Educating Simon (12 page)

“Ah, Simon, if I had a dollar for every straight guy I've fallen for, I think I'd have . . . I'd have maybe two dollars.” He laughed at the look on my face. “They're fun to fantasise about, but they're like knife grass. Wander in there, and you'll come out bleeding from a thousand cuts that don't go very deep but that sting like hell.” He shook his head like he was remembering something. “Well, I ain't tellin' yo mama. You want her to think you gave up even more than you did, that's fine by me.”

“Speaking of my ‘mama,' how did it end up being you who came up to find me?”

“I gather there were—shall we say, words—between you and your mom earlier. When you didn't show up for dinner there was a lot of discussion about whether she should come upstairs, or Brian should, and it started to get a little heated. Persie . . . didn't react well to your absence, or to the discussion. And even though Anna's here tonight, Brian didn't feel he could leave Persie without things getting worse, and he was sure you'd react badly again, yourself, if your mom did. So I offered to come up, and your mom offered to finish serving dinner.”

“I see. So now I'm as bad as Persie?”

“I didn't say Persie was bad.”

“But I'm as obstreperous as she is. You might as well have said that.”

He gave me a wry smile. “It's true that there are two offspring requiring special handling in the house, if that's what you mean.” He chuckled. “I think she missed you, actually.”

I couldn't begin to understand the weird jolt this gave me, so I ignored it. “Special handling won't help.”

“It might, if they knew what the rules were. Do you know what the rules are?”

“My only rule was, ‘Don't make me leave home.' They ignored that one. I told them they were ignoring it at their peril, but they ignored that, too. And here I am.”

“And if someone puts a cat into a new home, does it or does it not establish a new set of rules to fit the new situation?”

“Yes.” My voice sounded sulky. “But I'm not a cat!”

“Aren't you? If you were a dog, you'd be happy wherever you were as long as you were with your people. Cats bond to their people because the people are part of their world, so losing their people is upsetting, but it's really their place, their home, they're attached to. Am I right?”

This was true, and BM had said something very like this to me once. But somehow this made Ned more like BM than the other way around, and that made me angry. “I'm still not a cat. I don't have to be a cat
or
a dog.”

“Maybe not, but you might let cats instruct you a little. You might want to think about what your new rules should be. That would help you, and it would help others treat you the way you want to be treated.”

“The way I wanted to be treated was ignored! I was yanked out of my home—”

“Yes, you were. And that sucks. That sucks big-time. You're mad at everyone involved, and I don't blame you. But as you said a minute ago, here you are. Now what?”

I crossed my arms on my chest and stared at him. “I'll tell you ‘now what.' Now I get all this shit dumped on me, shit I didn't ask for and don't want.” Even as I heard myself say this, I was tired of hearing it. I just wasn't ready to give up the mantra.

“Seems to me people around you are looking for the rules. They're trying to make sure the things you have to do are things that pertain to you in some way. Take this spelling coaching thing. What do you know about this kid? Anything?”

I got up, went into my room, grabbed the folder, and practically threw it at him before I sat again. He skimmed through the information, raising his eyebrows a couple of times. Once, he looked up at me intently and then back at the material. “Did you look up Longwood Towers?”

“No.”

“It's pretty ritzy, for condominiums. And did you happen to see this photo of Toby?” He handed me a page.

“What's a condominium?”

“Condo? You don't have those in England?” Based on the description he gave me, it's similar to something we call a common-hold, or a share of freehold.

I looked at the page, and my first impression seemed unlikely, so I held it closer to the light to be sure I'd seen it right. I had. I wouldn't have guessed there was that much clothing a boy could buy that was pink. The way he'd combed his dark hair made his face look like a girl's, and the pose he'd struck added to the effeminate effect.

Ned said, “Seems to me Toby ain't just gay, honey. Seems to me he's royalty.”

Royalty?
And then I got it: a queen. “So they gave him to me because I'm gay?”

“Do they know you're gay?”

Good question. “BM . . . I mean, Brian could have told them.”

After Ned stopped laughing, he said, “He wouldn't have done that.” He chuckled and wiped his eyes. “ ‘BM.' That's priceless.”

I did my best to stifle a smile, and then I remembered the college entrance requirement called the extended essay, which I'd begun last year at Swithin and will have to complete this year. It's a four-thousand-word research paper on a topic the student chooses. I chose to compare several major world cultures' views on homosexuality. Dr. Metcalf probably knows this, even though I'm not due to hand the first draft in for a few weeks. Of course, it didn't even matter whether he saw a connection to me in that area or not. It's the spelling that's the connection to Toby, not our sexual orientation.

