Educating Simon (10 page)

“Can I get into it for second semester if someone drops out?”

“It's not an easy course to drop into. And it would depend on how many names are still on the waiting list.”

“And is there anything I can do to move up higher on that list?”

“I don't know of anything, other than waiting your turn.”

“Financial generosity would not be rewarded?”

He laughed. He actually laughed. “Good try, but the reward for generosity would not be in the form of a waiting-list advancement. It would be in the knowledge that you're supporting a worthy institution.”

I was trying to be calm, but I was also getting desperate. Talk about a backup plan . . . “Then, Beginning Chinese?”

There was a brief silence. “It looks like as of a few minutes ago, that class is full, too.” It was everything I could do not to scream. “Tell me a little about yourself, Simon. What plans do you have for your future?”

I could feel my jaw working as I tried to hold my temper in check. “I'm planning on the Psychology, Philosophy, and Linguistics course.” I wanted to know if he knew what I meant by that.

He didn't miss a beat. “That course of study has a very broad scope. Would it be fair to say, then, that you're not the kind of person who has one or two very focused academic passions? That your interests are more diverse?”

That was easy. “I'm interested in many different things. And I'm good at most of them.” I couldn't resist. “Like history.”

“Good. Then you could consider the City course.”

“The Living Palimpsest one? What on earth for?”

He chuckled. “If you think that's an easy course, you're very much mistaken. Students have to find their own way around the city, and you're not allowed to use any kind of chauffeured service, private or taxis. You'll look at every aspect of Boston, figure out why these aspects developed as they did, and translate that into a conceptual model transferable to any world city. Your final exam will include a written paper and a thirty-minute presentation to a large group of staff and students.” I was quiet for long enough that he asked, “Do you know the meaning of
palimpsest?”

I almost snorted. “Of course.”

“Picture how a city—London is a wonderful example—is built, rebuilt, reorganised, destroyed or partially destroyed, rebuilt—on and on. Each time a city changes, there are driving forces behind those changes. If you know what these forces are and understand how they drive the development of cities, all kinds of academic doors will open for you. And here's a suggestion. If you take that course, it would allow you to kill a few birds with one stone.”

“Oh?”

“It's a two-semester course, and it meets the IB requirement for the Individuals and Societies class. If we add one extra assignment in the course specifically for you about Boston's influence over US history for, say, one hundred years after the American Revolution, we could remove the History of the Americas requirement. And because it includes the city's cultural development, it could fulfil the arts and humanities requirement as well. What do you think?”

I was trying not to get sucked in, even if this was sounding more interesting. “Two semesters . . .”

“You couldn't do it justice in one. Are you comfortable with public speaking?”

“I delivered presentations to large groups at Swithin.”

“I have to say, Simon, you seem like an ideal candidate for this course. And I would not say that to very many students. I think you have what it takes. And there's yet a
third
bonus.” His voice took on weight. “Students who do well in this course receive a special commendation from the headmistress that's noticed by university deans of admissions.”

“Why don't more students take it, then?”

“It's a very challenging course. Time-consuming. And many students prefer to focus on one or possibly two disciplines rather than spend a lot of energy on this expansive curriculum.”

“How many of last year's graduates are at Oxford now?”

“Two. And one of them took this course. The other is a mathematician.”

I had expected him to say “none.” St. Bony is not a large school; I think there will be just over two hundred students as of this autumn, across four grade levels. “What if I take the first semester and want to drop the second part?”

“There's no penalty grade-wise, but there would be a note on your record. You'd need to include an explanation. And you might be required to pick up two second-semester courses. As I said, this one is very demanding.”

“How many openings are there for it now?”

“Let me check . . . It looks like there are two openings.”

God. What should I do?
“What were the other courses with openings, again?”

We went down the list, but nothing stood out. “So, Simon, shall I sign you up for The City?”

Oxford will take notice. It will make an impression
.

“Are you concerned it would be too much for you?”

If I had reservations, they had more to do with Boston, which I've disparaged so many times to so many people. I didn't want to be put into the position of having to eat my hat. But I also didn't want to pass up an opportunity to get noticed at Oxford. “No.”

“Then . . . what would you like to do?”

“I'll take it.”

