What We Hide (2 page)

Tom punched him lightly on the arm. “Go, bro.”

“You be the one goin’.” Matt tapped him back.

And then Matt mussed my hair and leaned in to kiss me, almost right on the lips. “Don’t be messin’ with those English soccer boys,” he said. I tried to laugh, but tears were splashing out, probably blotching everything. He caught my chin in his hand and looked straight into my eyes, his
beautiful brown face too close for me to see all of it. “Be brave.”

“You
tooo
.”

One more little hug, Matt-smell practically killing me.

And that was goodbye.

Illington Hall was announced by a faded sign at the end of the drive. Tom drove the rental car like a maniac, usually remembering which side of the road we should be on. We bounced over a half mile of rutted lane from the main road to the columned entryway of an old manor house. Tall oak doors. Sheep grazing on the playing field out front.

Tom whistled. “We should be arriving in a brougham instead of this rattletrap,” he said. “With a team of fine horses and a couple of footmen, eh what?”

I grinned out the window. It was a rare pleasure to impress Tom. I’d be living like a character in a novel, far from junior year in the suburbs. In England, I’d be the mysterious stranger, the American with an unknown past. Finally,
I’d
be the one with drama.

The word
Headmaster
was etched into a brass plate under the doorbell. In less than a minute, the huge door swung open.

“Tweed!” murmured Tom. “Patched elbows!”

“Welcome to Yorkshire!” The man’s enormous hand clasped mine, the calluses on his palm like the pads on a
dog’s paw. “You must be our new American girl. Jenn, isn’t it? Jolly good show.” He actually said that! He shook Tom’s hand, face radiant with hearty English cheer.

“Richard Woods. We use given names here, no ‘Misters,’ in keeping with the Quaker tradition. Do come in.” The most perfect headmaster on earth. “Quite enterprising, getting yourselves all the way here from America!”

We followed him into what he called the Great Hall, meaning
great
as in big, not awesome, though it was kind of both. It had a cracked stone floor and gleaming wooden doors leading off in all directions. A grand staircase swept upward, wide marble treads worn into dips, guarded by a polished banister that looked better than a sledding hill for a speedy ride. Probably not allowed.

“I’ve got a check here from our father”—Tom brought out an envelope—“paying the big bucks to unload my sister.”

Richard Woods chuckled. “How very American. Straight to business, eh?”

The headmaster’s assistant was also his wife, Isobel. She was about half her husband’s height, with slight buckteeth and a gentle voice. “Your trunk arrived this morning. It’s up in your dormitory. Please feel free to look around,” she said. “Most of the students won’t arrive until this evening.” She pointed to a corridor that would take us to a courtyard where we could see the classrooms. And a path that led into the woods.

“A lovely ramble at this time of year. In the spring we have the most beautiful bluebell grove in Yorkshire, but autumn has its own special marvels.”
Mah-vels
.

“Well then,” said Tom. “Let’s go on a ramble.” We shook hands again and set off.

We passed the kitchen—“God, I hope that’s not your lunch we’re smelling,” said Tom—and stepped onto a flagstone terrace. “Pretty damn quaint! Your classrooms are the
stables
!”

A giddy thrill gripped my chest. “I’ve landed in some weird gothic novel.”

“Let’s find the woods. I’ve got a joint.”

“How did you scrounge a joint? We’re four thousand miles from your dealer!”

He turned down the rim of his knit hat, displaying a neat little row of joints.

“Ohmygod, Tom! What if you’d been caught?”

“Ah, but I wasn’t.”

“But … ohmygod! You could have been arrested or sent back or …”

“But I wasn’t.”

“You could have gone to Vietnam over a
joint
! You would have been blown to bits by a land mine because you’re a pothead.”

“And now that won’t happen,” said Tom. “Relax.”

A sun-dappled path led through a rose garden turned jungle and into the shadows of deep woods beyond.

“Nice,” said Tom. “Quick escape to nature when needed.”

A low granite wall rimmed an old stone fountain just off the path. A busted-up angel stood in the middle, looking as if she’d been in a bar brawl. Half her nose was gone, as well as chunks of her cheek and shoulder, but her wings
were intact, and one graceful hand rested on the head of a swan, which would have appeared to be swimming if there’d been water. The angel’s other arm held an urn.

“Too bad it’s not working,” I said.

“She looks like she’s pouring a pitcher of beer over someone’s head.”

“A sight you’re familiar with?”

“Clearly the hangout.” Tom kicked the dirt beside the fountain’s edge. “A million butts.”

I glanced around at the tangle of wild roses and overgrown ferns. Maybe this view would become as familiar as the tree outside my bedroom window at home.

“Let’s go farther before I light the spliff,” said Tom. “Don’t want to get you kicked out before you’ve even unpacked your trunk.”

A few more steps brought us into the real woods.

“It’s called weed over here,” Tom had said. “But
hash
is way more common.”

“How do you know that already?”

“I checked. Key vocabulary for survival in a foreign land.”

Tom lit the joint, but I only had one toke. I was already tingling just being here, didn’t want to be stoned. Dots of light through the branches shone fat gold freckles on Tom’s face. Something scuffled in the fallen leaves, making us both jump and then laugh ridiculously. A red squirrel tore across the path, so we jumped again and laughed some more. A blackbird began to sing on a low branch right over our heads, which seemed even funnier.

“These woods have seen their share of teen action,” said
Tom. “Smoking a joint is the tip of the iceberg. I’ll bet there’s hot sex behind every tree on a midsummer’s eve.”

“Shhh.” Hot sex. I hadn’t been there yet. Kissing wasn’t sex, and even that had happened only a few times at parties. I wished that half kissing Matt goodbye could mean something.

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 sucks.”