I think.

Ned said, “They, um, cast this particular ‘spell' on you because of your capabilities. You can handle it, can't you?”

I almost groaned at the pun. “Of course I can.”

“So handle it.” He leaned forwards. “Simon, I don't think doing your best to get back home is giving in to the people who ignored you. I think it shows them you meant what you said. You were serious. And it proves that nothing they've done has changed your mind.” He sat back and grinned. “You could take a lesson from Miss Dorothy. She did whatever it took.”

I took a moment to put it all together. The IB course load is heavy, and the classes won't be easy, but the City course takes two of the requirements off. Of course, the City will take time, but I don't doubt I can do it. And this thing with Toby . . . I picked up the photo again. Dr. Metcalf had said Toby was thrilled that I'm English. That might mean he'll be easier to get along with.

“It's mostly that you don't want to be here, isn't it.” Not a question this time. “Good. We've got that settled. And you know what you need to do to make sure you're not here any longer than you have to be. Now, how about you put on something a little
less
comfortable, and we'll mosey on down to the kitchen and have some dessert. Sound like a plan?”

I don't understand why, but Ned makes me smile. And I think he knows this. I think this is why he's the one who came upstairs.

 

BM and Mum were sitting across the kitchen table from each other, deep in some intense conversation, and I couldn't help assuming that it had to do with me in one way or another. I sat on one of the stools at the island in the middle of the room, but Ned walked to the table. “Simon and I dined alfresco tonight. I'm about to feed him some of my famous almond torta. Would either of you care for seconds?”

Mum's eyes had been on me since I came into the room. Without answering Ned she got up and came to stand across the island from me. “Are you all right, Simon? I was very worried about you.”

My talk with Ned had pulled me out of the ditch I was in, but now I was angry again, and I still needed someone to blame. Mum was an easy—and not an altogether inappropriate—target. “I had some unpleasant news at school. Just one more thing I hate, one more thing I very much don't want to do, one more thing I have no choice about. One more thing”—and I almost glanced at Ned here—“I have to overcome before I can go home again. So it's same-old, same-old.” Adding even more edge to my tone, I added, “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

Worried? Perhaps she was. But now she was also cheesed off. She was trying to control her temper, and it looked like she was about to lose the fight. BM came behind her and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. “Simon, I don't know what else to do. Are you going to be mad at me for the rest of your life?”

“The rest of yours, probably. I intend to outlive you.” And I realised almost with a shock that I do intend just this. I'll do whatever it takes.

BM gave me a look that would have cut glass, but he said nothing. Still gentle, he touched Mum's shoulder again and coaxed her out of the room.

 

On my way upstairs later, after devouring the torta that was every bit as delicious as Ned had promised, as I stopped to unlock the door to the top floor I heard voices from the master suite. I couldn't help it; I listened.

What came through first was Mum, crying. If Ned had told me an hour ago that this sound wouldn't give me a feeling of unholy glee, I'd have laughed in his face. But now . . . I couldn't say it made me sad, exactly. But it did make me feel sorry for her.

I had to listen hard to make out what she was saying.

“I should never have done this. It was a mistake. It was too much to ask of him. And—Brian, I feel as though I've traded Simon's happiness for mine. Just because what he said was cruel doesn't make it wrong.”

There was nothing but sobbing for a few seconds, and then Brian said, “This decision, this move, is for the rest of your life, Em. I'm not saying it was easy on Simon. It's not. But he's a lot tougher than he lets on. And this is just one year out of his life compared to the rest of yours.”

“If I've ruined his life, that would ruin the rest of
my
life, Brian!”

If only she knew how close I came this afternoon. If only
I
knew.

“I understand that, and I don't make light of it. But remember that he's still a teenager, and life's events seem to loom very large for him at this age. But what he said just now tells me he'll fight. As long as he's angry, he'll work hard to prove us wrong, to show us we can't ruin his life.” There was a pause in which I pictured him holding her. “He and Ned seem to have established a friendship. I trust Ned to let me know if he's worried.”

Mum's voice was low, almost like she was talking to herself. “Sometimes I think I should go back. Pack Simon up, and just go back.”

It was several seconds before BM said, “And if you did, would that put everything back to where it was? Would he go back to being merely arrogant and standoffish instead of hateful and venomous ?”

