What We Hide Read online

  Birdcalls and tree creaks emphasized the quiet.

  “It feels like … we’re trespassing on ancient territory.” I looked up through leaves. “Ghosts all around us. Can’t you see Scottish warlords stomping through these woods? Or Roman soldiers setting up camp. Drying their battle togas after plodding through a heavy rain. Hacking off branches to make a fire.”

  “I don’t think these trees are Roman, Jenn.”

  “Sharpening their blades, going on a rampage against the poor farmers.”

  “Mmm,” said Tom. “Well. No soldier is marching here now.”

  We’d gotten all the way to this grove of trees and I’d never asked Tom point-blank what he felt about the army.

  “Yeah,” I said. “How about that?”

  Tom closed his eyes and swayed slightly, more stoned than I’d realized. Or maybe I was. He licked his lips, opened his eyes, which glinted faintly pink.

  “Better use eyedrops before we meet back up with the headmaster.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about Matt,” he said.

  I had a flash of Tom and Matt shooting hoops in the driveway, Tom’s skinny white shoulders jostling Matt’s brown ones, fighting for the ball during the nine millionth game.

  “And the twenty thousand other guys who don’t have the brains or the balls or the cash to be a coward like me.”

  Was he a coward? Or was he was making a personal stand for peace, like Mom said, and he’d suck at being a soldier anyway? I tried to imagine him with the haircut Dad had often threatened to make him get, a military buzz instead of his bushy curls crammed under a black watch cap like some pirate.

  “Shouldn’t we go back?” I said. He sort of deserved to feel like crap. Tom had a spot at Sheffield University and Matt was going to war. What did we know, other than what was shown on TV? Mud. Helicopters. Scared villagers. Explosions. Corpses. Matt would see it all up close.

  When the fountain came into sight again, there were two girls sitting on the rim. One of them whipped a cigarette behind her back while she checked us out. Her hair could only be called tresses, dark and luxuriant like those of a heroine on the cover of a romance novel. The notsmoking one had heavy eyeliner and short hair the color of orange juice.

  “Uh-oh,” I said to Tom, low. I wasn’t ready for actual other kids. “No one was supposed to be here till tonight.”

  “Don’t be silly. One of them might be your new best friend.”

  We couldn’t walk past and pretend there weren’t humans perched at the edge of the path. But stopping? Saying Hi, I’m new?

  “Let old Tom handle this,” said Tom. “Watch the master.”

  The smoker took a last deep drag of her cigarette and then ground it into the dirt with the toe of a pink wedge sandal, never taking her eyes off Tom.

  “So this is where the action is.” Tom hitched thumbs into his jeans pockets and smiled in that charming way that I only saw around strangers.

  “Welcome to the Swamp.”

  Tom nodded toward the fountain. “Your guardian angel?”

  She smirked. “New, eh?” The girl tucked a strand behind her ear, flirting.

  “Jenn is,” said Tom.

  “American?” said the orange-haired girl.

  “Uh-huh,” drawled Tom.

  “What form are you in?”

  “Fifth,” I said. Same as eleventh grade back home.

  “Which dorm?” asked the other one.

  “Jane Austen.” Thank goddess I knew the answers so far.

  “Us too.” She tilted her head toward the school building. “Staying for dinner?” she said to Tom. The girls got up to go.

  “Dunno,” said Tom.

  “I guess dinner means lunch,” I muttered a translation. It being noon.

  Tom watched her butt all the way up the path till she turned on purpose to catch him.

  “A handsome brother goes a long way,” he said.

  “You vain pig.” But I knew it was true.

  “Goodness, did you get lost?” asked Isobel Woods. “Your mother rang all the way from Philadelphia to be certain you’d arrived safely!”

  “Safe and … perhaps not quite sound,” said Tom.

  Isobel blinked. “You can clean up quickly in the lavatory and join the early birds in the dining hall.”

  “Tom,” I whispered. “Maybe you should go.”

  He started to smile and then realized I meant it. “Seriously? You’re ready to …”

  He might have said You’re ready to say goodbye? but instead he went, “… ready to leap off the rusting bridge into the cool green waters of your own life?”

  I laughed in the same instant that my eyes stung with tears.

