Educating Simon (21 page)

Dean went on as if reciting promotional material. “We have lots of educational material, including information about what's in store for people who are forced to mature against their sexual identities. I can give the Lloyds references to specialists, to counselling if they're open, or just to medical people. I know people who can put them in touch with parents who've seen their children safely into new identities. And if necessary, there are parents willing to talk about what happened when they didn't support their transgender child, and how they wish they had.” It hung in the air why they might have wished this, and I presumed that suicide was involved.

Then Dean lobbed another information bomb. “Did you know that the brain structure of transgender individuals is that of their desired gender, not of their apparent one?”

I blinked at him, stupidly. “I did not.” If that's true for everyone who's transgender, I have to say it's rather compelling. To Kay, I said, “When are you going to do this? Tell your parents, I mean?”

“Tonight.” Her face was set into an expression that was hopeful, determined, and terrified all at once.

“And I'll be available,” Dean told me, “to hear how it went and help figure out the next steps.”

I couldn't imagine that it would go well. “What if Kay's parents prevent her from contacting you afterwards?”

“I'll find her at school if necessary. Don't worry. I won't leave her on her own.”

Well, I
was
worried; I'd seen how afraid Kay is of her father, even when she's not expecting him to explode. Just introducing me to him had taken courage. This wasn't my business. Even so, I couldn't avoid asking this question. “Kay, has your father ever struck you?”

“When I was younger. Spankings, sometimes. That's all.”

“And are you afraid he's going to?”

“I—not exactly.”

Hardly a rousing vote of confidence. “Why were you so reluctant to introduce me to him?”

Kay's voice rose a little. “It's because he's so mean about letting me be who I am.” Dean hushed her, and she relaxed a little. “My mom's the one who let me decorate my room. She fought with Father about it. They had another fight when she found out he'd made Colleen take it all away again.”

“Does he strike your mother?”

“No. He doesn't hit people, Simon. Why do you think that?”

“I don't. I'm just trying to understand where your fear is coming from.” I looked at Dean. “And I should think Dean would want to know whether there's any danger in this outpouring you're planning.”

Dean said, “We've talked about that. I didn't overlook it.”

I had another question for him. “Are you straight?”

“Yes. I like girls.”

“Girls like Kay?”

I had expected this to take Dean by surprise, but it didn't. “I have a girlfriend. And Kay is far too young for me.”

“And how does Kay feel about you? She's straight, too, you know.”

Kay interrupted. “Simon, really, you don't have to worry.”

Dean smiled at me. “I like that you're so protective of her.”

I ignored that and said, “I'm assuming that there are trans men who like men, and trans women who like women.”

That annoyed him. “Of course there are. We're all just people, you know.”

I nodded at him and looked at Kay. “All right, then. I guess I'll find out next Thursday how things went, eh?”

“You don't want me to call you tonight?”

“I'll be out tonight.”

“On a date?”

“Sort of.” No point in trying to explain. “You can e-mail me, if you'd like. How's that?”

“It's a plan!”

I stood, and Kay stood, and impulsively I embraced her. “Good luck, Kay. I hope it goes really well.”

She smiled bravely and nodded. I shook Dean's hand and left the reading room, reminding myself yet again that this was not my problem, not my worry, not my concern.

But I was worried.

Back at the house, Brian called to me from the music room as I closed the front door. “Simon, is that you?”

I stood in the doorway and saw he was in an upholstered wing chair, listening to Chopin's nocturnes. It looked like that was all he was doing; there was no sign of reading material or a computer, nothing to distract him.

“Come in, please.”

Without going too far into the room—not knowing what to expect—I kept as much distance between us as was reasonable without being impolite.

“Your mother's gone to the Museum of Fine Arts,” he opened.

I think he would have continued, but I was too shocked and had to interrupt. “On a Saturday? She never goes to museums on weekends.”

“I think she needed the escape. And while she's been gone, I've decided that she—and you—are right about asking Persie about the candidates.”

Wow. I was right about something? And he admitted it? “Thanks. For telling me. I, um, I need to go get ready to go out.”

“Ah, yes, your date.”

“It's not a date. He's just a friend.”

“Sorry. Really. I don't mean to presume. But—I thought you were meeting his family.”

“I'm meeting
with
his grandmother to hear her experiences in immigrating to the US from Italy. She might be able to provide material I can use for a school project. The dinner is just a fun way to do that.”

“I see. Well, enjoy yourself.”

As I climbed the stairs, my brain bounced back and forth.
Brian took me seriously and is going to do what Mum and I recommended
alternated with
I'm sure she'll choose the non-Anna option, and then what if it turns out Brian was right?
I do not want that monkey on my back. If something goes wrong with this approach for Persie, will Brian blame me? I guess I could take that, but will he blame Mum? Do I care? And will I blame myself?

Ye gods, but I wish none of this had ever happened. I wish to hell we could have stayed where we were, where the only creature other than myself that I had to concern myself with was Tink. Now, not only is there Persie, and Mum's situation—having given up everything, including me, really, to start this new life—but also there's Toby/Kay and the horror of that situation. And there's Michael, beautiful, gay Michael, attracted to me, lying to himself about why, headed for some kind of brick wall for sure.