My back stiffened. But—he wasn't wrong.

A short laugh escaped through Mum's tears. “I don't know.” And then, “There really is no going back, is there?”

“I'm not saying he's going to stop being angry at you—at us—anytime soon. Maybe not ever. But once he gets involved with his classes, makes a couple of friends, he'll have a lot more in his life than he has right now. He'll have something else to focus on besides his anger at us. It should at least get easier.”

“And if it doesn't? Simon does not make friends easily.”

“We'll cross that bridge if we come to it.”

I had allowed myself a glimmer of hope when Mum mentioned going home, but in my heart of hearts I know this is not going to happen. And I also know BM is right; we can't go back, not the way we were. I'll go back alone.

 

Upstairs, I set my alarm; tomorrow is school. Then I lie on the bed for a bit before undressing, eyes on the skylight, wondering whether Graeme had any idea how I felt. If he even registered that I was alive on the planet, let alone missing from school, from home.

Somehow, Ned's understanding of my problems—and his giving me his permission not to forgive Mum—makes it easier for me to be mad at her without feeling desperate about it. The anger, the hatred or whatever, feels less heavy. It's easier to carry now, so I feel like I might be able to move forwards. Emphasis on “might.”

And, I remind myself, I will still apply at Oxford. If they don't want me, they're going to have to tell me that.

I had set my alarm for very early, because I hadn't felt like doing any research last night on the spelling bee thingy. So I'd given myself half an hour this morning to gain a little familiarity; I didn't want to show up at Toby's with no knowledge at all. I tried to put an odd mix of depression and excitement behind me as I waited for my PC to wake up.

Eligibility, competition rules—all the expected stuff was on their Web site. Nothing surprising, other than the size of the prizes: thirty thousand dollars; a US savings bond; a complete reference library. And then I found links to the word lists.
Rhipidate. Bisbigliando. Heiau. Cholecystitis. Lymphopoiesis. Chamaephyte.
It was easy enough for me to look at them and see that the way they're spelled made sense, but if I were standing on a stage, hundreds of people plus television cameras trained on me, and someone spoke the word
axolotl
. . . If I hadn't studied that particular word, and I couldn't
see
the
x
or the
tl,
would it help enough to be told that it derives from Nahuatl, and that it's a Mexican salamander? I don't know. But Toby will have to do it. And I will have to help him get to where he can.

I was puzzling over how the hell I'll be able to coach a kid who can probably already spell several times better than I can when I heard my old mobile's tone for an incoming text.

Graeme!

Right. I knew better than to expect anything from him even before I admitted he isn't there for me. Isn't texting me. Isn't in love with me. So—who would text me on any phone?

The text was from Margaret, the girl who has Tink now. It said,
Pics! Check yr e-mail
.

My fingers flew over the keys to log onto my e-mail account, and—yes! Pictures and pictures. Oh, sweet Margaret!

There was Tink in her perch, basking in the sun, and the perch seemed to be right where I had told them to place it. There was Tink the huntress with a feathered toy in her mouth, green and white feathers against her soft white and blue-grey fur, eyes bright with excitement. Tink sitting on the floor, her sweet face turned up and intent, the look in her big, round eyes telling me she was expecting something really delicious, immediately. Tink in her harness, on the patio, pawing at iris leaves. Tink on a lovely blue rug, on her back in her signature pose, front and rear paws gently curled, her adorable face at a relaxed angle, her eyes almost closed. Tink nestled on Margaret's shoulder, both girl and cat smiling. I could almost hear the purr.

Oh, Tink!
I was laughing and crying at once, delighted that Tink seemed so happy and devastated that it wasn't my shoulder she was settled on. Much as I truly don't want her to miss me, it hurts that she doesn't seem to. And it hurts that I miss her so much.

I went through the images once more before I shut the PC down and went in for a shower, knowing that their being here for me to see again tonight will help me get through the day. I decided to send Margaret a thank-you reply later; couldn't take the time now.

The strangest thing happened in the shower. Maybe I'd just grown so accustomed to imagining Graeme with me that he'd become real somehow, but there he was in the shower with me. And it was all right. It wasn't the Graeme of reality; it was the Graeme who's there only for me, to be whatever I need him to be, to do . . . whatever I need him to do. And after he did what I needed him to, I stood there, water hammering the back of my neck as I stared at the drain, calm for the moment, almost happy for the moment, whilst around the edges of my mind there was a voice trying to get in. It was saying things like,
This isn't healthy. Imaginary lovers are not good for you; they make you want what you can't have. They make you expect perfection you can never get from anyone real. You'll be alone all your life
.

