Educating Simon (25 page)

I took the chair across from Persie. It wasn't my usual kitchen seat, but I knew Persie wouldn't have had time to lay down the law on that, either. Then I saw that the cook in Mum had evidently been inspired by my apples, and as soon as I saw the dish I said, “I'll have some apple crumble, please.”

Persie's head snapped towards me. “Apple crisp!” she shouted. “Crisp! Crisp! Crisp!”

Brian opened his mouth to say something, but before anything else could happen I stood very suddenly and glared down at Persie. Like the last time I'd done this, it surprised her enough to make her miss a beat in her litany, but she started again.

I slammed my hand down on the table and yelled, “Stop!” Everyone jumped, including Persie. And she stopped shouting. She stared at the table.

“I am English,” I said to her, my tone soft but intense. “That might not matter to you, but it matters to me. And in England, we say ‘crumble.' I'm not in England now, but I am going back, and
I
will say ‘crumble.' That's my rule.” I almost added, “Do you understand?” or the perennial, “Is that clear?” But I hate having those phrases thrown at me. They're dismissive and don't impart a sincere wish to be understood. So I added, “Do you have any questions about that?”

She looked towards me and quietly said, “No.”

I sat down again. “Now, please, will someone pass the apple crumble, and the cream? Thank you.”

Persie scowled as I spooned crumble into a bowl and poured cream over it. I set the creamer down and looked at her. In a flat monotone, I said, “Sky blue, bright red, lilac, pale yellow, bright blue, cream, lilac.” I watched her face for maybe five seconds, and then she took a deep breath, which is what I'd coloured her to do. I enjoyed the rest of my breakfast in peace. So did everyone else. And the crumble was at least as good as I had expected.

 

Dr. Metcalf had already responded, via e-mail, about my assignment by the time I got up to my room.

Excellent work, Simon. Very well researched, nicely written. You're off to a great start. So please don't take my suggestion as criticism. You know that Oxford wants candidates who make them sit up and take notice. While this paper is very good, it needs to stand out more. Do you think you could come up with a sharper angle, a fresh perspective, or perhaps extrapolate about the progress of acceptance in society and support your position? Let me know if you'd like to discuss.

I threw my jacket on and went to sit on the roof. Traffic sounds, echoing off the buildings around me, provided white noise to my jumbled thoughts. Will everything be like this? Will everything I do, every effort I make, be
almost
good enough? Because if this is going to be the case, then I can forget about Oxford again. There's no tolerance for “almost” there.

Fresh perspective. Sharper angle. As I sat there, staring at but not seeing the sky, the buildings around me, my mind went to my paper. Extrapolate, he'd said. Where is society headed, in terms of accepting something other than normative when it comes to sex? Kay's situation came to mind.

I tried to come up with some point in time when I'd encountered a serious conflict because of being gay. Obviously, I can't ignore the legal inequalities. Even in Boston, where I could marry a man and have it legally recognised, that recognition would be in Massachusetts and a handful of other states only. And that's just one inequality; there are lots more.

There were some idiots at Swithin who had called me names because I was obviously not interested in girls, but they were a decided minority. Ridicule on account of my “ginger” hair had been much more of a problem. Of course, I wasn't out at Swithin; things might have been worse if I had been. Even so, no one would have told me I couldn't use the boys' loo. I'll bet Kay can't use the girls'.

I suppose it's likely that in most schools, even in Boston, I would be given grief by other students, maybe even serious grief, if I were out in any obvious way. Certainly I haven't gone out of my way to announce it to anyone at St. Bony, other than to Maddy, partly because it's just not their business, but partly because I'm not quite sure what would happen. But Mum hasn't been difficult about it, and Brian has been as good as his word. Michael's grandmother thinks we're a couple and grins about it. X isn't welcoming, but they seem to enjoy making enemies of everyone, so I'm not sure how much weight to give that.

But as for Kay? What will she face?

I practically ran back to my computer to fire off a response to Dr. Metcalf.
Got your advice re my extended essay, and I need to talk to you about something that might be a good angle. When can you meet?

Almost immediately I got back,
Is a phone convo now an option?
He included a number.

He answered on the second ring. I told him, “I have to confide in you about something. Two somethings, really. The first is about me. I'm gay.”

No more than two seconds went by. “Are you planning to draw on personal experience in your essay?” His tone was neutral, like it was really just a question, nothing between the words.