  “Fine,” he said. “Eat crap school food all by yourself. See if I care.” He gave me a real squeeze. And zoomed away before I could change my mind.

  Poof! New life began as the two girls from the fountain sidled up.

  “That was truly heartwarming,” said the dark-haired girl.

  “Don’t be a twat, Penelope.” Orange Hair made a face. “I’m Kirsten. Sit with us. We’ll fill you in on all the sordid details.”

  The ceiling in the dining hall was high, high above our heads, adorned with plaster curlicues and blossoms, and dotted with large blobs of jam and butter.

  “There’s a tradition of food fights at end of year,” said Kirsten. “Only there’s no ladder tall enough to clean up after.”

  “Oh Lord,” said Penelope. “Good old Hairy Mary hasn’t changed a bit over the summer.”

  A woman in a crisp white uniform waited next to the only set table.

  “Matron,” whispered Kirsten. “Dormitory Nazi.”

  “Ah! You’ve met the new gerrl!” Hairy Mary’s Scottish accent turned girl into gerrl. She joined us at the table. “Verry good.”

  “I’ll thank you two to show Jenn around this afternoon. Allow her to become familiar with the regulations. Which include ‘No hair dye or makeup,’ Kirsten.”

  “Term doesn’t begin till tomorrow,” said Kirsten. As if her hair color would disappear overnight.

  “You’re going to start out being cheeky, are you?”

  “Cheeky? Me?”

  The food was truly disgusting. My friends at home were expecting vivid descriptions of horrible school food, but I now realized that this was all there’d be to eat. Potatoes like old candles, meat loaf like discount cat food, peas like grubby pellets of paste.

  Hairy Mary chewed with concentration, emptying her plate with impressive efficiency. Penelope served herself one mouthful from each tureen. Kirsten had only potatoes, mashed flat, topped with globules of margarine and a hailstorm of salt. After the first bite, my stomach rolled over in panic. I might starve to death.

  “Was that your boyfriend?” said Penelope.

  “No, Tom’s my brother.”

  “Very tasty,” said Penelope.

  “Interesting aroma.” Kirsten, letting me know they’d sniffed the pot.

  “He goes to Sheffield University,” I said.

  Penelope’s eyebrows rose. No one said So why isn’t he going to war?

  “You gerrls are on your own now, until tea.” Hairy Mary rose to leave. “It would be most responsible to attend to your unpacking.”

  “Ah!” said Kirsten. “But are we responsible?” She looked at Penelope and even cocked her head at me.

  The matron turned away with a little tsk of exasperation.

  “Good old Hairy Mary,” sighed Kirsten.

  “I’ll unpack far enough to retrieve my jumper,” said Penelope. “We can go into the village. Does your brother want to come, Kirsten? Where’s he been hiding? He didn’t eat.”

  “Oh, you know Luke. He hibernates at school.”

  “Wait till you see Luke.” Penelope smirked at me. “Dead gorgeous! But quite standoffish.”

  “Let’s go have chips for tea,” said Kirsten. “Instead of mulch.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not all the size of pencils,” I said. “The food suc
ks.”

  “It would poison a hog,” said Penelope. “The baked beans are like someone else’s spew.”

  Spew must mean “puke.” I was quickly assembling a glossary.

  “The cook’s name is Vera Diarrhea,” said Kirsten. “Which tells you everything you need to know. She boils her moldy knickers in the tea urn, in case you’re savoring the flavor.”

  “Let’s go,” said Penelope. “I want to see if the townie-boy selection has miraculously improved over the summer.” She and Kirsten bounced from their chairs, scraped their plates into the bin, and headed for the door. Was I supposed to follow?

  “Oh,” said Kirsten. “You coming, Jenn?”

  An afterthought.

  But of course I was coming! What else would I do?

  “It’s Jenny, actually.” Jenny sounded more English. “Call me Jenny.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” asked Penelope, on the way up the many stairs to the Austen dormitory. I had a flash of Matt’s brown face, the black velvet buzz of hair, the half kiss, his startled face when I’d begun to leak tears against his chest at the airport.

  “You do!” cried Penelope. “Are you … all missing him and heartbroken?”

  “I … uh …” What did she want to hear? “I mean, yes, I’ll miss him, of course, but … I’m in England, right? And he’s not.”

  “I’m liking you more every minute,” said Penelope.