“I don't care.” The sound of my voice startled me. I turned off the water and focused hard on that “one step at a time” Ned had advised me to take. To keep that inner voice at bay, to keep my mind too busy to hear it, I forced myself to notice every detail of reaching for the towel, drying my hair and back and chest and legs and feet, shaving carefully and noticing every
tick
the blade made on every whisker it encountered.

In my room, I aimed the same mental focus at each tiny step involved in dressing, right down to socks and shoes, and then each tiny step of putting my school bag together. I moved towards my closed door, but before I could reach the knob someone stepped in my way, put his hands on my face and his mouth on mine. I dropped the bag and gave in to the imaginary but oh, so real embrace of Graeme's arms. When finally I opened the door and walked into the hallway, I was smiling, sure in the knowledge that he, too, would be right there when I got back from school.

Mum, obviously exhausted whilst forcing herself to appear cheerful, was putting my breakfast together. She smiled as well as she could when she saw me. “Good morning, Simon. Sit wherever you like—table, island, wherever.”

I set my school bag down inside the entrance to the kitchen and moved towards the island, and I stood watching as she set a place for me, with a bowl of corn flakes and sliced bananas beside a pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar. She gave me another smile that I knew she intended to look cheerful and then started to turn away, no doubt to pour me some juice or fetch the tea, but I touched her arm to stop her. When she turned her face towards me again, there was so much sorrow behind that forced smile that it hurt even me. She must have seen this, because she wrapped her arms around me, and mine went around her, and we embraced for several seconds. Perhaps it was what I'd heard last night, knowing how sorry she is for what she's done, knowing that she understands how I see it, that softened something in me. But only so much.

As I pulled away, I told her, “Don't worry about me, Mum. Brian's right, and I'm not a child any longer.” With a start, I realised that might be the first time I'd referred to him in her hearing as anything other than Mr. Morgan. She swiped at her eyes as she moved towards the counter where my tea was waiting.

 

St. Bony started things off at a run. Most classes are on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, leaving students time on Tuesdays and Thursdays to focus on the various required papers and presentations, as well as our CAS projects. But perhaps it was because we hadn't officially started that work yet that this first Thursday we had Wednesday classes. Except for those of us taking The City, because that course has a one-hour eight o'clock session on Thursdays. Evidently The City trumps most other classes, so whilst several of my peers were in the first “Wednesday” German class, I went to my first City meeting.

In that first class, we found out what the time commitment for The City will be. Dr. Metcalf had warned me, I suppose. Every week, we'll spend the entire day on Tuesday—unless the teacher calls a meeting, which will happen sometimes—independently taking whatever action we need to: travelling around the city, researching, meeting with classmates for the occasional team assignment, putting our interim papers together in a way that will lead up to the final report and presentation in May.

Our very first assignment was in teams, which I hate. There's only one other boy in the class; perhaps this broad curriculum appeals more to girls. And evidently I was the last person to sign up, so there are nine students, and Dr. Osgood made three teams of us. But starting that team project won't be the first thing we do. Next Tuesday we'll do a Freedom Trail tour in the morning and a walking tour of Beacon Hill in the afternoon, as Dr. Osgood put it, “to get your feet under you, as it were.”

We had a short huddle in teams for the first assignment. I was put with Olivia Steele, a dark-haired, prim-looking girl in a pale yellow shirt with a Peter Pan collar, and red-haired Madeleine Westfield—in a pink blouse despite that hair—who is as talkative and invasive as Olivia is reserved. We're to call her Maddy, she informed us.

Each team was assigned a general topic. We got education (or, more specifically, institutions of higher learning), and the other two got arts and medicine. Dr. Osgood told us that whilst we're to do this first segment in teams, we'll all be working on the other two topics individually, and then other topics of our own choosing.

Before I left the classroom at the end of the hour, I decided to ask Dr. Osgood about getting to Toby's house the same way I'll have to get around Boston, which means no taxi.

“I'm so glad you asked!” she said. She pawed through things on a rather disorderly bookshelf and came up with a pile of maps. “This has the subway and bus routes, and also the train routes to the suburbs, though you won't need that for the class. Where are you going?”

“Longwood Towers in Brookline. It's for my CAS.”