“Not necessarily. I just wanted you to have that context. The second thing is about someone else.” I told him about Kay, the straight girl. I described her intensity, her absolute certainty, and her goal of appearing on stage as her true self. And I described her situation with her parents. This time when I paused, Dr. Metcalf was silent for several seconds.

“I have to tell you, Simon, I had no idea. I would never have put you into this position. I wish you had told me sooner. This goes far beyond the project's scope, and you shouldn't have had to deal with something this personal in nature. How do you feel about continuing to work with Toby? Um, Kay?”

“She told me in confidence. And I'm in it now. She trusts me, and I'm almost the only one who knows. I think the only other person is a trans man named Dean whom she met in a support group chat room, who's advising her about hormone therapy. But I didn't bring this up to get out of working with her. I've been thinking about the difficulties I've faced, being gay, which have been almost nothing compared to what Kay will have to go through. I'd like to change the essay's focus. I'll build on the historical material I've already got, but the subject of the essay isn't sexual orientation, or sexual identity. It's the difficulty that society has adjusting to anything that veers from the sexual norm. And Kay's issues veer more extremely than mine. So I wouldn't downplay attitudes towards homosexuality, but I would point out the even more extreme reactions to other nonconforming ways of being.”

“I see.” He was quiet for a bit, but I could tell he was thinking. Then he said, “You've certainly landed on an issue of current interest, Simon. I have to say, I knew you could do it. I have to warn you, though. My own understanding of your topic is very limited. I'll need to do some research of my own. That's not a problem. It just means I'll need to come up to speed, or I won't be able to provide any guidance other than in generalities.”

“So, is it all right? I need your approval, correct?”

“You do. And you have it. I would ask, though, that you submit your drafts a little more frequently than the schedule requires, just so you don't get too far ahead of me. Or, rather, so that I don't end up too far behind you.”

Just before we rang off, Dr. Metcalf asked me again if I was certain I wanted to continue working with Kay. It didn't escape me that our positions have reversed; at first, I was the one looking for the out, and he had told me, “not without good reason.” Now, he was practically trying to talk me out of it. I told him I'd keep on, at least for now.

“Simon, I do need to ask a potentially awkward question. You indicated that Kay is straight. Even though you're gay, might she be developing an attachment to you that could become awkward?”

I laughed. “No. In fact, she's already informed me she ‘doesn't feel that way about me.' ”

“Very well. But if you feel the situation is changing, let me know immediately.”

I felt as though a burden had been lifted. It had been getting awkward not saying anything to him about Kay, and confidence or no, perhaps I should have mentioned it sooner.

It's also a relief to have him know about me. And he didn't bat an eye.

This is the third entry in a row on a Sunday with no entries since the Sunday before. School has gotten insanely busy. Reports, exams, papers have been due in almost everything, including my core IB courses (the famous extended essay, Theory of Knowledge, and of course Creativity, Action, Service, for which I'm coaching Kay). Thank the gods I remembered to keep track of all the word lists I've created; I had to include them in a report.

The City course has been as time-consuming as promised, sending me traipsing all over Boston for one thing or another.

Haven't heard from Michael. Guess he doesn't need any more guidance about English art, or maybe it was for just one paper and he's completed it by now. I'm surprised and relieved to find that I really don't care.

I have new respect for Persie. She followed my suggestion to the letter and each evening gave Brian a smile as sweet as she knows how to make it, with a gentle request to let her visit a museum “tomorrow.” More impressive was that she didn't lose patience, even though it was Thursday evening before Brian capitulated. Of course, by Tuesday evening, the second request, he knew what was going on, and maybe he thought she'd give up. I think she would have gone on for years, or until he'd said “Not tomorrow, not ever.” I think he nearly said that on Tuesday, because there was a long pause after she asked, her face a rigid mask of deliberate sweetness all the while. I think he considered a categorical denial, but he didn't go there.

So on Friday, Persie and Mum, accompanied by Maxine, went to the Boston Public Library. Persie had been a little difficult about the fact that I had to go to school rather than with them.

Mum told me that when they got home, Persie went right upstairs to take a nap, no doubt completely knackered. I heard them come home whilst I was upstairs in my room, deep into research about AS for my Theory of Knowledge course. Mum also said Persie had done better than had been expected, though there were a few moments—especially in the more spacious areas, like that huge, echoing staircase—where she had panicked a little.

Over dinner that evening, Persie was wide awake again. She didn't open the conversation, but when I asked her how the trip had gone, she started talking and didn't stop, except occasionally to calculate her food category portions. She didn't mention any difficulties. In his usual back-and-forth with courses, Ned looked at me several times and smiled.

