Educating Simon (14 page)

On another level, it made no sense to me at all. This was not something I'd encountered before—heard about, sure, but not had to deal with. My brain fired in a few different directions at once, and finally I decided the only reasonable course of action for me to take was to accept the information at face value.

He'd scampered back to his chair and was bent over a biscuit, watching me intently. Keeping my voice low, I asked, “So, your parents don't know? You're sure?”

Sotto voce, he said, “I'm sure. They think I'm a boy.”

That was one answer, then. Biologically, he's male. “Why haven't you told them? It seems very important.”

“I don't know what they'd do. They might get rid of me, or something.”

The weight of this crashed into my brain. Even if the fear were unfounded, it would be earth-shattering to live with the possibility—with the very
idea
—that one's parents might actually discard one, toss one out with the garbage. “Why tell
me?”

“I just felt like you'd understand.”

In the spirit of acceptance, wanting to avoid admitting that I didn't understand at all and hoping he wouldn't toss
me
out, I said, “Well, I will tell you a secret—maybe a semi-secret—about me. I'm gay.”

“Ha! I knew it.”

“You did?”

“Not really. But I could tell there was something special about you.”

I felt a soft weight land on one of my feet, and when I looked down Shangri-La was on her back, front paws curled against her chest, hindquarters squarely on the toe of my shoe. Enjoying the cat's approval, I glanced back at Toby and asked a question that might or might not help me grasp this thing. “Do you like girls or boys?”

“Oh, boys! I'm not gay.”

“I see. Straight boys, then?” I had to stop a sardonic chuckle; maybe he'll do better than I had.

“Of course. You've got nothing to worry about. I like you, but not that way.”

Well, that was a relief, even if it hadn't occurred to me. “Your parents don't guess, with all the pink going on in your bedroom?”

He toyed with a crumb beside his plate. “My mom might have guessed. I'm not sure.”

“She might just think you're gay.”

He nodded. “But I'm not gay. I know all about being gay.”

“Do you, now?”

“So many kids at school call me gay. Always have. Well, for a long time, anyway. I wanted to make sure I knew what it meant, so I researched it. But I haven't told them what I
am
.”

I nodded, and thinking to provide a little comfort, I said, “I got called names, too, mostly because of my hair. Some kids used to call me Ginger.”

“That's not so bad.”

“Oh, but it is. In England, it's a mean thing to say. It's intended to be derogatory.”

“Not as bad as gay, though.”

“No? What's wrong with being gay?”

“Well . . . I mean . . . you know.”

“No, I don't, actually. I don't think there's anything wrong with being gay.”

“Not if you really are gay. And there's nothing wrong with having red hair, either.”

To my surprise, I laughed. “You've got me there. Will we go practise some more?”

 

I didn't know what to do with this confession. Really, there's nothing I
could
do. And this isn't my problem.

As I was about to leave, Shangri-La trotted over to me, bouncing on her little black feet, and threw herself on the floor, belly up, her head at a sweet angle. Fur colour and ears aside, she looked so much like Tink I felt tears well up in my eyes. I leaned over, let her sniff my fingers, and scratched under her chin. She tilted her head up so I couldn't see her eyes and let me go on for a while as I scratched from ear to ear and back again.

Toby asked, “D'you wanna pick her up?”

I shook my head. “She hasn't given me permission to do that yet.”

“How do you know?”

“She's staying on her back, which doesn't give me access to pick her up. If she rubs against my legs and then stands still, I might pick her up. Maybe next time.”

He glanced around—I was sure—to see if Colleen was nearby. “You're not creeped out?”

“You mean, about the girl thing?” He nodded. I lied, “Not at all.”

“So you'll come back?”

“I'll be here next week, same time. Good to meet you, Toby.”

“Maybe next time, I'll tell you my real name. My girl name.”

“I look forward to it.” What else could I say?