  Matt would never know. Illington Hall was on a different planet from where he was.

  “Matt’s older. Nearly four years,” I said. “He’s in Vietnam.” The wobble in my voice sneaked out, bringing tears that I quickly blinked away.

  Kirsten stopped on the stairs. “You mean he’s a soldier? In the war?”

  I nodded.

  “Doesn’t that make you bonkers? That he’s in the army?”

  “Yes,” I said. Yes, yes, yes.

  “I went to a protest last summer in Birmingham,” said Kirsten. “One smart thing our prime minister did was stay out of that war. You must be … Oh my god, you poor thing.”

  “Mental,” said Penelope.

  I’d done it. They were impressed.

  In the dorm, ten cots stood in two rows, almost like in the picture book about Madeline. A bare lightbulb dangled in the center of the ceiling. The gray wool blankets made my skin itch without my having to touch one. The dingy walls; tall, narrow windows; battered trunks; a glimpse of a huge tiled bathroom—it was perfect!

  Penelope and Kirsten had claimed the two window beds and now expertly pinned up their gray blankets to block out the faint sun. Each pulled a duvet from the top of her trunk and transformed the cots into cozy nests. I watched with a diving heart. Everything in Kirsten’s trunk seemed to be black. Penelope’s clothes, flying in several directions as she dug deeper, might have belonged to the singer in a hippie blues band.

  I realized that the clothing list we’d thought so hilarious back in Philadelphia would now be the cause of resounding humiliation. The list must have been printed in 1938 and never updated. Apparently the uniform regulations had been abandoned. But Mom and I had sewn labels in everything according to the rules: 4 dark skirts, preferably A-line … 4 white blouses with plain collars … 4 warm vests …

  I hadn’t known what a vest was, other than the sleeveless sweaters that Grampy wore. “Undershirt, silly,” said Mom. “You’ll be grateful all winter.”

  The idea of a school uniform had been so appealing, but now that I was here … I’d look like a freaking idiot! Too late to pretend that my trunk had been lost. Could I explain to Mom what to send from home? She had the fashion sense of a missionary. And it must cost a fortune to ship clothes overseas. I’d have to wear my one pair of jeans until they shredded.

  Shredded. Why not? I lifted the lid of my trunk just far enough to retrieve my toiletry kit and one garment, which turned out to be the navy one of 4 dark-coloured V-neck sweaters. I rummaged through my mini bottles of shampoo and lotion. Nail scissors.

  I quietly began to snip at the neckline and then at the cuffs and the bottom edge. Within minutes I’d created fringe. I gave the sweater a shake and pulled it on. Penelope had now changed her clothes four times. Kirsten’s eye makeup was seriously enhanced.

  “Great jumper!” Penelope ran her fingers along my newly fluffed hem.

  Jumper means “sweater.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s kind of my thing, adapting. Clothes and stuff.”

  “We get expelled for thumbing,” said Kirsten. “But sometimes a lorry will give us a lift without us asking.” Thumbing means “hitching,” I noted. Lorry means “truck.”

  We walked the three long miles to town. They peppered me with questions about the States. And Matt. We went into a pub where Penelope bought fags. Fag means “cigarette.” I could have been writing entries for a phrase book. We went to a chip shop where Kirsten made me try malt vinegar. It looked like brown pee, but tasted sharp and delicious. Chip means “french fry.” Penelope pounced on two local blokes she knew from last term, Robbie and Alec. Blokes means “guys.”

  “I dunno how you ever snogged either of them,” said Kirsten. Snog means “kiss.”

  “Are you joking?” said Penelope. “Did you see Robbie’s bum? But Alec should not have shaved his head.”

  “Sooo,” said Penelope as we headed back to the school. “Have you slept with him, this Matt bloke?”

  “Well, yeah.” In the same house, about a thousand times.

  I used to squish right between Tom and Matt on the carpet in front of the television where they’d be watching Get Smart or Hogan’s Heroes, with a plate of celery sticks dipped in Cheez Whiz and a foil bowl of popcorn. I’d lie there wriggling until the boys shifted just enough for my scrawny self to lie between them. Peanut Butter ’n’ Jenny, they called it. Sometimes we’d fall asleep that way, waking up to find that Mom had covered us with a blanket and turned off the television.

