” said Richard. He pushed it nearer. Nico could see now that it was an early edition, the blue paler, the corners slightly bashed. He flipped the pages and stopped at the dedication, written in his mother’s oversized, emphatic hand.

  Darling Richie,

  First time lasts forever.

  xx Thea

  Holy shite! First time? Nico stared at the page and then clapped the book shut. Richard? With his mother?

  He didn’t dare look up. But he couldn’t exactly leave either. Richard came around the desk, put a hand on Nico’s shoulder.

  “At Illington, we trust our students to behave in a manner that they will be proud of years hence. The result, naturally, is not always successful. But certain choices, made behind closed doors, are yours alone. You, Nico, are the author of your own tale.”

  What? Nico’s brain was spinning.

  “Please do not miss another lesson,” said Richard. “You may go. I am two minutes late to ring the Night Bell.”

  Nico raced up the million stairs, two at a time, heart lighter with every step. There’d been no Richard wigging, perhaps would never be again. Richard—Richie—had bonked Nico’s mother in the woodworking shed on page thirty-four of Raising Nicky.

  Nico would have another chance. He’d get it right. It was only human to not hear the whole story every time. He flung open the door of Kipling dorm, sweating from the wild climb but shed of woe.

  Each of his dorm mates sat on a bed, smirking. Every one of them was wearing a pair of girl’s flowered knickers as a hat.

  penelope

  “Who’s got parents coming at the weekend?” asks Oona at bathtime. “Both mine are. Of course.”

  Of course. Rub it in, along with the soap.

  The two bathtubs get filled once each evening. Hairy Mary’s got some complicated lottery system that decides which four girls share the First Baths, two in each. It would be bliss to have one of these alone. The water cascades out of an enormous faucet in the wall, filling the deep porcelain tubs that no doubt washed royal bottoms at some point in history. First Bath is heaven. Third, Fourth, Fifth Bath, the water turns to dishwater, blistered with soap scum, laced with hair.

  I’m top of the list tonight, but so is Oona. She’s with Kirsten in the other tub. I’ve got hot water up to my collarbone, trying not to poke my feet into Jenny, soaking in the Aqua Manda bubbles that she kindly donated to the cause.

  “My mother will be here,” says Kirsten.

  “Mine too,” Jenny says. “And Dad. Flying from the U.S.! They haven’t seen the school yet, so it’s a big fat deal. They’re having a vacation after, in the Lake District. My brother’s also coming, if he’s not too behind with his essay on the epistolary novel.” She squeezes the washcloth, drizzling droplets over her face. “What about you, Penelope?”

  “Penelope’s parents don’t visit,” Oona butts in.

  “Oh,” says Jenny. She blinks water out of her eyes. “How come?”

  Three Words I Hate, by Penelope Fforde

  Parent.

  Visiting.

  Day.

  “Just the way it is.” As if I’m going to tell her the whole sordid story in the bath.

  “I suppose you’re having Saturday tea with Kirsten?” says Oona. “Since you’ve already declined my mother’s annual invitation?”

  “Yeah, Pen, come have tea with us. It’ll be fun.”

  “You don’t think I’ve worn out my welcome with your family?”

  Kirsten doesn’t answer, remembering, even if she doesn’t know why, that I was less than the perfect guest last time.

  “Come for tea, you wombat.”

  “What happened?” Oona, dying to know. “Something about Luke?”

  Kirsten slides down in the tub, dunking under to rinse off the crown of shampoo. Oona splashes her face, hiding the pout. Kirsten’s head is sleek only a moment before the bristles pop up again.

  “Where do people go, usually?” Jenny asks.

  “The most expensive place,” says Oona. “And you have to make your parents stop in at Bigelow’s and load you up with food and snacks for the dorm. The week after Visiting Day is brilliant for trading.”

  I’d agree on that point. One perk of not having visiting parents is that even though you’re forced to put up with the pity factor, the other kids get generous with the loot: biscuit packets and salted nuts and licorice. Leading up to and during the day, however, I do massive navigation. A leaky-canoe-above-the-waterfall level of navigation.

  “You can go to the pub,” says Kirsten. “The Red Lion.”

  “Right,” says Jenny. “The place with the bodies in the bathroom.” She can be dead funny sometimes.

  “But really you should go to the Buckingham Hotel. Best scones in Yorkshire.”

  “I’m weirdly nervous,” says Jenny. “About seeing them. My mom’s going to have emotional fits about missing me.”

  “Yeah,” says Kirsten. “That happens.”

  I’d like to say, At least you’ve got a mother. A mother whose fits don’t drive her to shave her head with the dog clipper to drown out the scary voices. But that would make them all squirm the wrong way.

  Caroline wanders in, starkers, from Brontë dorm. “Have you forgotten the thirty other girls waiting for b
aths?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” We climb out, wrap up, let the next lot in. Brush teeth, comb out hair, smear on various lotions. Jenny has not invited me to tea on Saturday. Yet.

  Plan B

  Visiting day begins with Meeting, of course, so I slink my way amongst the arriving families and happen to end up on a bench between Jenny’s brother and Oona’s dad. The former, lovely. The latter, not so much.

  “Remember me?” I say to Tom. He is dead cute close-up. Darker than his sister, no spots, wearing a flannel shirt that reeks of weed. Jenny taps his arm, makes him pay attention.

  Richard welcomes the parents, recites his standby poem that starts, “When a friend calls to me from the road …,” and invites us to pause in silent contemplation. We hear what passes for the band—a cello, a violin, a clarinet, and a trumpet—playing some creaking melody composed by Curtis, the music master.

  After Meeting, I stick close.

  Jenny’s mother’s face glows from being in her favorite place on the planet—with her arm hooked through her daughter’s. Jenny ignores me.

  “You must be Jenny’s mum. Welcome to England.”

  Jenny is obliged to say, “This is Penelope.”

  “It’s so great to be here!” Graaate. “Which is your family?”

  “My mum couldn’t come today,” I tell her in a low voice. “She’s … not well.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad! Would you like to join us for tea?” Right on cue, all breathy and eager. “We’d love to get to know one of Jenny’s new friends!” She speaks in exclamation points.

  Tom lifts his eyebrow at me and I’m nodding, yes, I’d love to come, thank you, Mrs.… and I can’t think of Jenny’s last name, but it doesn’t matter because she’s giving me a hug, as if I’m beloved already. I have the evil thought, What’s this one hiding? Kirsten’s mother seemed nice to start with too.

  Jenny pulls me aside before they toddle off for all the Show Your Work activities.

  “You can come to tea,” she says. “If you must. But don’t mention Matt.”

  “Oh?”