Educating Simon (37 page)

Suddenly he was all over me, fingers digging into my back, tongue on my jaw and then in my mouth. He undid my belt and waistband and pushed me onto my back on the bed. Cupping my balls with one hand, he took my dick in his mouth and did wondrous things to me. I yelled as I came and sank against the bed.

When I opened my eyes he was naked. He removed the rest of my clothes, threw the covers back, and fetched the glasses.

“Happy New Year,” he said. We clinked and drank, and I reached for his dick. But he lifted my hand away. “I have a suggestion I hope you'll like.”

Here it was. I had expected it. But suddenly I was nervous as hell. It must have showed.

“I know it will be your first time. And I don't want to brag, exactly, but I'm really great when it comes to sex with a virgin. If you need to, you can stop me at any point, and we can do what we did last time. But I hope you're ready to try. Are you?”

I watched his face for about three seconds, lifted my glass, drained it, handed it to him, and threw myself back down onto the bed. He drained his glass, set both of them on the bedside table, and reached for two things in a drawer: lubricant, and a condom.

He kissed me and kissed me—my face, my mouth, my neck, my tits, my belly, my balls, my thighs, until I was hard all over again. He turned me gently and kissed everywhere he could reach. Everywhere.

He wasn't just bragging. He knew what he was doing, and he was very gentle with me. My research had not quite prepared me for this experience, for either the good or the not-so-good parts. But I had reason to believe that the good parts would get even better while the rest would matter less and less.

When we'd recovered enough to sit up again, Luther refreshed our glasses. We sat silently for several minutes, sipping those marvellous bubbles, basking in the afterglow. Then he leaned towards me and gave me a sweet kiss. “Thank you, Red.”

“Thank me?”

“Yes. For being brave. And sexy. For being you.” He clinked his glass against mine.

I sipped and leaned back against the pillows. “Can I tell you something?”

“Something secret?”

I laughed. “Not exactly.” I took another sip. “I was stark raving furious with my mother when she married Brian Morgan and moved both of us, lock, stock, and barrel, to Boston. Furious!” Another sip. “My litany, in my rant at her, was that she was ruining my chances for getting into Oxford, where my father had really wanted me to go. Where I had really wanted to go. I was at Swithin in London, a school famous for prepping students for OxCam, as we refer to Oxford and Cambridge together, as though they were Siamese twins instead of siblings locked in rivalry. I was sure that my fabulous marks, and the fact that my grandfather had been at Magdalen College, would get me in for sure, but only if I finished at Swithin. But since then, I've found out that if I hadn't been kidnapped, if I hadn't been forced into St. Boniface school in Boston, if I hadn't been forced to expand my outlook in several ways, Oxford would not have wanted me.”

I took another sip, and Luther said, “So you're glad you were kidnapped?”

“Well, what I was really going to say was that Oxford would not have been the only thing I'd have missed out on.” I waved my glass for emphasis. “Don't worry that I'm going to get all clingy on you, but—this, you, would never have happened in London.”

“Why not?”

“I had no intro into the gay community there. I had no Ned. I knew a couple of other kids at school who were probably gay, but I wasn't chums with them. So I would have lost out on Oxford,
and
I would have lost out on great sex.”

“And do you know that you haven't lost out on Oxford?”

I wasn't sure where to start. He didn't know very much about this oh, so important part of my life. “We haven't really talked, have we? Not about important things. I guess that's mostly okay. But Oxford is really important to me. As it happens, they wait-listed me because they weren't impressed with my work at Swithin. It wasn't until people at St. Boniface raised a ruckus that they capitulated and gave me interviews with four tutors, which is a lot. The interviews went really well, but—I'm still pretty nervous about getting in. But if I do, it's all due to having come here. Against my will. Profoundly against my will. I was horrid to my mother.”

We let that sit for a minute. Then Luther said, “Can I tell
you
something?” He resettled himself a little closer to me. “I really, truly wish that I could see you again in a few years, to see what you're like then. To see what else you've learned, about yourself, about life. You are going to be one amazing gay guy.”

