What We Hide

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “Luke! Stop rocking!” Kirsten gently bonked her fist on his leg. “You’re making me dizzy.”

  He stopped, not knowing he’d started.

  “Thanks for bringing your lively brother to the party,” said Penelope. “Haven’t you got a riddle to share, Lukiepie? Or a little song you’d like to sing?”

  “I’m here as a social experiment,” he managed to say. “Taking a look at the dark side of Ill Hall.”

  “Doesn’t get much darker than this,” said Jenny. “Except in there …” She nodded down the path toward the looming woods, which really did look spooky, silhouetted spikes against the purpling twilight sky.

  “You used to be such a jolly little boy,” said Kirsten. “Till you got all quiet and started doing the Houdini disappearing act.”

  “Houdini got tied up and untied,” said Luke. “He didn’t disappear.”

  “Well, you could use a little untying, Mr. Uptight.”

  “Aw, leave the poor kid alone,” said Jenny. “It’s his first time at the Swamp all term. No wonder he’s scared.”

  If he was going to try to like a girl, Jenny might work. No lip stuff for starters. She’d been Nico’s choice in Adrian’s stupid game, after all. She must have something going for her.

  When the bell rang for Cocoa, he touched her arm.

  “Hey,” he said. “Wait a moment, would you?”

  She puzzled her eyebrows at him. “What?”

  “Well, I … I just, I … maybe let the others go ahead?”

  The others wandered out of sight up the path, leaving Luke and Jenny alone. There was a vague hooting somewhere, maybe an owl. Only the moonlight glowing, very romantic. Luke had never been alone with Jenny before, never had an actual conversation. Her accent wasn’t as bad as the boys made it sound when they imitated her in the dorm.

  “What?” she said again. “Did you want something?”

  “I just …” Now or never. He put his hands on her shoulders and leaned forward and put his mouth on her mouth while she stared at him with eyes wide open before moving her head back with a little grunt of surprise.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “I like you,” he said.

  “Uh, how could you possibly know that?”

  “I … I like your clothes.” He touched the tattered collar of her blouse. Could he sound any more stupid?

  She laughed. “Was this a dare?” She whipped around. “Is someone watching?”

  Luke shook his head. “No, I swear.”

  Her head was shaking too, ever so slightly, rather baffled. She glanced up the path where the others had gone.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I’m flattered. But … you know I’ve got a boyfriend, right?”

  “It is a dare, actually. I’m not supposed to say.”

  “Okay,” she said, as if he’d asked a question. The okay was very American. She closed her eyes and tilted her face. “I’ll let you try again.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, just like before. He put his mouth on her mouth. Why wasn’t it working? He was jinxing it, maybe, thinking about Robbie. It was a terrible kiss!

  Jenny giggled and pulled back. “This is new, huh? Are you practicing for something, maybe?”

  He let himself give the tiniest nod.

  “I think you have to want to,” she said. “A little motion would help, a little more enthusiasm?” She moved as if to touch him, but he dodged her hand. His pits were sticky, his face hot. He couldn’t think what to say.

  “I’m not exactly an expert,” she said. “But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be fine at the moment. Come on, we’re going to miss Cocoa. I won’t tell anyone, I promise. Who’s the lucky girl?”

  Jenny winked at him the next morning, but Luke pretended not to see. It was mortifying. But worse, it likely meant what he didn’t want it to mean. No question. So he barely noticed when Brenda came in and sat down at the next table. It was only that some of the girls were gasping, What’s wrong? You look terrible. Did Mr. Spag-a-lot Eggers make a pass? And then her shaky voice telling the tale.

  “There’s a boy I know in town,” she said. “He got awfully roughed up at the weekend. I’ve not been able to sleep, it was that horrible.”

  “What happened?” someone said.

  “Was it the one you fancy?” said someone else.

  “No, not him,” said Brenda. “This boy got jumped by skinheads, kicked about and bashed up, but worse than the licking, they …”

  Luke wasn’t the only one who’d stopped eating to listen.

  “They what?” said someone. Brenda was crying and couldn’t answer.

  “They … painted him,” she whispered, after a bit. “They scraped his arms with a nail, and then they poured pink paint all over him.”

