Educating Simon (16 page)

It's Tuesday night, and we've had our first full City day on our own as teams. And I think this particular day will haunt me for a long time.

With our assignment being institutions of higher learning, Olivia, Maddy, and I decided to visit the registrar offices at Harvard and at Boston University, or BU. It was a warm day, and I was annoyed that we'd be required to wear school-sanctioned clothes, which meant I was in a long-sleeved shirt and had to wear a tie. I mutinied a little and left my blazer at home.

Harvard was about what you'd expect, and we collected printed material and spoke for a little while with some administrator about the school's history and its influence on Cambridge and Boston. Then there was the obligatory walk around Harvard Yard, which was a little more interesting in present company, but not much. Then on to BU, which was also about what you'd expect, except that an hour after we left the registrar, my life changed.

It had become apparent to me as this hot day progressed that Maddy had set her cap at me, as the saying goes. She exhibited all the signs, and she's not a shy girl. Even Olivia noticed, and I caught a look on her face more than once that basically said, “Oh, I can't believe this.” I'd had about enough of Maddy “accidentally” bumping into me on the T, but as we left the BU registrar she was up for more and suggested going back to school to pull together what we'd learned. I lobbied hard to find someplace air-conditioned nearby instead where we could order something to drink whilst we talked, and Olivia (bless her) agreed with me.

After our consultation, I begged off when they got up to head back into town. “I might go back up the street to the fine arts building. Maybe check out the Stone Gallery.”

This was too specific; it gave Maddy an opening. “Ooh, I love art! I'll come with you.”

Think fast, Simon.
“Um, I hope you won't mind, but I really prefer looking at art alone. I'll see you at school tomorrow.” I gave her my sweetest smile.

Now, having said what I'd said, I had to go look at art, which I love doing, but I was feeling tired and a little grumpy from the heat and from my efforts to avoid Maddy's attentions all day. But I reasoned that art would take my mind off all that, so I loosened my tie until the knot hung a couple of inches low, rolled up my shirtsleeves, hefted my school bag, and walked down Comm Ave, as they call it here.

I wasn't taking anything in, really, just wandering vaguely from one piece to another, letting the cool air and the slightly echoing sounds from other people wash over me, until I noticed him. He was standing near a piece of ambiguous sculpture made of various materials, but he wasn't looking at it. He was looking at me. And when I looked at him, he didn't turn away.

Dark hair, slightly long, gentle waves around his face, a long, Roman nose, and dark, intense eyes. A latter-day Romeo. He made no move, and I was unsure what to do. Should I walk towards him? Ignore him? Pretend I didn't see him? No, too late for that. So I gave him as cryptic a smile as I could and turned back to the art on the wall near me. I moved to the next work and stared at it without taking it in, insisting to myself,
I will not look around. I will not look around. I will not
...

“I know the girl who painted this one.”

Steady, Simon. Be calm. Wait two beats, and then turn your head slowly
. “Do you?”

“She was in the art history class I took here over the summer.”

I looked back at the painting. “What's your medium?”

“Sculpture.”

Still not looking at him, I asked, “Was that your piece, where you were standing just now?”

“Yes. Do you like it?”

I turned to face him again, tilting my head and smiling just slightly. He had perhaps two inches on me, height-wise. Two well-built inches. “That's a brazen question.”

He shrugged, a smooth motion that allowed me to imagine the slide of muscles under his skin. Speaking of sculpture . . .

He said, “I can be brazen when the need arises.”

“What need do you have now?”

“For you to like my art.”

He was flirting with me. I was sure of it. As I turned so I could see the piece better, I know his eyes stayed on my face. I studied the piece for a few seconds, and then walked away from him towards it, around it, stopped a few times, and around again. I looked for the title.
“Discord.”

“Well?” he prodded.

“It makes me feel off-balance.”

“Perfect.”

“What was your inspiration?”

He turned his head to look at nothing in particular, collecting his thoughts perhaps, and I noticed a small, stylised
X
tattooed on the right side of his neck. He looked back at me. “Ever hear of Straight Edge?”