I laughed. “You never know. Perhaps you'll take a trip to England, or I'll come back to visit, and we could meet up again. I'd kind of like to see where you go from here, too.”

We didn't finish the champagne; I would have been positively ill otherwise. Luther called a taxi and threw on some jeans and a jumper, and I donned my formal attire again. He walked me out to the taxi, opened the door, and kissed me.

“Let's wait a few weeks before we connect again,” he said. “Do you mind?”

I smiled; he was still Luther, and that was fine. “I'll give you a call when I hear from Oxford. Should be a few weeks, tops. How's that?”

“Perfect.”

And without another word, he turned back towards the house.

On the ride home, I grinned like a fool. I wasn't in love; that much I was sure of. And if I never saw Luther again, tonight had been a great way to end it. But I'm fairly sure I will see him. And if so, it just might be that the condom is on the other dick.

I've neglected my journal lately. It's funny, really; when I had nothing but complaints, I wrote all the time—in the beginning of my time in Boston, it was every day for a while. But now that I'm feeling less angry with the universe, I'm not feeling the same need, unless I have some sexploits to write about. Of course, it's also that schoolwork didn't let up for me despite the Christmas holiday. I got everything done I needed to, and done well, I think. And since 7 January, it's been back to classes, with new assignments and more work.

After my evening with Luther I didn't see Ned alone until Wednesday evening. I went into the kitchen after dinner, ostensibly to help Ned, but really wanting to talk with him about my adventure. When I told him how we had left things, he chuckled. “Good old Luther. Don't let him get caught admitting that someone got under his skin.”

“Did I do that?”

“Honey, does the sun rise in the east?”

“Well, it doesn't matter. I'm in no rush to see him again, though I hope I will at some point.”

“Don't call him. That's the surest way to get him to call you.”

I knew he was right. I had promised to ring Luther when I heard from Oxford. Maybe I'd wait and see if he rang me first.

Speaking of Oxford, it's not exactly late for offer letters, but I don't think it's too early, either, and I haven't seen any. At least I haven't seen a rejection, either. Every day, on my way home from school, I make a huge effort not to feel anxious, in case anything has arrived. Dr. Metcalf is carefully not asking me; he knows I'll tell him as soon as there's something to tell.

Still nothing from Oxford. On tenterhooks, now.

Kay and I have stepped up her prep; the March bee isn't far off. And she has lots of time now, because her mother has decided to stop sending her to that school. There was a fist fight; Kay slugged a boy who wouldn't let her into the boys' room. I think it surprised the hell out of her that she had that in her, but her determination to be who she is, as she once put it, has not flagged.

Maddy and I have become best buddies. I was a little worried about it at first. I said to her, “What if a boy is interested and doesn't know I'm gay? He'll think you're with me.”

She grinned. “As a matter of fact, another boy is interested. I'm going out on my first date! Other than the dance with you, of course, but that doesn't really count, does it?”

“No.” I smiled at her. “That's terrific. I want to hear all about it.”

“And anyway, everyone saw you and Daren dance. It's been quite the topic of discussion.”

“Are they freaking out?”

She shook her head. “No; just wondering if you're a couple.”

How cool is that? They don't care that it's two guys. Or if they do, it's not rising to the surface in a threatening way. I truly hope it won't be too much longer until this is how it is for Kay.

Kay's had her first two sessions with the psychologist. She saw her alone for the first one and with her mother for the second. There will be a few more before Kay moves on to medical experts and the first stages of the treatments, but so far it doesn't look as though there will be a snag anyplace.

Friday I talked with Dr. Metcalf about setting up another practice bee for Kay. This time it wouldn't be with her school chums. This time it would be with volunteers from St. Boniface. And this time, there would be eliminations, and a winner.

He loved it. He said he'd poll the other students on his roster and work with the other counsellors to drum up some stiff competition. He was pretty sure there were one or two past Scripps contestants in the student body. We set a date for the evening of 7 February.

He never asked about Oxford. The question was conspicuous in its absence.

