“Esther?”
“I don’t know if you’ve run this past the headmaster? I mean, the story is in our anthology … and most of us have read it … but the school … well, it’s not meant to be on the curriculum … you know, out of sensitivity to Nico.”
Amy’s glossy lips pouted like those of a birthday girl with a broken balloon. Aw, diddums, thought Nico. Party over.
“Not that it’s not good,” Esther hurried to add, with a quick look at Nico. He bestowed upon her his sexiest smile of gratitude, which caused an instant flush up her freckled neck. “But it’s rather … out of bounds for discussion.”
His mother had written the stupid story as a lark one weekend, with three university roommates each writing one too. They’d sent them all off to an American magazine with pseudonyms invented while under the influence of gin-and-lemonade cocktails. Thea’s story had been accepted, the others had not. Thea Nevos had invented her nom de plume, Miss Althea Neverly, thinking it sounded gothic and hilarious and not Greek. Her friends were not surprised that her submission was chosen, but they were a bit miffed. More than miffed when her one silly story launched a career of deconstructing male assumption and mythology about writing by women, eventually making Thea Nevos an outspoken and foulmouthed celebrity on behalf of the new women’s liberation movement.
“Janice never really got over it,” Nico’s mother said. “That’s why she screwed your father a week after you were born. Hardly the behaviour of a woman defining sisterhood.” She shrugged. “Of course back then, in the fifties? There was no such thing. It was up to us to define it. Possibly she was doing exactly what a liberated woman does.”
Nico hated when she talked to him like that. He hated when she acted as if he were an adult, a peer, a pal, a woman, instead of a kid. A boy kid, Mother, in case you hadn’t noticed. And I’d rather not hear about your menstrual blood on radio programs either.
Amy recovered quickly. “Come on, fifth formers. To revisit a classic is often to discover a new work! Each phase of our own maturity is marked by the ability to reinterpret what we have considered familiar, to adjust our point of view, to encounter … revelation.” She slid her bum up onto the desk and crossed her legs, making Nico wonder what happened underneath the skirt. That would be a revelation worth looking into.
“Point of view from here a nice one,” Adrian whispered, pissing Nico off that he’d been thinking the same thing.
But Amy was still chattering.
“I’m sure Nico is mature enough to handle a bit of literary appreciation! Since we’re all experts on the Neverly tale, I want you to consider the character of Lady Rosalyn. Is she an archetypal victim? Or is she possibly what is now being referred to as a feminist icon? Does everyone know that word, feminist?” Amy’s method of teaching clearly relied on a deep bucket of pseudopsychological insights. And now she was going to apply this phoney crap to Thea Nevos?
Nico imagined bashing a dent in his own forehead using the edge of the desk as an implement. He pictured his mother slowly raising her fingers in a cursing V at the shiny-faced Amy, her head giving its customary shake of disdain.
“Ah!” Amy clasped her hands together in front of her chest, making everything jiggle for a moment, distracting Nico just as he intended to interrupt the lecture.
“An enlightened source!” said Amy. “Nico?”
Young Thea did not waste time after the tiny flurry over her short story (told in the alternating voices of Lady Rosalyn and her child maidservant, Melly). She had quickly rewritten her thesis—“Reinterpreting the Gothic Novel”—as fiction, from the point of view of a vengeful female ghost. She was offered book deals from several different publishing houses and accepted two of them. Carefully balancing her academic intentions with a deft talent for ghostly murder mysteries, Thea wrote four more books in five years. She was suddenly a social darling, photographed at parties and climbing out of limousines.
Until the next phase of her notoriety: the out-of-wedlock conception of her son. (“Wedlock?” said Nico’s mother. “Doesn’t the word just scream of something to be avoided?”) She referred to the father of her baby only as M, but did not flinch from recording the size of his penis or his love of maple syrup as a sex accessory. Thea Nevos was despised by anyone who didn’t idolize her. The next book, promoted as strictly nonfiction, recorded her youth and the early years of motherhood, and quickly became a bestselling and irreverent “bible” for young parents.