  “And?”

  “What do you mean, and?” Treacherous ground for a virgin.

  “You don’t have to answer her,” said Kirsten. “She’ll keep poking away till you show her naked photos.”

  “No naked photos.”

  “I mean …” Penelope leaned in closer, bringing wafts of clove oil and No. 6 cigarettes. “You said he was black, right? So is it true about black blokes?”

  “Oh.” I aimed for a sassy grin. “I’ve never slept with a white guy, so how would I know?” True statement. For a change.

  “Whoa.”

  A moment of silence while I climbed to the next rung in Penelope’s estimation.

  “Do you mind telling me about his hair?” she said. “How it feels?”

  “Pen, shut it!” said Kirsten.

  A car horn tooted. “Super-perfect timing!” called Kirsten. The art master, Leonard, was offering us a lift.

  “Happy to be back?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Penelope.

  “And how are you liking it so far?” To me.

  “Super!” I tried to sound like Kirsten. “Perfect.”

  “Isn’t it grand.” He invited us, with a sweep of his arm, to gaze on the autumn fields, spiky and golden as the sun smoldered near the end of its day. Penelope rolled her eyes and slouched down next to me in the backseat.

  “So many greens,” said Kirsten. “Endless.”

  “Suck-up,” Penelope mouthed at me. Grand means “grand,” I thought.

  One hundred and twenty-two other students had arrived and were jammed into the front hallway in frenzied reunion, tripping over luggage and generally hurling themselves at each other in passionate embrace. Hairy Mary was corralling the younger forms, sending the boys off with a teacher called Kirby and marching the girls up the stairs. Kirsten and Penelope were instantly swallowed by a crowd of their real friends and I was the new girl again. Loads of kids in clusters of three or four, a sound track of unfamiliar accents and new words.

  “Who are you?” The girl had a cloud of blond hair with a serious frizz situ
ation.

  “She’s Jenny.” Penelope was miraculously nearby. “Jenny, this is Oona. Sorry, Oona, Kurse and I have dibs. She’s in Austen dorm, not Brontë.”

  “Won’t take you long to be utterly sick of them,” said Oona. “Penelope’s mouth will drive you away in no time.”

  “Charming as ever, Oona.”

  A twinge of worry. What if I’d landed with the wrong people, right off the bat? Should I be avoiding Penelope? Or Oona? Possibly both?

  But they had a distraction. “Wow, Nico! Hallo!”

  “Is that fresh Mediterranean swarthiness?” Oona was practically salivating. The boy had a total honey tan, plus dark wavy hair and, oh my god, green eyes.

  “This is Jenny.” Penelope played her card. “New girl. American. Yes, she has a boyfriend, and he’s a soldier in Vietnam being bombed in some jungle as we speak, which is deeply traumatic, as you can imagine. Plus, he’s black, so even you pale—get it, pale?—by comparison.… ”

  Nico raised his eyebrows and shot me an awkward smile.

  “Uh, hi.”

  Penelope had turned my one little lie into a whole drama.

  Which was exactly what I wanted, wasn’t it?

  And so term began. With me in disguise.

  robbie

  I knew before he did that he was queer. That’s why I was watching him in the shop when he nicked the stupid mints. Mints, for Chrissake. Nothing else in the whole shop worth nicking? He’s new at this, I thought. Just trying it on. Maybe there’s other stuff he’ll try. So I followed him. Good thing he didn’t get stopped for the mints.

  He was one of that boarding school lot. Easy to tell, even apart from being strangers. They had a style about them; you knew they didn’t buy gear in this widge of a town. He was cute as hell, eyes like a girl’s, great bum in jeans, hair falling every which way, like he’d just rolled over in the sack.

  So I followed him along the main road. He was clipping it, shoulders up, till he took a quick look back and didn’t see any coppers pulling their sticks on him for a packet of bleeding mints. Then he slowed down, hands in pockets, looking in windows, checking out the runners at Smyth Sports like any boy on a Saturday afternoon. A couple of girls came out of Bigelow’s with ice creams, girls from his school. He ducked into a doorway that led up to the flat above the shop. He closed his eyes, like if he couldn’t see them, they wouldn’t notice him. And they didn’t. They giggled on by, giving me the up and down as they passed.