This afternoon when I got home from school, there was a kitchen chair positioned just inside the front door. On it were two envelopes from the UK. Oxford.

My ears rang, and my breathing grew odd. It felt as though my stomach was determined to see daylight by leaping out through my throat.

No one else was about. Or if they were, they were keeping out of my way. I stepped towards the chair and had to will myself to reach out. The contents of these envelopes would determine the rest of my life. A career at Oxford is not something one leaves behind ; it sets one up in a way almost nothing else can do. Either of them, or both of them, could contain an acceptance or a rejection. Each was from a different college. My hand hovered a foot over them until I forced it down. Grabbing both at once, I headed for the stairs. I wanted to be in the privacy of my room when I discovered what was in these missives.

I shut the door and threw my school bag on the floor by my desk. The envelopes I dropped on the bed. I pulled my desk chair over and sat there, staring at them.

What would I do if they were both rejections? Of course, one or both of the two that had not yet arrived might contain an acceptance; I'd had four interviews. But this first volley seemed all-important.

There was Princeton. I could go there. I would leave Boston and start a whole new life in New Jersey, a place I knew nothing about, really, except as the butt of jokes. I might be accepted at Yale. I'd never visited either place, but the online photos of Yale had left me with the impression that it was attempting to replicate Cambridge University here in the States, and I wasn't sure I'd feel right. I might still get into Stanford, too. California seems like another world, and maybe that would be a good thing.

I walked around the bed and sat on the window seat, looking into the afternoon dusk. I felt light-headed, my stomach still churning. I wouldn't open either envelope until I was calmer; if it was bad news, I wanted to start from a place of relative calm or I might go over some edge. I breathed in for two beats, out for four. In for two, out for four. In for two . . .

Twenty minutes later, I felt calm enough to face whatever Oxford had to say to me. I had decided on Princeton as my alternate; they had been the first to accept me, and one could hardly go wrong there.

Blindly I picked one envelope up and opened it. It was from Trinity.

They wanted me. Comparative theology.

My knees buckled, and I landed rather hard on the floor. All my breathing exercises forgotten, I was nearly panting with emotions I couldn't identify. Could I read this subject seriously enough for a degree? What would I do with it? Probably teach. Did I want to do that? Alternatively I could travel, research world religions, write books, speak at conferences. Did I want to do that?

I managed to get up onto my knees and reach the other envelope. I sat down fully on the floor again; no more falling. I held it in my hands, willing myself to accept that what should happen, will happen. Hadn't this move to Boston been a really good thing for me, after all? Hadn't I changed for the better in so many ways? Didn't I like myself so much better now? Didn't other people like me when almost no one had before?

Boston had been a big win for me. Whatever else happened, nothing could take that away. I am my own person now. The spell? The one I'd told Ned had been cast upon me? The spell was broken. And now that I know who I am, I'm ready to
be
who I am.

I opened the envelope. Pembroke. Black, lilac, brick red, sky blue, bright red, terra cotta, hot pink, lilac.

They accepted me.

I kneeled by the side of the bed, leaned my arms on the mattress, and wept for joy. I was going home.

This will be short. Just want to record that I got two more letters from Oxford today. It was validating (there's that word again) that Magdalen accepted me. And I'd never really wanted Christ Church, so when they didn't, there was no serious pain. I'll be responding to the three acceptances next week; just wanted the whole collection first.

Brian is taking Mum and me out to L'Espalier Saturday to celebrate. Supposedly it's a world-class restaurant. It will have to go some distance to compete with Apsleys, but I'm sure I'll enjoy it. I asked if Ned could come, too, and so not only was he invited, but also Manuel is coming. I can't wait to meet him.

Mum's disappointed, I can tell, that I'm choosing Pembroke over Magdalen. But I'm convinced Magdalen gave me an offer more on the strength of my grandfather's connection than because they especially want me, and I really liked Dr. Franklin.

When I told Mum, she cried and hugged me and cried some more. And I thanked her for standing by me, for pushing for me. For believing in me. Then I called Dr. Metcalf.

My father would be so thrilled.