What We Hide

by Marthe Jocelyn

  He also examines weapons more keenly.

  NICO

  Knockout gas I get. But how were we transported?

  PERCY

  Do they know they’ve kidnapped Quakers?

  We’re not going to pick up weapons!

  ARMORY ZOFFTONITE

  xx##0)) ((00#xxx- - #&() (&xx—

  NICO

  They want us to be soldiers.

  PERCY

  We don’t know how to shoot guns! We don’t know anything about this! Being in a war …

  NICO

  I don’t think that matters.

  NO-FACE

  So we’re supposed to choose our weapons?

  We can pick anything?

  ADRIAN

  (picking up a machine gun)

  I’ll blow their fecking brains out.

  HENRY

  If they have brains.

  PERCY

  They obviously have bigger brains than we do.

  ADRIAN and NO-FACE choose weapons. ARMORY ZOFFTON selects weapons for reluctant boys. As each is armed, he turns to speckles and fades out.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. THE JUNGLE

  Boys rematerialize in a cluster. They are in a clearing surrounded by thickly overgrown trees, vines, massive blossoms, etc. Persistent bird and animal cries punctuate scene.

  BOYS

  What the hell? Where are we? etc.

  PERCY

  We’re in the tropics.

  NICO

  Hotter than Greece.

  ADRIAN

  I could use a drink, mate.

  NO-FACE

  Look in the packs.

  NICO

  Maybe they’ve given us water.

  They shrug out of packs and take a look. Each has a canteen. Each opens, takes a swig, spits violently.

  NO-FACE

  Tastes like piss!

  ADRIAN

  It IS!

  He upends the canteen and a yellow stream pours out.

  HENRY

  Still better than school tea!

  A flash of light and an explosion nearby. Boys jump in panic, throw themselves to the ground like they’ve seen in movies.

  BOYS

  What the HELL? Somebody’s shooting at us! Oh my god! etc.

  Gunfire and explosions continue nearby, coming closer. Boys grovel on the ground, crawling for cover amongst the roots and blossoms.

  PERCY

  Wait! Look! They’re—points up to where military lab windows are glinting in sunshine—WATCHING US!

  ADRIAN

  (hollering at windows)

  We’re British flipping subjects, mate! You can’t just zap us to some damn war zone in some other universe and then observe us for your own bloody entertainment!

  NICO

  Apparently they can.

  PERCY

  We’re cannon fodder for aliens.

  Welcome to war.

  luke

  Brenda told him there’d been a boy in town, sending hello. Luke shrugged as if, What are you on about?

  But it had to be him, right? Had to be.

  Luke had been waiting and waiting for this, not realizing how much. The name had been caught between his mouth and the pillow in a dark room with the door shut. Now he could do something, get dressed with a reason on Saturday morning, stop hiding at school and go find Robbie. Robbie. It had to be a message, using Brenda. Luke wondered, should he have asked her more questions, because even a few hours later his curiosity would be obvious, shout that he cared.

  At the tea urn, no one else nearby, he said to Brenda, “That kid who said hey in town?”

  “Watch it!” Brenda snapped down the lever. “You’re about to spill over!”

  Luke’s mug was full, stewed tea foamy and lapping at the brim.

  “What were you saying?”

  Now it was not casual at all, Oona there waiting with her cup.

  “Nothing,” said Luke.

  Getting dressed was harder than usual. At home, his sister would say “Cool” or “You’re wearing that?” as the measure of Luke’s fashion sense. On his own when it mattered? Hopeless.

  Jeans—no choice there—but flared or not so much? He tried to remember the hem of Robbie’s jeans. Which T-shirt? If he put on one with a band’s name on it, what if Robbie didn’t like the band? This was stupid, this was what girls did. The grey T-shirt, then. Keep it simple. Only it was blustery out and he’d need a jacket.

  “Are you coming or not?” Adrian thwacked his arm. “Limo’s waiting.”

  Gnarly Mr. Eggers had promised a one-way lift for anyone willing to sit next to rakes and bushels of manure in the back of the pickup. Was Luke going to stink as well as look stupid?