“Excellent. Hang on.... Okay, I've just entered you. I'll need to make some adjustments to your schedule, move a class or two around, to accommodate the City course. I'll send you an amended version of your schedule this evening, so watch your e-mail. And tomorrow we'll go over your CAS IB course. As you know, the International Baccalaureate programme requires three core classes, and Creativity, Action, Service is one of them.”

“Yes, I know about the course.” I didn't admit that I'd forgotten about it.

“Then you know that we assign each student a unique project. After your orientation tomorrow, have the front office give me a call. We'll talk about it then.”

Christ, what next? “Do I have to come prepared with ideas?”

“No, actually, we've got your project pretty well defined; just a couple more details to iron out.”

“And you can't give me the basics about it now?”

“Best to speak in person, I think. See you tomorrow, Simon.”

I rang off, but I wasn't happy with this turn of events. Sure, the City course sounded interesting, and it would stand out on my résumé, but so would the Schenker course. I know I love music; I don't look forward favourably on the idea of traipsing all over Boston. Crap. And now there's a “unique” project?

I considered texting GG, but there was too much to say. So I rang him.

He didn't answer.

Wait, just wait until you hear what my CAS project is. I'm nearly apoplectic.

Orientation was about what you'd expect; they gave us our badges, then dragged us through the buildings on Marlborough Street and out for short tours—or at least drive-bys in buses—of locations they use for sport activities.

Back at the school, around half three, the receptionist—a perky girl in a ponytail and a green polka-dot blouse—sent me to Dr. Metcalf's office. We exchanged a couple of comments about the orientation, but I didn't want to waste time. I asked about the CAS project.

He told me, “The first thing you'll need to do is brush up on rules and preparation for the annual Scripps spelling championship, which takes place at the end of May.”

“Not to compete, I presume.”

“No. You're well past the grade level and age for contestants. As I'm sure you know, you flew through the spelling portion of the placement exam. I was very impressed that out of fifty words, you missed only one, and when I told you there was an error it took you no time to identify and correct it.” He sat back in his chair. “Your file indicates that you have synaesthesia. Specifically, letters have colours for you. Do you feel that has affected your ability in the area of spelling?”

“Definitely. I know what colour a word should be, not just what its letters are.”

“So I assume you hadn't seen
arrhostia
before. Yet you found it quickly.”

“Once I knew there was an error, I knew it had to be one of the words I hadn't seen before. I decided that with only one
r, arrhostia
didn't make sense.”

“Why not?”

“It didn't seem to fit any category. You know, medical, legal, linguistic, geographic, that sort of thing. So I played with changing letters, and finally it made sense that it was Greek. So adding the
r
made sense.”

“Have you studied etymology, Simon?”

“Not extensively. But I've studied Italian, Latin, and German, so if something has a Latin or a Germanic root, I recognise that. I've been exposed to enough Greek to be a little familiar with what its roots look like. Shall I go on?”

“No, you've made your point. And it's where I was hoping you'd go. I think you'll enjoy this project.” He opened a folder on the desk. “There's an eleven-year-old boy named Toby Lloyd at the Academy of New England, a private IB school. Young Toby has won spelling bee after spelling bee, and he's nearly qualified for the national level. One more victory at a bee in March, and he's on his way.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “The spelling abilities of these kids are unbelievable. I watch the televised competition every year, and I wouldn't be able to spell very many of the words they're given.”

He closed the file again and handed it to me. “Toby needs a coach. We want that coach to be you.”

Shock. Utter shock. I didn't even open the folder. “What?”

“You'll meet him tomorrow afternoon at his home in Brookline. The address is in the folder. He'll be expecting you as soon as you can get there after lunch. His school has allowed him to devote Thursday afternoons to this work, so you should plan to stay with him at least until four. You won't need to have study materials; he'll have lots of that sort of thing. By the way, he's thrilled that you're English. He can't wait to meet you.”

How can I
stop
this? “What other projects are there?”

“If this one turns out to be problematic, we could reassess. However, the justification would need to be solid. Do you have some concern in particular?”

“I—I don't get on well with children.” The truth is, I don't get on well with
anyone
.

“Toby is extremely bright; you'll get along fine.”

“What if we
don't
get along, though?”

“As I said, if the reasons are strong enough, we'll revisit.”