The trolley car was more crowded on the way back. The time went by quickly, though; my mind was back on Toby and his—her predicament. Transgender issues confuse me. I have no thoughts or feelings about being anything other than male. But I've heard about men trapped in women's bodies and vice versa. I believe them, I guess; I just don't understand them. And I wonder what Parents Lloyd would make of it.

I was still preoccupied with the topic over dinner, and still keenly aware that whatever I thought about it, it was not my secret to share, so when Mum—no doubt encouraged by our hug over breakfast—asked about my first school day, I didn't go on at length. Of course, I hadn't exactly been a chatterbox about anything lately. Plus, it occurred to me rather suddenly that I hadn't told anyone but Ned about Toby or my coaching job. As this thought was bouncing around in my brain, Mum must have said something else to me, and I didn't take it in or respond. But I did notice the silence.

I looked around the table; all eyes but Persie's were on me. “Sorry. Just a little preoccupied with something.” I did my best to provide a little more information about my day without going into details. Then Mum asked if I'll be going on the apple-picking outing the last Saturday of September. Evidently families are invited. There was some back and forth about it—I hadn't even noticed it on the schedule—and finally I did my best to pacify her with “Probably.”

Brian asked, “What steps will your City team take to complete your first assignment, do you think?”

“We haven't discussed it yet. I suppose we'll select a few schools, visit them, research the history and the current focus, that sort of thing. Why? Any suggestions?”

“I'll be interested in where Harvard falls in your analysis.”

I let my hand fall onto the table beside my plate, fork pointing towards him. “I'm not applying there, you know.” Even if Oxford won't have me, I wasn't impressed with Harvard.

“I ask, because I went to Harvard.”

“Oh. Well, I'll let you know, if you like.”

I did my best to fall out of the conversation again after this, though I accidentally set Persie off. Preoccupied as I was, when Mum asked me what time I'd gotten to bed last night, no doubt because I looked tired, I said “half eleven.”

Persie's head jerked up. “That's not a time. What is it?”

I glanced at Brian and knew I was in trouble. “It's eleven thirty.”

“It's not!” she shrieked. “It's five-point-five! Five-point-five! Five-point-five!”

Oh, boy. Here we go again. It took Brian and Anna a few minutes to quiet her down. At one point I mouthed “Sorry” to Brian, silently. He didn't look forgiving.

I had rather a lot of homework already, and I hadn't gotten enough of it done between getting back from Toby's and dinnertime. But when Ned set a piece of fruit pie in front of me, he whispered, “Cat got your tongue?”

There was an intense look on his face, which I took to mean he'd be available later if I wanted to talk. And he must have noticed that I hadn't mentioned Toby.

So after I finished most of my homework, I wandered down to the kitchen, glad to see he was still here, marinating something to get a head start on tomorrow's dinner. I grabbed a bowl, scooped some chocolate ice cream for myself, and sat at the island.

“You'll wash that yourself, young man.” He grinned at me. “How did it go?”

“The coaching, you mean?” He put a hand on his hip as though to say,
Duh,
and I told him, “Weird.” I took a spoonful of ice cream. “This is one thing you Yanks do better,” I said around the silky melting lump in my mouth, pointing towards the bowl with my spoon.

“Knock it off, kid. What was weird?” He leaned on the island across from me.

“What do you know about people who are transgender?”

“I've known one or two. Why? Something you want to tell me?”

“Not about me. But our queen isn't a queen. Or, she really is a queen. At least, that's what he said. What she said.”

“This is Toby we're talking about?”

I nodded and dug into my ice cream bowl. “Next time I go there, I'll learn his girl's name, or so he promised.”

Something about my tone must have clued Ned in to the fact that I wasn't entirely on board with this phenomenon. He didn't say anything until I looked up from my bowl. “What did your mother say when you told her you're gay?”

“Don't recall, exactly. Why?”

“Did she say, ‘Don't be ridiculous' or, ‘Where did you get that idea?' or, ‘That makes no sense to me'?”