“I can’t listen to this,” said Nico. He might as well go all the way. Ticket out of class, right? “You’re spouting rubbish. She didn’t know she was writing this destined-to-be-a-curriculum-hit type of story.” That was his mother’s phrase. Curriculum-hit, she’d sneer. Big literary aspiration. The story is derivative, unmitigated crap. “She whipped it off as a dare. For a magazine contest.”
“I know that’s the myth,” said Amy. “But even if it’s true, she came up with a super story! It has all the elements of an old ghost tale, with a ‘new woman’ agenda enmeshed in the echoes of a gothic literary tradition, challenging our preconceptions about—”
“She just needed the cash.” Nico could hear his mother’s irritated amusement. I just needed the cash. I had my eye on a Volkswagen Beetle.
The other kids laughed. He tipped his chair farther back, balancing.
Amy sighed. “You’re not giving the author enough credit here, Nico. Is it too difficult for you to have an objective dialogue about what is possibly household scripture?”
Nico’s chair legs hit the floor with a thunk.
“You’re being intentionally rebarbative,” said Amy. “I’m certain that your classmates take your mother’s story more seriously than you do.”
“Really?” Nico shrugged. “They look pretty bored to me.”
Amy’s cheeks were as pink as a girl’s who has just been kissed. “You may go.”
He nearly went. He’d purposely pissed her off so he could leave. But, “We just did this,” he said. “With Jasper. The unreliable narrator.”
“These narrators are not unreliable,” insisted Amy. “That’s what makes your mother’s work so fascinating! She explores the same incidents through such different eyes. A woman chafing against the bonds of convention, and a girl in servitude who remains spiritually free, not yet trapped by expectations. Both perspectives are valid and reliable. They serve to enhance our—”
“In your version,” he said. “From your point of view, ‘Lady’s Fancy’ is some libber masterpiece. According to my mother, it is shite juvenilia. And I’m like, who cares? So whose point of view wins? What’s the real story?” Would Amy take on the battle of a curse word spoken in class? Hands waved in the air, and she ignored the shite.
“There is no one story, is there?” Jenny did not look at Nico as she spoke. “Nobody wins.”
“Except everyone claims to be telling the truth,” said Penelope.
“Ah,” said Amy. “The question that humans have tackled for centuries. What is truth?”
“That’s what I mean,” said Nico. “No such thing. Especially if you’re talking about someone else. Nobody knows. It might not be lies, but it’s not true either. It’s the way the story is told, what gets emphasized. Or left out.”
Amy’s hair caught a sunbeam through the window, giving her a halo for a moment as she considered Nico. “You sound as though you’ve struggled a bit, being the subject of someone else’s scrutiny,” she said. “If a mere short story—‘Lady’s Fancy’—is a problem for you, how do you feel about your mother’s memoir?”
Amy picked up a book from her desk and Nico groaned aloud. He glimpsed his mother’s public face for the ten thousandth time, mysterious behind dark glasses, fierce and beautiful in her youth. He slapped his palm onto the desk so hard that it stung for a moment. “You’ve got no right,” he said, “yammering on about points of view, barging into people’s lives as if it’s part of some lesson, pretending you care about truth.”
There was a deadly hush
as he yanked open the door. He glanced back at the teacher, pale now, her glossy mouth sagging. She was holding the volume that he’d spent three years at Illington pretending did not exist. Slam.
Nico had made an effort, more than once or twice, to read Raising Nicky, but from chapter 3 and the moment his parents met, it was excruciating. He liked the early bits, about his mother’s idyllic childhood on the island of Spetsai with Nico’s grandparents. Then, when Thea was nine, her Greek father, Leftaris, and her determined English mother, Rose, had joined a band of Quakers to form a commune in Yorkshire, peaceably sidestepping the war that loomed in Europe. Like hippies, but without the hair. And no love beads or silly clothes that would get in the way of a hammer or saw, since the centuries-old mansion they’d discovered needed to be nailed back together after decades of neglect. The book showed a photo of his grandfather transforming a stable into what was now the science classroom, sleeves rolled up on his stiff, collared shirt, a handkerchief tucked neatly into his pocket.