  “What the hell?”

  “He’s got these nasty scratches.… ” Brenda faltered again. “Says queer right up his left arm, but they only got to quee on the right. Someone saw and called the coppers.”

  Luke put down his spoon. The porridge was foul. Like sucking on the spongy fungus that grew on the trunks of trees.

  “His brother is the bugger who got my sister pregnant,” said Brenda. “Which makes Robbie Jerry’s uncle. I guess we’re related, me being the auntie. So I doubt that Robbie’s actually, you know”—her voice dropped—“a fairy. But someone was pissed off!”

  Luke pushed back from the table ever so carefully. He carried his bowl to the bin and scraped it slowly, gently, as if handling a precious dish. The clang when it landed on the service trolley seemed louder than all the morning chatter in the room. Was everyone watching? Did everyone know? He fought the urge to tiptoe out of the dining hall. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. That’d only draw attention. You may be queer, but you’re not stupid. Or quee, he thought. The spoonful of porridge rose in his throat. He went back to his chair, tea mug half full so he wouldn’t slop with his shaking hand.

  Luke did not know where Robbie lived. Or would he be in a hospital? It sounded bad. How do they get paint off? Jesus. Was his dad sitting by his bed, praying, maybe? No mum, he knew that much. An aunt, he was pretty certain. “It’d be like telling them I was dead,” Robbie had said. He’d called his brother an idiot yob, but what did that mean? What had Luke said about Kirsten in the brief exchange on siblings? “She’s all right.” With a shrug. Like she didn’t matter much.

  Luke looked around to where Kirsten sat at the maths teachers’ table, smearing jam on bread while Penelope babbled in her ear. Would Kirsten sit beside Luke’s bed in a hospital room if he were bashed and painted?

  She must have felt his stare. She met his eyes and crossed hers at once, the way they both used to at the supper table, kids listening to their parents natter. He crossed his too, and smiled for half a second before he remembered. Robbie had been beaten up, cut up, covered in paint. Who the hell had pink paint?

  He couldn’t tell Kirsten. He hadn’t had a true conversation with her in about three years. He’d kept meaning to. But how could he just say, out of nowhere, By the way, I like boys?

  One particular boy. He stood up, dumped his untasted tea, touched the shillings in his pocket. He’d be late for Religious Studies. He would ring the green number now, just being a mate asking how was Robbie.

  The phone was answered by a growly-voiced woman, Robbie’s Aunt Pat, she said. He was over at the Harrogate District Hospital, she said, and when were her cursed nephews going to stop causing trouble, she’d like to know? Their mother must be spinning in her grave, what with Simon’s fiancée finding him on the sofa with that tart from the hotel, and Robbie, well, Robbie! She couldn’t bring herself to say that word aloud.

  Harrogate was miles away. Eight, Luke saw, when he checked a map in the library, skipping the first lesson completely. He wondered if there was a bus from town. But town was already such a hike in the wrong direction, he might as well head toward Harrogate and put the walk to use. How long would it take? And what about getting back again? He supposed he
could try thumbing, but what if he had trouble getting a lift? It might be quicker to walk.

  All these stupid stones in the path, why couldn’t anything be simple? But he’d already dumped his books, nicked Nico’s black jacket, and set out down the back road to avoid being seen before he allowed himself to think, I’m going. And didn’t Mr. Eggers come along right then, on his way to fetch bonemeal from a farm over that way? Didn’t bother him, having a truant in the van. A bit of company makes the day go by.

  Outside the hospital, Luke wished he smoked, something to make him inhale, a cloud to wash over his insides instead of this woodpecker having a furious go at his heart.

  He asked which room, worried there’d be someone to stop him. But, “Third curtain on the left, love,” said the chubby nurse gripping a water pitcher. It was a bit like the dorms at school, except the beds had dividers strung between them. Hidden somewhere was an old man making a snorty noise. Luke crept to the third curtain and moved it back with one finger.

  Robbie’s bed was tipped partway up. One eye was taped over with a medical patch, but the other stared from beneath a swollen violet lid. Robbie’s bandaged arms flew up as if to fend off an intruder.