“No.”

“Do you think she could know what you feel inside yourself? Do you think anyone should be able to tell you that what you feel is wrong because it doesn't make sense to them?”

“No. I get it, all right?”

“Good.” He picked up a towel and started drying pans. “I know that there are boys who really like girl things, and they dress like girls at least some of the time, but they still want to be thought of as boys. What did Toby say, exactly?”

“His very words were, ‘I'm a girl.' ”

“There you go.”

I shook my head, confused. “How can he just ignore what he's got for equipment?”

“Well . . .” Ned tapped a finger on the counter, thinking. “If your mother, and all your friends, all your teachers, if everyone you know insisted on calling you Susan and treating you as though you were a girl, I'll bet that whenever someone did that, your dick wouldn't be the first thing you thought of. And I'll bet if you were forced to wear girls' clothes and use the little girls' room, it would just be so utterly, completely wrong that it would have less to do with your body and more to do with your internal identity. With how you think of yourself, and how horribly out of sync that is with how you have to present yourself to the world.”

“I suppose so.”

“How out is he?”

“Not at all. Evidently I'm the first to know. His parents don't know; his friends don't know.”

“And he told you because . . .”

“Because he likes me, because he could tell there was something ‘special' about me.”

Ned grinned, and then his face grew serious. “This is huge, Simon, a huge thing he's trusting you with. How do you feel about that?”

“The trust? I don't know. It feels like a lot of responsibility. I mean, I can't tell anyone. He made me promise. I shouldn't be telling you, but I felt like you could help me understand.”

“He'll tell others when he's ready.”

“So, is he really a gay boy who's at the extreme far end of the spectrum? So far that he becomes a she?”

“I don't think it works like that, actually. Does he like girls or boys?”

“Straight boys.”

He laughed. “You found out rather a lot, eh? But—the spectrum picture doesn't seem to fit. I couldn't really say why; it just feels wrong.”

“Should I refer to Toby as ‘he' or ‘she'?”

“You'll have to ask.”

“This is so confusing.”

“You got that right. People are not simple creatures, Simon.” He watched me finish my ice cream. “You haven't told your mom about this coaching job yet, I take it.”

“No.”

“And that's because . . . ?”

“Hasn't been a good time. If you'll recall, I was rather out of sorts last night. Today was school, and she was out when I got home. And it's a good thing I didn't say any more than I did at dinner, or I'd have been hauled on the carpet for speaking English English. Any other probing questions you'd care to ask?” He just looked at me until I dropped my eyes. “Sorry.”

“So, change of subject here, are you gonna like this City thing? I heard you talk about it over dinner.”

I shrugged. “It'll be fine.”

“What's the deadline to submit your Oxford application? Or have you already done that?” Our eyes connected for a little too long. “Simon?”

I got off my stool, carried the bowl and spoon to the sink, and leaned my back against the counter. “The application deadline is 15 October. Interviews are in December, and offers go out in the middle of January.”

“Have you already taken the SAT?”

“In the UK and for students here in IB schools like St. Bony”—Ned chuckled obligingly—“A levels and high marks alone are enough. No SAT necessary. But even if I get an offer, my marks have to be high through the end of the year.”

“
If?
I thought you were certain.” He was grinning at me like he was stating the obvious. And again, I stalled, and he lost the grin. “Simon, you're not having second thoughts, are you?”

I chewed my tongue for a few seconds. “More like doubts.”

“Why?” He looked honestly confused, and it did help a little to see that.

I shook my head. I didn't want to admit the extent—or the longevity—of my doubts. “It's just . . . there are so many things out of place. Nothing is happening the way it was supposed to.”

“Well, this much I know: You're still you. And, Simon, what you are is someone who can get into any school he wants to, provided he
wants
to. So don't procrastinate on that application.”

I lifted a shoulder, dropped it. “I have more homework.”