“Is that a music group, or something?”

His scornful expression made it appear he thought I'd said something stupid. No doubt having identified my accent, he told me, “It's only a cultural revolution, that's all. It's in England too, y'know.”

If he was flirting, he was failing with me. And if he thought he could out-smug me, he was about to learn a thing or two. I gave a tiny snort, decided to ignore the certain hyperbole of “revolution,” and said, “There are rather a lot of things going on in England, as it happens. Why should Straight Edge mean anything to me?”

“Maybe you should look it up.”

“Maybe you should stop talking to strangers. You don't do it very well.” I turned my back on him and moved off, but before I got all the way to the next painting on the wall he was in front of me.

“Sorry. And you're right; I don't talk to strangers very well. Can I treat you to a soda or something? Make it up to you?”

I looked him up and down, taking in the jeans, the roughed-up, olive-green trainers on his feet, the scuffed maroon messenger bag, the black T-shirt with S
TRAIGHT
E
DGE
scrawled across it in grey letters so faded I had to look hard to make out what it said. I looked back at his face again, thinking I'd turn down this odd offer. But my eyes caught on his, and I heard my voice say, “And you'll tell me about this Straight Edge thing in civil tones?”

He grinned. “Promise. Look.” He turned around long enough for me to read the back of the shirt:
LIVE TRUE. LIVE FREE. LIVE BETTER.
“Let's get outta here.”

We went from the cool gallery to the hot pavement. “How about the Oven?” he asked.

Thinking we'd just stepped into one, I shook my head. “Don't know that, either.”

“Amalfi Oven? In the GSU?” More head shaking on my part. “How long have you been here? I'm a freshman, and I know the Oven already.”

“I'm not a student here. What's the GSU?”

He paused for just a second, taking in this information about me. “George Sherman Union. Food, cultural events, a kind of student hub. So you just happened to stop in at the Stone?”

“I was . . . I was in the area. Sorry if that sounds lame. Doing research for some coursework.”

“So where
do
you go to school?”

“St. Boniface, Marlborough Street. Senior year,” I specified, not wanting him to think of me as a child.

“You some kind of brainiac?”

Okay, I thought, going anywhere with this guy was a bad idea, no matter how gorgeous he was, no matter what effect his smile had on me. “Yes. Look, maybe I should just head back.” He stopped in his tracks, gave me a vaguely amused look, and laughed. And I got irritated again. Intending it to be a parting shot, I said, “Good luck with your off-balance sculpture.”

“No, wait. I wasn't laughing at you. It's just that you surprised me.” He shook his head, chuckled. “ ‘Yes.' A brainiac. Simple as that.” He held out his right hand. “Michael Vitale.”

Michael: brick red, bright yellow, pale brown, cream, pale yellow, lilac, bright orange.

Vitale: Kelly green, bright yellow, bright blue, pale yellow, bright orange, lilac.

Both names had so many similar colours in them; it was a good thing they started with different letters. The total effect of his name struck me as Mediterranean. Italian, of course. Warm, bright but not overwhelming, alive.

I gave him my hand. “Simon Fitzroy-Hunt.”

Another grin. They were growing on me for sure. “Your name is as English as your accent. Mine's Italian.”

“Sì, è evidente.”

And again he stopped. “You speak Italian?”

“Solo una piccola.”

“I don't know what that means. But my
nonna
would. I mean, my grandmother.”

“So, this Amalfi place sounds Italian.” I took a step, and we were back in motion again.

“After a fashion. Italian inspired, at least. So, what do you expect St. Boniface to do for you, anyway?”

“Get me into Oxford University.”

He whistled. “And then?”

“Not sure. I expect I'll figure that out whilst I'm there.”

“What are you doing in Boston? I know they have good prep schools in England.”

I gave him a thumbnail sketch of my life for the past few months, told him a little about my City course and why I was in this neighbourhood today, and by the time we were at a table with our drinks and two slices of sausage pizza for Michael, I told him I was ready for an explanation of his shirt, of Straight Edge.