I don't like having to worry about all these other people. I don't like it at all.

And now I had to get freshened up to go and meet Michael's
nonna.
He hasn't said a lot, but his tone of voice when he's talked about her, the things he's said—all of it speaks to a tenderness that I think goes very deep. I'm kind of afraid to meet her. Does she know anything about who Michael really is? Will she guess about me? And what would that mean to her?

To distract myself, I located the North End on my mass transit map. There did not seem to be any good way to get there. I wondered if Michael would spring for a taxi.

I was laying out the clothes I'd wear when my mobile rang. It was Michael, cancelling. His grandmother had had a stroke.

“I called her to see if she needed me to bring anything. I didn't get an answer. When I got there—Simon, it was horrible! She was collapsed on the floor. Barely breathing. Dad and Naomi—my sister—met me at the emergency room. I'm outside now; they didn't want me to use my cell phone inside.”

“I'm so sorry, Michael. Is she conscious?”

“No. And there's no telling how long it might be”—his voice caught, and he paused for a few seconds—“before we know if she'll even wake up. And she might not be able to talk, or move.” He sounded on the verge of tears.

“I don't know what to say. Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn't wonder where I was.”

“Please let me know how things look for her, when you know more. I won't try to call you in case you're inside the hospital.”

We rang off, and I put my clothes away. Out on the roof garden, I leaned on that granite-topped brick wall, stared sightlessly at nearby buildings, and considered this development. Obviously, it was horrible for everyone in the family, but beyond that I couldn't help seeing it as one more in the series of things that never quite work out between Michael and me. It was as if the universe is agreeing with me that he is not for me, telling me to move forwards with my own issues and not get distracted by his trials and tribulations.

It was fairly warm this afternoon, so after I let Brian know I wouldn't be going out after all and why, I went back to my room, collected everything I'd need to do some schoolwork, and took it out onto the roof.

I was in my seat at the dinner table three minutes early; evidently that doesn't bother Miss Persie, even though she doesn't make an appearance until exactly half six. And perhaps I should have gone out someplace, even if it couldn't be the North End, because I goofed twice, referring to arugula as roquette and saying “amongst” instead of “among” at some point. The “roquette” annoyed her, but she didn't have a total tantrum over it, perhaps because it's really just the French word instead of the Italian word for that green. All she did was bring her fist down hard on the table with her fork pointing to the ceiling. But “amongst” put her over some edge, and she screamed, “Among! Among! Among!” There was no Anna any longer, and no replacement yet, so Brian was on his own. He spoke soothingly, to no avail. Mum started to get involved, but she didn't seem to know what to do, either.

Maybe it was just that the whole day had seemed like some kind of cock-up, but suddenly I'd had enough of Persie's tyranny. I stood, landed my hands hard on either side of my plate, and glared at her. She stopped shouting, gave me a nasty pout, waited for me to sit, and declared, “Among!” one more time as though getting the last word. But she settled down to her dinner again. As long as she shut up . . .

Brian and Mum looked at me like they didn't quite know what had just happened, but no one said anything—probably terrified of disturbing the quiet.

Around nine o'clock I felt a little peckish and headed down to the kitchen to see what I could scrounge. Brian and Mum were in the music room, dancing to band music from the 1940s. My breathing grew odd. It was almost like watching her with my father ; they used to dance to this music. My appetite gone, I decided to sneak back upstairs without being seen; maybe I'd come down later and try again.

I started up the stairs but got no farther than the top of the first flight. Persie was on the love seat there, evidently waiting for me.

“Simon.” It was more of a statement than a greeting, but from Persie that was normal.

“Persie,” I responded, my tone just as flat. I kept moving towards the stairs to the top floor, hoping I was wrong about why she was there. But she spoke again.

“Help.”

That got my attention. “What?”

“Help.”

“You need my help? Is that what you're saying?”

“Yes.”

This was not what I wanted, at the end of a difficult day topped off with what I'd just witnessed downstairs. But for Persie to ask for help . . . This seemed highly unusual. I stood where I was and waited.

“I want a real tutor this time. A tutor only.”

“You mean, not someone who lives here? Not like Anna?” She nodded. So Brian had asked her. “Did you tell your father that?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you need my help?”

“He told me to think about it. He said don't decide quickly. But I told him I don't need to think anymore. I know.”

“And he said . . . ?” Ye gods, but this was like pulling teeth.

“He said please take some time and think.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“I think he wants the other choice.”

The idea of Persie's considering what someone else thought about anything was inconsistent with what Brian had told me. “What makes you say that?”

“He didn't ask me why I want the other kind.”

Several seconds went by whilst my brain scrambled to understand what I was hearing. “Is this the first time you knew what your father was thinking when he didn't say it directly?”

Her turn to take several seconds. And then, “I don't know.”

Not much help. I tried a different tack. “So can you tell
me
why you want only the tutor?”

“I don't like being watched all the time. I want to decide what I want to do more of the time. I want to learn about things Anna doesn't know about.”

I nodded; made sense to me. “What kinds of things that Anna doesn't know about?”

“Art.”

Art. As simple as that. Not terribly surprising, perhaps. “Anna doesn't know about art?”

“Anna knows about art therapy. I don't need art therapy.”