  They passed a group of girls near the edge of town, including Kirsten and her lot, who all turned around when he waved, and waggled their bums, laughing like loonies. Losing Adrian and Nico took no time. To be honest, they lost Luke, but he didn’t mind being dropped.

  He stood alone on a corner in a remote Yorkshire village, his chest so full of hope and nerves that he could scarcely breathe, but with a ludicrous vacancy where a plan should be. Had he expected Robbie to stroll up out of nowhere, to clasp Luke’s face in his hands and give him a soft, smoke-flavored kiss? Move. Go somewhere.

  It was the same cashier in the shop where he’d nicked the mints, making Luke feel bold, standing by the magazines for ages. Long enough to read a silly “What Kind of Friend Are You?” quiz from start to finish, crap like, You are walking along the street and you see your boyfriend sitting in a café with a really sexy bird. Do you: (a) go in to holler at him, and tell her to keep her hands off; (b) pretend you don’t see but get revenge by playing the same game at a later date; (c) join them at the table to see what happens; (d) ignore them completely and never speak to him again.

  Luke checked the cover. Jackie magazine. His sister read this crap. He’d seen it before but never looked inside, why would he? Girls followed this advice? There were never any magazines about … the kind of boy Luke was. Or possibly there were, but where would he find them? Not for sale at Bigelow’s or Loney Tobacco.

  Tobacco. The taste of Robbie.

  He was wasting time. Get on with it.

  Luke paused for a second on the step where they’d met. He even looked at the doorbell, but now what?

  Chip shop?

  He should have gone there first.

  At the picnic table outside, Robbie sat astride one of the benches, laughing, waving around a cigarette while he told some joke.

  Bloody shock, having him suddenly there. Luke about keeled over. He forced his eyes to move from Robbie to the other boys. Jesus. Skinheads? Skulls nearly shaved, big boots, seriously tough-looking blokes. He almost turned around, would never have seen Robbie again, never even come back to town. For half a second he imagined himself at the window table in the library on a Saturday afternoon, tracing skeletons from the medical dictionary in the utter peace of a deserted school.

  Somebody said, “Luke.”

  Not Robbie, but Robbie was watching now. Luke’s eyes went snap, to find him first. For one brilliant electric second, Robbie looked back, before knocking ash off his cigarette and turning away his beautiful face.

  “Luke!” Penelope was balancing chip packets, crossing the yard from the shop door. “Come sit with us. You can meet my friends.”

  Luke teetered on his heels, ready to run.

  “Your sister’s meeting me here. And Jenny. We’ve got a lift back to school. Want to come?” Penelope plonked the chips down and the boys tore into them.

  “Vinegar?” said the younger fuzz-headed one.

  Penelope lifted her T-shirt to reveal a bottle of malt vinegar shoved down the front of her jeans. “Be my guest, Alec.” She shimmied her hips a little, let the boy reach in further than required to grasp the bottle. Luke had seen Penelope flirt with just about every boy at the school. He was probably the only one who didn’t dream about her. The world must hold others like him, or t
here wouldn’t be so many words for being this way. But none at school, he was pretty certain about that.

  “Luke, this is Alec. Maybe you know these fellas already? Banger? Robbie?”

  What kind of name was Banger?

  Penelope perched on the end of the bench, her hip nudging Robbie’s.

  Alec said, “How do, mate?” mouth full.

  “No,” said Robbie. “Never met.” He flicked away his cigarette and hunched over the chips, not a blink of interest in Luke.

  Had Luke imagined everything? Was he in some bizarre Mick Malloy film where hallucinations made more sense than reality?

  “I’m off,” said Luke. Better to believe in an alternate universe than admit he was just the biggest reject. The biggest queer reject.

  “Don’t you want a lift back?” Penelope licked vinegar off a chip.

  “No, I like to walk.” He quick-turned and tramped up the little hill, skidding a bit on the cobbles, taking his red face and pricking eyes far away, fast. He was an effing idiot, panting now, way too hot in this stupid jacket that he never should have worn. Made him look like a … poofter. He tore it off and bundled it up, would have tossed it in some bin, except he’d need it for Meeting on Sunday. The biggest queer reject in an ugly jacket … Oh man, he was sweating all over, his neck damp and his face probably shiny. Eyes hot enough to melt out of their sockets. But he kept walking, the sodding jacket in a ball under his arm, thirst pressing, and Robbie’s careless shrug burning a hole in his brain.