He knitted his eyebrows and glanced down at his plate. “If I were really good about it, I'd be vegan. No cheese, and for sure no sausage.”

“So there's a dietary component?”

He lifted a shoulder and dropped it, took a few swallows of his drink, waved his hand in a circle. “Maybe a little. You were closer with the music group idea. Straight Edge is a lifestyle. We take a vow to live right. No alcohol. No drugs. No sex until marriage. Lots of music, though.” He dug in his bag and pulled out an iPhone and some earbuds, selected something, and handed the buds across the table. Before I lifted them to my ears the raucous sounds hit me like a wave. I tried to focus, but the words “no sex until marriage” were ringing too loudly in my brain.

Now, I hardly expected to end up in the sack with this guy—at least, not immediately, if at all. I've never even kissed anyone real. Even so, his gorgeous face and attempts at flirting had drawn me in and allowed me to hope that I hadn't misread his initial approach. But I must have been wrong. I mean, if he was so focused on this pristine way of life, “marriage” for him would necessarily involve a woman.

I handed the earbuds back. “Quite a sound,” I said, deliberately vague.

He selected something else and gave me the earbuds again. This time the music was harmonious, much easier to listen to, but still my mind was on other things. Like,
I am
so
not falling for another guy who doesn't want me. A “straight” edge guy, at that. No way
.

By the time I gave him back his earbuds he had pretty much finished his pizza. “So, seriously,” he said, “you should look it up. You'll be able to get a much better sense than I can give you in a few minutes. A friend of mine got me into it last year. It's changed my life.”

“Oh?” I wasn't sure I wanted to know. I was working towards an exit line but didn't say anything quickly enough.

“Truly. Live true, live free, live better. I used to be different.”

“Got into lots of trouble, or something?”

He shook his head. “I, uh . . . I was fighting something, really hard, and losing. I was afraid I was . . . I'm not ashamed to say it now. I thought I might be gay.”

A lift of my chin, narrowed eyes, tongue-in-cheek: I wanted to leave no doubt about my self-confidence. I slid out of my chair, picked up my bag, and shot my exit line at him. “I'm gay. And I'm not ashamed of
that,
either.”

I didn't look back to see whether he watched me leave.

 

Michael's face kept sliding into my mind's eye as I tried to focus on homework after dinner.
He thought he might be gay.
Which almost certainly means he is. And now he's—what? Straight Edge? Which isn't the same thing as straight, though maybe he's deluded himself into thinking it is. I decided against looking this thing up; it would only serve to keep my attention on him.

But if he really is gay, that means I'd been right about his approach. He
had
been flirting with me. Whether he would ever admit it was a different matter.

Vitale. Vital. Italian, from
vita,
life.

It was tempting to go downstairs, see if Ned was still here, and talk with him about it. But that would be no better—and maybe even worse—than looking up Straight Edge, in terms of keeping Michael on my mind.

Note to self:
Forget it, Simon
.
The only thing worse than falling for a straight guy is falling for a gay guy who won't admit the truth about himself.
Live true, indeed. Ha.

This afternoon, classes over, on my way out of the school entrance I was trying to shake Maddy, who was ostensibly interested in my approach for our latest City assignment, but who was really asking questions she didn't need to ask, about things that didn't matter, so she could talk to me. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going and nearly walked into someone who stepped in front of me.

Michael Vitale.

Maddy was still talking, not noticing or maybe not caring that I'd frozen in place.

“Hey, Simon.” His smile had something intimate in it.

I recovered as quickly as possible and said, “Michael.” I hoped my tone was as even and unrevealing as I intended it to be. For a nanosecond, I considered continuing my conversation with Maddy as though it were the most natural thing in the world that Michael was standing there, and as though hello was the be-all and end-all of what we might say to each other. But I couldn't move, and I couldn't drop my gaze from his face.

“Simon?” Maddy finally realised she didn't have my full attention.

I yanked my gaze away from Michael long enough to tell her, “See you tomorrow, Maddy.”

Michael said, “Walk with me.”

“I beg your pardon?”
Who does he think he is? My boss? My commanding officer?