“How am I marked on this? What if he doesn't win?” My voice was starting to sound squeaky with panic.

“You and I will meet each week about your career here, and this project is one of the things we'll discuss. I'll monitor your progress, I'll speak with Toby and his parents a few times, and I'll write a report about your overall success at working with Toby. Your final assessment won't be based on the outcome of the competition. It will be based on your interaction with him, on the effort you put into it, and on our discussions. He doesn't have to like you, or you, him. But you need to find a way to help him prepare.”

I was struggling to come up with some other angle. I really,
really
did not want this project, but without that CAS credit, Oxford won't consider me.

There are so very many things I'm being forced to do that I don't want to do, but this? This was the icing on the cake. The final straw. Whatever metaphor you like. I'd reached critical mass.

“Simon, I know that moving to Boston was not something you wanted to do, and I completely understand that. But the best choices you can make now must be rooted in reality. You are here, and we're very well prepared to support your goal. But you have to work with us. At this point, rebelling against your current situation will work against your future one. My job is to help you. So, given that, and keeping in mind the current reality, is there anything I can do to help you help yourself?”

My eyes stung. I
refused
to cry! I lifted my chin to keep tears from falling. I knew that if I spoke, my voice would crack and I'd lose my battle. I grabbed the folder, turned my back on my supposed counsellor, and left.

I couldn't get out of there fast enough. A couple of students I'd met during orientation stood like obstacles between me and the exit, and I nodded at them as best I could without slowing my frantic pace.

The near jog between the school and BM's house was a blur. If a dog had jumped out and bitten me along the way, I don't think it would have registered.

Everyone keeps telling me to work with what I've got, to look for opportunities in the changes. What they don't get is that
everything else
was taken away from me. So everything I wanted is gone, and they keep handing me things I don't want and saying, “Here. Work with this.” And there's not a fucking thing I can do about it!

Every time I think,
All right, this could be worse,
it gets worse. First the house isn't bad, but then there's Persie to deal with. So I managed to get to a place where Persie is at least interesting, and St. Boniface tries to make me take remedial history. The IB programme requirements point me towards art, and there's a course I actually
want
to take, but no, I can't have that one. So they push me into a demanding, year-long course that most students know better than to sign up for. And now? Now they want me to cater to some
child
who can't learn to spell by himself! And through it all, they keep telling me not to fight it, not to rebel, not to complain.

FUCK THAT SHIT!

At the house I got upstairs as fast as possible. Unlocking the door to my staircase, I was shaking so badly that I dropped my keys at least three times.

My bedroom door has a lock, and I used it. Screaming into my pillow, I didn't hear Mum's knocking until it turned into pounding. “Simon! Simon, what's wrong? What's happened?”

“Go away! Stay away from me! This is all your fault!”

“I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to stay right here until you open the door.”

There was no way I could go on screaming as though I were alone. I got up and threw the door open.

“You've taken everything else, and now I can't even have any fucking privacy! Get the hell away from me!” I've rarely sworn in front of my mother, and never
at
her.

She stepped into the room and tried to embrace me. I stepped away. “Get out, damn you! Get out and leave me alone!” We stared at each other for two, three seconds maybe, and gradually she turned and left, an odd expression on her face that I couldn't read. And I didn't care.

I went back to pounding on my bed, but there didn't seem to be any tears. Maybe I'd used them all up by now. Sliding down to the floor, back against the mattress, I longed for Graeme. I was supposed to ring him today.
Maybe I should ring him now. Maybe I should text him. Maybe it would be cathartic to write a long, heartfelt e-mail.

Maybe I should just face the truth. There is no Graeme
.

This hit me smack in the middle of my chest, hard enough to take my breath away.

The Graeme who loves me, the Graeme whose kisses make me wild, doesn't exist.

The real Graeme, the one I love but who barely knows I'm alive, isn't even gay. That day in the maze? The treasure hunt where he ended up in the same dead end with me? That happened. What didn't happen was his kissing me. Or even looking like the idea had ever crossed his mind. There have been no exchanges about being at New College together, or about singing in the chapel or lounging in the garden or creating a dining routine everyone wants to join. I've wanted him for over a year, dreamed about him, dreamed of him loving me. None of it was real.

As the self-delusion about Graeme wormed its way into my psyche, it made me vulnerable to another secret I'd tried to hide from myself: I don't believe Oxford will want me.