Nico’s Papou and Granny Rose had helped to bring Illington Hall back from gothic ruin, and their daughter had grown up watching what could happen when social faith led to constructive action. After the war, they moved back to Greece, leaving Thea as a boarder to finish her education amongst her English friends.
Nico liked the chapter about the school, of course; descriptions of mandatory plunges in the frigid pond, séances to raise ghosts in the dormitories, and food cooked by a much-younger Vera, even worse back then because of war rationing.
When Thea lost her virginity (in the woodworking shed, with a discreetly unnamed boy—the first of dozens of lovers), that part turned out to be funny instead of mortifying because the teenage Thea was an entertaining literary character, barely related to the mother he knew. She had actually inspired him, if Nico told the absolute truth, to consider his own first time with a little more care than just the randy desperation he’d been feeling up till then. What if (as unlikely as it might seem) the event became part of his professional repertoire, the way his mother’s had done?
Last spring he’d begun his mission: to have it off with a girl … poetically.
Even with the limited number of girls to choose from, Nico had eliminated Penelope off the top, for being a slag. He didn’t intend to join a club. Kirsten was too good a friend. Esther, he’d have to face her baleful eyes for how long afterward? Fiona, Caroline, Oona: either silly or homely as hell. It came down to the Canadian girl, Sarah, to whom he’d not yet paid attention, but rather liked once he was noticing. She seemed to be wherever he looked, pulling her hair into a shining ponytail, snuggling into her afghan coat, filching sugar from the table and putting it in a little jar that she carried around just for that purpose, so she could sweeten tea made with the kettle in the Girls’ Changing Room.
To launch his campaign, he cleverly bought a pound of sugar at Bigelow’s in the village (along with a box of Durex). He and Sarah began to drink their tea together, from mugs they’d made in Pottery. Things moved along pretty quickly from kissing during walks down the woods to more serious rubbing and groping. Nico nicked a pillow from the infirmary and hid it under a clean tarpaulin in the woodworking shed, ready and waiting. But thanks to the spring crop of bluebells, which Sarah seemed to give him credit for, the closest they came was down the woods. They’d rolled around, humping through their jeans until Nico’s had torn.
“Can I just … can we do it really?” he whispered.
“No chance,” said Sarah.
They’d crushed teeny blue flowers like Roman fecking emperors and she finished him off by hand. Nico limped back to school so dishevelled that his dorm mates had broken into applause. Fine, let them think it had gone his way. Luckily, Sarah had gone back to Canada at the end of term without the truth coming out. But now, a full semester later, it was quite an effort to uphold his reputation while still trying to lose his virginity.
“Nico!” Amy laid a hand on his sleeve just as tea was finishing. “I’d like a word.”
“Ooh.” Henry and Adrian could be such holes. “What’s the naughty boy done, eh?”
Nico’s neck warmed as he stood to follow the teacher.
“Maybe you’ll get spanked,” said Adrian. Henry choked on his last swallow of tea.
Amy didn’t stop outside the dining hall but led him into the dim and empty library. Her hair swung gently with every step, making him want to reach forward and grip a fistful, to feel the thickness, smell it maybe. Jesus, mate, what are you thinking?
“Nico, I am so sorry about what happened today. I spoke to the headmaster, and he …”
She deserved a bit of a raking, didn’t she?
“Yeah, well, it’s not really fair, is it? Sitting in a lesson, trying to learn something, suddenly having your private—”
“I don’t blame you for leaving, even if it was … pretty rude, the way you did it.” She sounded … tetchy, the way a girlfriend with hurt feelings might. The other blokes would love this—only he’d not be telling them.
“I’m just such a fan of your mother’s work. She’s so … almost cosmic, you know? She speaks directly to my innermost …” Amy’s fist pounding the swell above her heart caused a bounce under the cashmere that made Nico’s prick stir.
“It’s about my mother’s sex life,” he blurted. Idiot.
She reddened. “I’d been thinking how proud you must be … not considering how you might want to protect her privacy and—”
He’d never stood right next to her like this. He was taller than she was. Her hair rippled back from her forehead like on those virgins in Italian paintings. But she couldn’t be a virgin, could she? He was now as hard as a bullet, which she would have noticed if she weren’t looking straight into his eyes.