  Up the high street, out the York Road. The town ended, the farms began just past the petrol station, where he heard his name called.

  His feet and heart stopped together. He didn’t dare turn around, certain he’d see only a vast field, empty but for mud and broken stalks. Then Robbie’s hand was on his shoulder, puffing breaths showing that he’d been running to catch up, running to catch the big queer reject in the ugly jacket.

  “You walk so fast,” said Robbie. He took a sec, bent over. “I smoke too much maybe.” He straightened, put his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “You surprised me back there.… I couldn’t say … you know? In front of them.”

  Luke saw that he was waiting to be forgiven.

  “S’all right.” His voice croaked slightly, with so much wanting to rush out. “I get it.”

  “Ta for coming,” said Robbie. “To find me.”

  “Ta for the message,” Luke said. “The carrier pigeon.”

  Neither of them pretended not to understand.

  “So here we are …” Robbie spread out his arms and laughed, the nicest laugh, Luke thought. “In the great wide open. For all the world to see, eh?”

  “I don’t care who sees,” said Luke. He would have grabbed him right there, kissed him, danced with him even. Except for holding this jacket like a supreme twit.

  “You’d better care,” said Robbie. “That’s why, before, I—” He tapped a finger to his lips, making a secret. “It’d be stupid. There’s yobs in town who cut up queers and eat them for dinner.”

  Luke flinched, hearing queer out loud.

  “We’d be better off not queer and that’s a fact.”

  “But—” said Luke.

  “You hear me?” said Robbie. “If this … if we …”

  Luke’s heart stopped for the second time in three minutes. We, he’d said.

  Robbie stepped closer, close enough to erase the rest of the universe. “We’ve got to be … quiet as bleeding cockroaches.”

  Luke nodded. Was he being asked or being told?

  Robbie said, “Let’s find a hidey-hole, shall we? For a minute?”

  There was one weedy bloke in the window of the petrol station, didn’t glance up as they circled round to the back, away from the cars barreling past, away from anyone with two eyes in his head. There were a couple of crates back there, some odd planks and bits of lumber. Nothing cozy. They weren’t touching yet and the sun was hot. Luke’s mouth was utterly dry. Was it going to happen again? What he’d imagined over and over?

  Robbie leaned against the wall, casual, as if he were going to light a cigarette. He grinned, held his hands out, beckoned ever so slightly with his chin. Luke let go of the wrinkled, balled-up jacket and stepped into Robbie’s arms.

  They might have stayed and stayed, but a car honked out front and brought them back to their junky patch of earth. Robbie pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, numbers written on it in green marker. “I wrote this out, in case we … in case I had to slip it to you, in secret. You could ring, maybe?”

  “Can’t we just say?” Luke took the paper. “Wednesday? It’s our half-day. How about Wednesday?”

  The breakfast toast was crisp and golden on Wednesdays after that; Luke’s hair did exactly the right thing under a comb; he perfected his uniform of jeans and a T-shirt and traded two Procol Harum albums for use of Nico’s suave Italian jacket. Even the sting of Adrian’s towel flick was bearable; he had firm answers about Charles Dickens and decimal points and the floodplains of the Nile that he could not have fabricated on any other day of the week. No one noticed that Luke was accompanied by a flock of heavenly angels.

  They avoided the chip shop. They mostly avoided town altogether. Robbie usually hiked all the way out to meet Luke in the school woods. And it wasn’t all sex either. They both knew lots of lyrics and tried to stump each other, singing snatches, guessing. Same with programs on the telly, not so much with books. Luke quickly knew to steer clear of any questions about family, but that was fine by him. What did family have to do with this? With anything?

