What We Hide (19 page)

“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 ex
punged
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 roaming 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.”