Might this be his chance?
“Of course I’m proud.” He’d never said that before. And it was true. But it was also a pretty good line, wasn’t it? Amy’s worried face softened. “It’s personal, though. That book. Not something I want … shown about. Or discussed.”
“I just can’t believe I’m standing here with the actual Nicky!” said Amy.
“It’s Nico now,” he said. “I’m not two.”
“Well, that’s certainly true! I’m certain your mum is proud of you too, all grown up! Not joking, I’ve read Raising Nicky five times. And I don’t even have children! Your mother is the funniest, cleverest, most daring person!”
She laughed with her mouth open, the tip of her tongue showing between teeth. Was this an invitation? Was Nico dreaming, or did she want to get off with him?
The library door opened, giving Nico a half-second warning to step back before the overhead lights snapped on. Thank bloody god he hadn’t leaned in to kiss her. He sat in the nearest chair, bulge safely hidden. Esther and Percy were here to set up for their twee little chess club.
“Right, then.” Amy’s voice was almost strident with perkiness. “We’ve got that sorted, haven’t we?”
“Oh, hallo!” said Esther. “Didn’t see you there in the dark.”
“We’re just setting things straight after the misunderstanding today,” said Amy. Way too eager to explain, thought Nico. She was definitely hot for him. If he’d had five more minutes, who knows what could have happened?
He had a brief flash of Sarah, her eyebrows lifted in that skeptical way, reminding him to stay real. But Amy was real, wasn’t she? Just because she was a teacher … admittedly quite an annoying teacher … but practically vibrating under that sweater, right?
Upstairs, Nico lingered in the bathroom. He was accustomed to girls looking at him. His mother’s friends, even, always flirting. He was handsome, let’s face it. Handsome being an old-fashioned word but exactly right for Nico’s good cheekbones and perfect Grecian nose, his reliably wavy hair and clear tan skin. (There were no full-length mirrors in the boys’ dorms, which Nico thought was a big mistake. Wouldn’t it improve everyone’s self-image if they spent a few minutes thinking about how to present themselves to
the world?)
“The one thing you can thank your father for,” said his mother. “Your face. I chose well. But it’s only a bonus. Never the main thing.”
He could recite in his sleep her list of qualities in a Good Man: Be surprising, funny, and fair. Listen. Take your time in bed. Don’t be a baby, be a man.
With Sarah, he’d followed his mother’s rules, tried to do things the right way. But she was gone, with no payoff. Was he supposed to start again every time, being thoughtful and surprising? Most girls were easily hooked with one cheesy smile and a couple of compliments. He could have Penelope any night of the week, and Oona shook her fanny at him every chance she got. Jenny had been a lost cause. Maybe he’d rushed it. But who could compete with a boyfriend in the army? And shouldn’t they all be taking a lesson from that? Get it while, where, and whenever you can. Who wants to be choking to death on your own blood wishing you’d had more sex? More sex? Any sex!
Right in front of his nose … Nico was certain he was reading the signs from Amy as clear as the label on a packet of chewing gum: take off wrapper and put in mouth.
I can’t believe you’re thinking such shite, he could hear his mother say.
In bed, Nico lay on his stomach, using one pillow to wank against and the other over his head to muffle his moans. They heard each other all the time in Kipling dorm and usually pretended it wasn’t happening. Sometimes they had to yell at No-Face about volume, but usually what happened under the duvet was ignored and allowed to stay under the duvet.
Tonight, though, as Nico drifted afterward, Adrian’s voice croaked across the room, “Ameeeeee!” That had the tossers snorting and hee-hawing till the dorm monitor came in, telling them to bleeding well shut it.
Amy had dropped Miss Althea Neverly from her lesson plan, but that didn’t stop the other boys from conducting a juvenile betting game, one that did not include Nico. He figured it out pretty quickly, watching Henry tallying points. Each time Amy glanced in Nico’s direction, Henry made a mark on his page accompanied by a chorus of hissing and shuffling.
What We Hide Page 13