“Nice!” She opened a map and pointed as she spoke. “Turn right up Marlborough to Mass Ave and then turn left. Stay on the left side of the street. You'll walk for a few minutes before you come to the T stop for Hynes Auditorium. Follow signs to outbound trains, and wait on the platform for a D train. You'll go three stops—Kenmore, Fenway, and get out at Longwood. Cross the street and walk up this way, and this,” she jabbed with a finger, “is Longwood Towers. Oh, do you have a mass transit pass?”

“Not yet.”

“Here”—and she dug in a different pile of stuff. “I'm going to hand these out next week, but you can have yours now.”

It was a colourful, stiff plastic card with a cartoonish man hanging out of a train window. “CharlieCard?” I asked, reading the heading, noting the absence of a space—a modern gimmick that I find irritating.

“Charlie on the MTA?” she said, as though I would recognise the phrase. I shook my head. “Tell you what. Between now and Tuesday, you look that up, and at our next meeting you can tell the class what it is. Locals, and maybe some others, will know, but they won't expect you to know, and there will be others who don't.” She grinned broadly at me, like this was some special treat. “Now, off you go! Don't want to be late to your next class.”

 

I had Biology HL (Higher Level) II, then Language and Literature HL, and then IB Math SL (Standard Level) before lunch, which I took in the canteen. Despite Ned's cookery, most likely I won't bring lunches, I decided; the café isn't bad.

I'm not going to write in my journal everything that happens in all these classes; I'll be busy enough doing the work for them.

After lunch, I debated. Should I take a taxi this first time to Toby's, or should I just dive into mass transit? I used the tube at home, though Mum never descended into it. And London's underground system is far more complex than Boston's. Which will no doubt be puny. It was a little drizzly today, but as a Londoner I wasn't fazed. I pulled out my folding brolly, settled my bag on my shoulder, and headed towards Massachusetts Avenue. Might as well get started clearing away some brambles.

Puny, yes. Almost laughable, compared to London's underground. But serviceable. I had no trouble finding Longwood Towers, though I did have a few minutes of trepidation, of hating that I have to do this, of wanting to leave Queen Toby to his own devices. But the doors opened inevitably at the Longwood stop, and I stepped out.

I pulled out my iPhone and sent a text to the number in Toby's file for his mobile to let him know I was approaching the building. It was the first contact we'd had. Within nanoseconds I saw,
Fabulous! I'll be in the lobby.

There were three towers, and in the couple of minutes it took me to locate the one named Alden, the sun came out and made everything steamy. The grounds are immaculate and beautifully landscaped, curved walkways leading the way to each tower. I told the doorman Toby Lloyd was meeting me inside, and he let me in but watched me. As I entered the lobby, I had to blink several times to adjust to the cool dimness. When my vision cleared, I saw lots of dark wood in a massive room, floors that appeared to be large cork squares, a beam-and-plaster ceiling high overhead. There was low-key but extremely contemporary furniture placed on islands of equally contemporary area rugs, a softly-lit reception area, and a very excited boy dressed in lime green and white, practically bouncing across the floor towards me.

“Simon! You're here! Oh, this will be so fabulous!”

I did my best to smile. “How do you do,” I said, falling back on formality by default. This made Toby laugh delightedly.

“Oh, you're so English! I love England. We were there last year for a few weeks. London was fabulous! Why would you ever leave it?” The child speaks in exclamation points.

“Sometimes we don't choose what happens to us.”

I followed him around a corner to a bank of lifts. “We call these elevators,” he said as though I'd pronounced “lifts” aloud. “Will you go back, do you think?”

“As soon as ever I'm able.” The massive doors slid shut, and Toby pressed the number seven. But he didn't stop talking.

“We're not quite at the top, but we have great views! You can see the John Hancock building and the Prudential Center from our living room. How soon do you think you'll be able?”

“Able?” I'd lost track of where his ramblings were going.

“Able to go back.”

“Ah. That. If all goes as planned, I'll be at university next year in England.” Somewhere.

“Really? I want to go to Cambridge. Or maybe Yale. Mommy wants me to go to Princeton. So I guess I'll apply there, too. Doesn't hurt to have a backup, you know?”

“I expect you're right.” Ye gods; my own father didn't mention Oxford until I was maybe thirteen. And this kid already has a number of schools in mind?

The lift doors opened almost silently, and Toby bounced out into a carpeted hallway with occasional furniture placed demurely here and there, as though waiting for someone to settle and watch the wallpaper or admire the art on the walls.