  Once, there’d been a gaggle of girls who traipsed right past their spot in the woods. Then a scare one time in town when Banger and Alec had shouted Robbie’s name. Luke peeled off and met up again later, Robbie a bit edgy, swivelling around every minute. But they’d been lucky and always careful. It was brilliant, really, until the day that Robbie did not appear where they’d arranged to meet, behind the shed that marked the border between the Danforth farm and the school woods. Luke had no chance to look for him on Saturday because of a school trip to Knaresborough Castle. And the next Wednesday, still no Robbie.

  The paper with the number had stayed in Luke’s pocket. He remembered, twice, to take it out on laundry day and put it back into clean jeans. Despite that precaution, the green ink became smeared with fingering, so Luke wouldn’t know if that was a 9 or a 4, a 1 or a 7 … except that he’d memorized the number the very first day, and had it securely installed in his head. But dialling was a huge step past knowing the number. He carried shillings in his pocket for days, passing the telephone cubbie probably thirty times. Robbie didn’t go to school. He had a dodgy sort of job with odd hours, delivering packages for a bloke he called the Ogre. No way to know when he’d be home. Ringing up and having the call answered by someone other than Robbie was unthinkable.

  Even while he made excuses not to ring, Luke carried anguish like a coat of thistles, tearing his skin with every turn, believing Robbie’s silence to be another message. This was different, and worse. He heard one phrase over and over: “We’d be better off not queer and that’s a fact.” Robbie was telling him, Get normal.

  “Who would you choose, if it was shag only, no chatter?”

  Adrian was always posing these ridiculous questions.

  “Diana Rigg,” said Nico. “The Avengers.”

  “In the school, you wanker!”

  “Shag only?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Penelope.”

  “Penelope.”

  “Penelope, as long as she can’t open her mouth.”

  The whole dorm agreed. Easy for Luke to say Uh-huh and join the others.

  “But what if you had to clock a full twenty-four hours of conversation before you could even touch her?”

  A general groan about the impossible task and then a few opinions.

  “Nico’s going to say dibs on the American,” said Adrian. “He hasn’t got her yet.”

  “Yet,” said Nico. “And
since you don’t know enough words to fill twenty-four hours, Ady, you’re out of luck.”

  “I’d have to say Kirsten,” said Henry. “She’s very arty.”

  “Oh, well, I disqualify myself if my sister’s in the running,” said Luke. “That’s obscene.”

  But he began to consider. He’d never given a girl a proper chance, had he? So how did he really know? Maybe girls were fine. He’d get off with a girl, prove this other thing was just a phase. Maybe everyone had to test it both ways and then it all settled into the right place. That wasn’t the way it sounded, when he listened to Adrian and Nico, but who knew? Jesus, if Nico could be believed, he’d had his hand up girls’ tops since first form. Nico was worse than Penelope as far as Luke could tell. Maybe he should ask Nico. Ha! Luke actually smiled for the first time in weeks. As if he could ever ask anyone anything. No one had advice for queers other than to stop being one. But he had a plan. He’d fix it.

  He went to the Swamp after tea.

  His sister said, “What the hell? You’re coming with us?”

  “Why not?” he said. “Are you charging a toll now?”

  “You just never have, but yeah, come on.” She linked her arm through his, being a mate. Good old Kirsten. Would she be this nice if she knew who he was?

  But he was not going to be that anymore. That was the whole point. He’d already narrowed down the field of girls. Penelope was not even on the list, despite being the most likely to go along. Luke had a feeling she’d suss him out too quickly. She’d be too much even if he were crazy about girls. The girls in his own form: Caroline, Anna, Dot. Dot was kind of cute. Being Japanese she was slim and, Luke admitted, boyish, no big titties to grapple with. But Dot didn’t go to the Swamp, so where could he ever talk to her in a way that would lead to … what he needed it to lead to? Oona had too much giggling going on. Fiona’s mouth was kind of puffy, disgusting actually, the way she had shiny stuff smeared all over. Why did girls do that? Did they really think that glossy goo upped their appeal? Maybe that was the whole problem? Luke wanted a mouth that looked like a mouth instead of an advert.

  He’d meant to come along and join the chatter, only of course he didn’t. He sat between Kirsten and Jenny, the American, with his hood pulled up and his hands clamped over his knees.