“Please? I'll carry your books.”

Ignoring his teasing tone, I glared at him. He might be gorgeous, but he was also clueless. “You're going from bad to worse. What do you want?”

“I . . . Simon, look. I'm just trying to make a connection.”

“Why?”

“I feel there's something between us. I'd like to know what it is. Wouldn't you?”

“You remember I'm gay, right?”

He grinned. “I remember. And you remember I almost was, right?”

“That might be clear to
you
.” What I was thinking was that avoiding sex is hardly the same thing as changing how you feel about it.

“Let's go someplace where we can talk about that. Newbury Street?”

He looked like he thought he had hooked a fish, or could at least see it approaching the bait. Maybe I wanted to be caught. “Can we sit outside?”

Maybe ten minutes later we were at a café table close enough to the street to watch the pedestrians file past, at adjacent sides of a square table so we weren't facing each other directly. He ordered a Coke and chips, and I got an iced tea, with a silent nod to Ned. And now that we were here, he seemed reluctant to begin. So I opened.

“I hope you realise I don't buy this ‘almost gay' idea.”

“You don't know the power of Straight Edge.”

“I'd bet on biology any day. And is this why you're stalking me, by the way? You want to convert me?” I glanced sideways at him, away from the parade of people.

“Okay, look. I'm not stalking you. And I'm not out to convert anybody. That isn't what Straight Edge is about. It's just that you seemed . . . I don't know, different. Yesterday, in the gallery.”

“I am different. I'm English, and I'm gay.” I turned my gaze back to the parade.

“And you're incredibly smart. You must be, to be at that school.”

My tone sarcastic, I said, “So, put all that together and you come up with someone you can't get out of your mind?”

He was quiet long enough to make me look at him. “Maybe not for the reason you think.”

I wasn't sure what I wanted to do about this tension. If he'd admitted to being gay, I would have liked it a lot. I turned fully towards him. “Back at the school, you said you sensed something between us. Would you like to know what I think that is?”

“Sure.”

“You're attracted to me. And I'm attracted to you. There are probably a lot of reasons for this, and one of them is that we're both gay.” If that didn't send him packing, nothing would.

“Just because I find you interesting doesn't mean I'm attracted to you sexually.”

“How, then? In what way are you attracted to me?” And why
didn't
that send him packing? Did
he
want to be caught?

“There's something edgy, something cool about you. And you're smart. Really smart. I was always one of those kids who wouldn't admit they're smarter than they act. You know the type? Boys, mostly. If we have a brain, we hide it. And talent in art is like the plague. Not cool. Me, I barely got into BU. But I know I have the brain power and the talent to stay, and maybe enough to go on after that.” He pointed the straw from his drink in my direction. “You? You're the whole deal. I can't speak to talent, but on top of everything else, you like art.”

“And you think I'll—what? Open doors into your true inner self?”

He grinned. “ ‘Live True.' No, I'm the only one who can open my doors. But, see, if there's anything we can make a friendship out of, I'd like to do that. Because I gotta get away from my home crowd. I'm from Boston, y'see. And some kids who see me like I used to be are still around me, at BU. Skipping classes, getting drunk, that kind of scene. I'm over that. They're not. And college is a great place to reinvent yourself. So I'm looking for new friends.” He waved the straw around as he spoke. “And you're not the only one. I've been watching people, talking to people I don't know. Girls can take it the wrong way, so I'm limiting myself to guys for now. And you're new to Boston, so I figure maybe we can help each other.”

My mind had caught on how he's limiting himself to boys, and the helping each other bit nearly threw me. “What makes you think you can help me?”

“This course you're doing. The City one. I was thinking that part of what makes a city a city is the people, and in Boston most people have come from someplace else. Like Italy. My
nonna
lives in the North End. That's mostly Italian, in case you don't know. Won't move out. You can speak Italian to her—just a few words would give her a thrill—and she'll tell you anything you want to know. In English.”

This gave me pause. It would be an interesting angle.