The only unpleasant moment was when Persie said something about going again Monday, and Brian said, “I think one visit a week is enough, Persie. Why don't the three of you work out the best day of the week to go, and stick to that, eh?”

“No! Monday!”

I slapped my hand on the table just loudly enough to get her attention and gave her a heavy stare. She lowered her head in a pout, but she stopped protesting. I guess this impressed Brian, because he came upstairs later that evening. He sat in the reading chair, and I turned my desk chair only enough to see him; I had a lot of work to do and didn't want him staying any longer than necessary.

“I want to talk to you about Persie,” he opened. “This repeated request for museum visits, and that odd smiling ploy . . . Was this your idea?” This time, his tone was not accusatory.

“Yes. That night when she asked for my help, she said that art, and museums, were very important to her, and that you'd said she couldn't go. It came up again another time, and I suggested that perhaps if she asked nicely, you might change your mind.”

“That's it? That's all you said to do? Ask nicely?”

“Well . . .” I'd wanted to limit what I said about the extent of my involvement, which I expected he would see as interference. But he wasn't letting me get away with it. “I might have suggested she smile. And I said it might be better to ask only for a specific day.”

He crossed his arms, nodded, and sucked his cheeks in a little. “I thought so. An insurrection, eh?”

He didn't seem angry, so I added, “I suppose I was also curious to see what she'd do with the suggestion. She doesn't smile often, and from what you've said, she wouldn't be likely to think of doing it just to get what she wants. So now,” I added, thinking of how I might use this information in my TOK paper, “it will be intriguing to see if she does it for anything else.”

He sat there, looking at me. It seemed as though he was thinking rather than outright staring, but I felt the need to say, “Was there something else?”

“Yes. Tonight was the third time you've slapped the table, and she's calmed down. What can you tell me about that?”

[Shakespearean aside: I've been doing some research into the Oxford admissions process, and one thing I've seen is that during the interviews, which take place in December (if one is invited), applicants are often asked questions that do not have correct or incorrect answers. The questions are intended to make the applicants reveal how they form responses, not just the depth of their knowledge. I've seen comments online from past applicants about their experiences during these interviews, and one post really stuck in my mind: “Even if you don't think you know how to answer a question, the best thing to do is to keep talking until you land on what you'd like them to take as your answer. And that might still be ‘I don't know.' They actually want to hear you talk through your thought process.”

Brian's question took me off guard, but not because it was unreasonable. So I pretended Brian was an Oxford tutor giving me an interview, and in my reply I used some of the language I'd already worked into my TOK draft.]

“I guess it's something I would have done if she really were a cat. You've told me she doesn't have a well-developed sense of social norms and doesn't necessarily respond to the same cues you or I might respond to. So it seemed unlikely that she'd respond to a request to, you know, ‘behave.' When my cat was doing something she wasn't supposed to, I used to slap on a table, or clap my hands together loudly, to break her attention on whatever it was she was doing. Not in anger. It's just to distract. So with Persie, I didn't think about it; it was kind of automatic. But it seems to work, at least for now.”

“So you're treating my daughter like a cat.”

“I didn't say that, exactly.”

“I'm not criticising. I'm thinking aloud. Do you think she'll learn? That she'll see patterns—when the table slaps happen—and modify her behaviour to avoid them?”

“I'll be surprised if she doesn't.”

“Have you been studying AS?”

“You did tell me to look it up.” I grinned at the face he made, somewhere between surprise and sarcasm. “Seriously, though, yes, I'm working it into one of my IB courses. The raw material here is too good to pass up.”

He scowled, but it was a thoughtful scowl. “May I read your work at some point?”

“Certainly. I'll let you know when it's ready. I, um, I need to get back to work, now.”

He stood, gave me an intense look, and said, “Thank you, Simon.” Not sure why, but as soon as Brian locked the door downstairs, Graeme sat on the edge of the bed. “You two have come a long way, haven't you?” he said, his head tilted, his smile sexy.

I got up, leaned my knees against the mattress between his thighs, and pushed his shoulders back until he lay beneath me. “Not as far as you and I are about to go.” I planted my hands on either side of his head and my mouth on his, and before long we were naked between my sheets, inhaling each other's scents, tasting each other's skin, kissing and caressing and pulling and thrusting until we were spent. And then we did it all again.

There was an odd moment when I realised that Graeme smelled like sun-warmed wool, just as Michael does. At first it felt—unfaithful, or something. But I shook that off; what was wrong with taking the one thing Michael could actually give me and making good use of it?