It was my dad's idea, Oxford. It was his belief in me that made it seem possible. And ever since he died, I've been trying to prop up his idea—with less and less conviction. And if I'm honest with myself, I have to admit this was part of the reason I'd picked up the razor blade at home.

The other part had been the same damned reason I was in despair again now. Graeme. I'd known he had a girlfriend, but he'd been talkative enough about it that I felt sure he hadn't had sex with her, because he'd never mentioned anything like that, which meant there was still hope. But then, just before Mum informed me about this move, his talk had changed. And I knew it had happened, and I knew he had liked it.

Looking back, mentally seeing that blade in my hands, I don't know why I didn't go through with it. What had stopped me? What had seemed like it was worth going on for? Whatever the reason, not using that blade meant I'd had to find some way to go on living, at least for a time, at least until I could decide what to do. I couldn't change the move, but I'd managed to reconstruct my love affair. It had been imaginary all along; why couldn't it continue that way?

Now, with both these things hitting me again on top of the critical mass reached today, I realised that these two delusions together—Oxford and Graeme—were nothing more than a hollow shell merely pretending to be a solid, unstoppable mass. And I was the cowardly lion, pretending to be fearless. I was huddled into a soggy ball and crying out, “Who pulled my tail?” when it was me, hanging onto it out of terror.

There were sobs now, painful and deep, and when they faded I sat there on the floor, considering my options. I could refuse to do any of the things that are being thrown at me, and lose any remote chance at Oxford or any other decent school. I could toe the line for the rest of this fucking year, absorb all those awful things that keep flying at me like rotten meat thrown by a bloodthirsty crowd, and get out of this fucking city and back home, even if I have to disappoint my father and go to some other school.

Or I could let the bloodthirsty crowd win. I could die.

The next thing I registered was that I was in that huge, beautiful bathroom, staring at the claw-foot tub. It would be a lovely place to die, actually. I took off my St. Boniface clothes, folded them neatly, and stacked them on the floor, leaving only my undershorts on. Experimentally, I lay in the empty tub for a few minutes and decided that yes, it would work. I got up, opened the skylight, and from a drawer in the antique oak armoire I fetched my panic kit: that black leather case with the single-edge razor blades.

They looked clean, objective, without judgement or intent or emotion. They were just blades. I selected one and held it so the light caught on it, and I felt a peaceful calm come to me.

Everything was in slow motion now. First, I locked the door. Next, I placed the vanity chair under the doorknob in the event Mum came looking for me again. Next, I set the plug into the tub drain. Next, I turned only the hot water on. I watched the water fill the tub.
Water:
Navy. Pale yellow. Bright blue. Lilac. Bright red. A few times, I tested the water temperature, adding cold water as needed.

Water off, I stared up at the skylight and, through it, sent a final farewell to Graeme. Aloud, I said, “I loved you. I loved you so much. If only you knew.”

I set the blade in the soap dish and stepped into the tub.

Reclining there, I let my arms float in the clear water, water that wasn't just clear but was also a swirl of bluish purple with a dash of yellow. I was about to add so much red to it. It would be truly beautiful. Persie would be fascinated. And that's all she would be. Persie is like the razor blade. No judgement, no attachment.

In my mind, Persie picked up the blade that was actually in my right hand now. She didn't look at my face. This wasn't about me, for her. Aloof, emotionally removed, she leaned over her task, and with the corner of the blade she pricked the skin on my left forearm, just to see what would happen, and pulled the blade away. A thin stream of red swirled into the water and gradually disappeared. Again, blade to skin, she made the cut a little longer. No deeper yet, but longer. More swirls, more gradual fading away, rather like my life would do soon. If there was pain, it didn't touch me.

A little deeper now, and the swirls were richer. I watched them dissipate, but there was enough that the clear water was changing. Suddenly it wasn't blue or purple or yellow or even red. Suddenly it was an ugly shade of greenish brown. I raced through the letters; what was brown?
C,
and
d.
Different shades, but both browns. What was green?
F, q,
and
v. Q
for
queer,
maybe? But together these letters made no sense. They were twisting in my brain into ugliness. They turned into brown snakes with hideous green markings, and they curled around my legs, my waist, and up my chest.