  “Hey,” said Luke. He pulled shut the curtain behind him and stepped nearer. Robbie looked … bad. Different, and bad. His skin was shiny pink, stretched-looking. They must have scrubbed the hell out of it to take off an entire flipping bucket of paint. Most of his hair was clipped off.

  “Whadderyoudoonhere?” The sounds were not quite words.

  “I got a lift,” said Luke. “I was going to walk, but I didn’t have to.”

  Robbie shook his head, like that’s not what he meant. “Youshouldn.”

  Luke shrugged. He was here. He’d forgotten to bring anything. Flowers? Biscuits? What does a person bring to someone who’s been beaten up? “Are you gasping for a cigarette?” he said. “I could get you some. Perhaps there’s a machine.”

  Robbie shook his head again. “Mgonnaquit.”

  Luke wanted to sit but there was only the bed, and that seemed wrong.

  “What happened?” he whispered. “Who did this?”

  “Feknpricksiswho.” Robbie’s neck rolled slowly to one side, toward where the door was, beyond the curtain. “Youshouldnbehere,” he said again. “Viciousbuggersgonna …”

  Luke glanced at Robbie’s arms, heavily wrapped in gauze. He was curious to see the scratched letters. Plenty of time for that.

  “Brenda was telling the other girls at school.” Luke’s fingertips tapped the sheet pulled taut over Robbie’s feet. “I … I called the number you gave me. Your aunt said you were here … I left school, skipped Religion and Bio. I’m missing Drama now. I had to see you, I was going crazy, from the minute I heard, it was like pouring rain only on me. I wanted to tell you—”

  Robbie’s hands lifted to stop him yakking. “Look-likeshit.”

  “Me?” said Luke. “What about you?”

  Every bit of Luke’s skin tingled, as if he were the one rubbed raw. It was the brand-new bare-naked feeling of being himself. He tucked his arms around Robbie as best he could. After days of wondering, after the morning of screeching anxiety, Luke breathed in those few perfect seconds with the music of trolley wheels in the corridor, and his nose warm, in Robbie’s neck.

  jenny

  The first letter I wrote to Matt, I struggled with how to begin. I crossed out Dear Matt, because how embarrassing was it to say dear on paper when I would never say it to his face? Hi there! How’re things? A little too jaunty. He was in a war. Which made Ahoy! ridiculous. I skipped the salutation.

  I thought of you tonight when my toes touched the hot-water bottle under the blanket and I wondered if you are freezing, like we are in Yorkshire, or steamy hot, the way I expect a jungle to be.

  Complete drivel. Talking about the weather.

  Funny how we’re both so far away from home, only neither of us really got to choose. Does that make you mad? I never asked you in person, how you feel about the war and stuff. It didn’t seem fair to ask, since your feelings weren’t going to change anything.

  How about I just tell you about the delightful school food, and we can have a contest: WHICH IS WORSE? Boarding School or Army? Entry #1: Breakfast today: poached eggs served in a tub of cloudy water. We were supposed to scoop them out, dripping, and plop them onto bread that was probably toasted last night. The eggs were as solid as baseballs, I swear.

  Your turn!

  xx Jenny

  PS: I hope it’s not too terrible there. I miss you.

  For where to send it, I had to ring Tom.

  Ring means “call.”

  The telephone booth was in the back hallway, under the stairs. You had to bend over to get in there, and then it was like Doctor Who’s time-travel spacecraft, with an enormous old-fashioned pay telephone acting as the instrument panel. The walls were an archive of doodles and penknife etchings from generations of homesick kids.

  I used up too many shillings of my tiny weekly allowance, but it was worth it to hear Tom’s voice. I tried ringing him pretty often but next-to-never found him in. This time, lucky.

  “Way to support the troops, kid,” he said. He had Matt’s military address, but confessed he’d written only once. “What am I supposed to say?” He slipped into an English accent. “Oh bother! There was no cream for the porridge this morning! Most vexing, eh what? Killed any gooks lately?”

  “Tom, don’t say ugly stuff. I wrote about food too.” I traced my finger over a poem scratched into the wall of the booth. Get Me. Out. Of Here. “Maybe it will cheer him up for five minutes.”