“And then there's Straight Edge. X. Like this tattoo, which I know you've noticed. You said part of what you need to show is how culture connects cities, right? Well, X is all over the world. Like I told you, it's in England. So right there you've got Italian immigration and how it affected Boston's development, and I can give you the goods on X as it is here, and both those influences apply to cities everywhere.” He shrugged. “So, yeah, I have something to offer. Something I'll bet the other brainiacs in your class won't be able to match.”

I was speechless. He was right; there were doors he could open for me. I might even want to make Italian immigration or Straight Edge—X—the focus of my final presentation, kind of like a thesis. It seemed unlikely there was a connection between the two, but I could choose one or the other. X would be more unusual, and the fact that it's contemporary would help get me noticed at Oxford.

And in return, I must offer him friendship. Didn't seem like a fair trade, really. That aside, though, I searched his face for a few seconds. What kind of toll would this take on me, to spend time with this artistic Roman god and not be able to touch him?

Finally I said, “There must be more to this arrangement for you.”

“All right, look, there's something else I want to get out of this, too. I have a course where I've been given an assignment, comparing art in Italy and England. And I just don't get English art. Maybe you can help me with that.”

“I must say, you've given this a lot of thought.”

“We were told to ‘think outside the box' for an approach.” He chuckled. “You're outside the box, all right.”

Trite expression. “So, why the coy camouflage? Why start this conversation by trying to pretend you had a less pragmatic motive ?”

“Dunno. I guess . . . I guess I'm not used to being up front about anything academic. And, like I told you already, I don't talk to strangers easily.”

This still seemed rather thin. And I wasn't so sure he found it difficult to talk to strangers. Which made it all the more likely that his real reasons for talking to me were ones he wasn't admitting to himself. This should have sent
me
packing. It didn't. Holding my straw between first and second fingers, I bounced it on the table. “How would this work, then?”

He leaned forwards, his face intense. “I'll give you a quick intro to X. Play you some of the music, show you some of the stuff online, maybe introduce you to a couple of guys I know who are in it. And you and I go to the Museum of Fine Arts; we focus on Italian and English art. By that time, I'll have told my
nonna
I have a friend who speaks Italian—”

“Only a little Italian. Please understand that.”

“Fine. And she'll probably invite us to dinner, and she's a great cook, and you can pick her brain. Make friends, you know. And then you can use her as a resource. She loves to talk about Italy and what it was like to leave, and what she thinks about Boston.”

I tried to force my brain to focus on what he was offering towards my academic success, but his face was so gorgeous, intense eyes trained on me, mouth partially open and tempting me to wonder what he'd do if I leaned forwards and kissed it. I turned deliberately back towards the street just as a tall, obviously gay man walked by, a Siamese cat in a red harness perched on his shoulder. I watched his retreating figure and then turned to Michael.

“It won't bother you that I'm gay?”

“Will it bother you that I'm not?”

“Maybe.” Yes. Or, it will bother me that he thinks he's not.

He laughed. “I like your honesty. And as long as we're honest with each other, I think this will work. What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?”

“I'm not at uni yet, y'know. Thursday is a school day.” I decided not to go into my spelling coach job with him.

“Okay, well, the museum is open until nine forty-five. How about we go there after school lets out for you?”

My voice teasing, I said, “So you get your art before I get my Italian?”

“How's this, then. We go to the museum, spend a couple of hours, then you can come back to my dorm and meet the guy in the room next to mine. He's not Italian, but he's X. We could start there. Go out to dinner together. We'll tell you everything. Plan?”

“I'll be free by four. Should we meet at the museum after that?”

“Plan.”

As we were about to head different ways, Michael asked for my phone number. “I'll call you tomorrow to confirm, and you'll get my number that way.” He laughed when I had to fish out my iPhone to look up the number.

“I just got it,” I told him by way of explanation as I began to go through the icons.

“And you don't have it memorised yet? You, the brainiac?” I looked up at him, and he winked.

“
I'll
ring
you,
” I said. “What's your number?”

And just like that, I had the Roman god's contact information stored in my phone—the Roman god who might as well be a stone statue, cold to my touch.