  Tom was quiet, holding-his-breath quiet.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “No.” He definitely had a crack in his voice. “I haven’t written at all. I lied. Not even once.”

  “Oh, Tom.” What was I supposed to say? “His life is in danger every single day. How are you going to feel if he … if he … gets injured? Send him a letter.”

  Hard to believe I’d been here over a month. Some days it was hard to believe it was only that long. Living in a dorm was like having a sleepover every night, sometimes claustrophobic but mostly great. I didn’t mind anymore being naked in front of the whole crowd. Naked was normal. I examined the other bodies for dimply bits, tufts of hair, enviable curves. Having no sisters I’d never had a chance to see all this—except with my mother, who had been on a kick of not wearing a bra as some kind of women’s libber ban-the-bra political statement, but with her I’d averted my eyes. At home in gym class, girls were extra modest, getting dressed behind curtains or under their towels. Kelly and Becca would have died to see me walk across a room with no clothes on.

  And going to lessons wasn’t like school. We sat at rickety desks so old they had holes in the corners for inkpots. We had Russian classes with Sergei, who was rumored to be a self-exiled aristo, and he taught us French as well. We spoke in booming voices, as if calling across the icy barrens, and called everybody tovarishch, for “comrade.” Biology and Physics were both with Kirby, who was the youngest teacher and played guitar every minute outside the classroom. It was clear by day two that the maths they were learning in England (maths means “math”) was far beyond what we’d been doing in the States and the schedule was constructed so that I couldn’t slip into class with third or fourth form either. Fran shrugged her Quakerly shoulders and let me not do it at all. That was brilliant! Jasper taught English, Phil taught Geography, Leonard taught History and Art, Richard the headmaster taught Religious Studies, a local dippy lady named Stormy came in twice a week to teach Dramatic Interpretations, and we had Malcolm for the dreaded British Constitution.

  I got to the bottom of my trunk in my mission to make snipped art pieces of every single garment (except the underwear). I’d have to borrow clothes for Parent Visiting Day, when Mom and Dad were flying over just for the long weekend. I took my nail scissors to the Swamp
one evening to cut Kirsten’s orange hair. It had grown out so that the dark stripe at the roots made her look like a tiger. Her natural color was a coffee-no-milk brown, and we made her hair really spiky.

  Nico taught me that the trick to breakfast was to make bacon sandwiches. Recipe: spread margarine over a piece of dry toast and fold around a clump of really greasy stuck-together bacon. School version of piggy in a blanket. Yum.

  I could see time passing by watching Percy’s notebook, which he had with him morning till night. The pages he’d written on were tatty and rippled with words, the untouched ones smooth and blank, waiting for his next inspiration. Sometimes he’d snicker and start scribbling in the middle of a conversation, dreadlocks trembling while he wrote. The other girls said Percy had a crush on me, but he was never shy or annoying, so who knows?

  “He’s your type,” Penelope said. “As in, dark. Right?”

  Ill Hall Lesson #29: don’t rise to Penelope’s bait.

  “It makes me sick how the boys treat him,” Kirsten said. “Luke told me Adrian soaked Percy’s towel the other night, so he got out of the shower and had to freeze.”

  Percy never complained. He just sat there cackling and writing stuff down.

  “What the hell?” Penelope would say. “Am I in your film?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well, am I?”

  “Do you want to be?”

  “What’s it about?”

  “What do you think it’s about?” He answered her every question with a question; it drove Penelope mad.

  “What’s it about?” I asked him.

  “It’s more than one little film,” he said. “I’m creating an oeuvre. The Boarding School Chronicles.”

  We woke up one Friday to a whole lot of banging outside. Kirsten sat straight up with a shout and we piled onto her bed to stare out the window. The Brontë girls crowded in to join us for the best view. The field of the farm next door was full of trucks and men.

  “The Autumn Fair!” Everyone seemed thrilled to bits. It would be ready to open by evening and would stay all weekend. Even the teachers loved the Autumn Fair. Even Richard agreed that in the tradition of the great English novelist Thomas Hardy, such celebrations were a worthy rustic entertainment.