Educating Simon (38 page)

Over a week since my last entry. Truth be told, this journalling thingy is beginning to feel a little old, and more like an obligation than like something I want to do, or that I need to do. Maybe soon I'll put it aside and see if it calls to me. But I'll keep on for now.

Quite a bit has happened. L'Espalier on the twenty-sixth was actually very nice. Fantastic service, haute cuisine, and no question about it. Still couldn't have any wine, which was a bit of a bummer.

Manuel is adorable. He's as short as Ned is tall, with just a hint of a lilt to his accent. His parents moved to the US from Mexico when he was a baby. He laughs all the time, and it's obvious Ned is head over heels in love with him.

During dinner, I decided it was time to tell Mum and Brian about Kay. So many other things had captured my attention, my energy, that it had never occurred to me that the stamp of confidentiality was no longer sitting on top of this information, though I didn't mention the suicide attempt. Ned had not told Manuel, which made me respect Ned even more. Mum was near tears when I talked about the difficulties Kay had at school. When I'd said about all I could, Mum suggested that she and Brian and I should get together with Kay and her mother sometime. I was a little surprised at how much I liked that idea.

Towards the end of the meal, Brian asked Ned and Manuel if they could make use of some tickets he was holding for a concert, Renée Fleming and Susan Graham at Symphony Hall. He and Mum have to go to some event a major client of his is hosting.

When Ned and Manuel didn't take them, I said, “If they're going begging, I might be able to use them.” There were a number of people I could invite: Maddy, Luther, Daren. . . .

 

Sunday, the day after that dinner, tickets to the concert in hand, I sat staring at them. I was supposed to ring Luther with my Oxford results, but Ned had said not to do that if I wanted him to ring me. Did that matter to me? I guess really what mattered was that Luther never get the impression that I'm expecting something from him that he's not going to give me. Something I don't want, anyway.

Maddy? Maybe in a pinch; I didn't want to send the wrong message.

I dug out my school directory, picked up my phone, and rang Daren.

We chatted for a minute about school, both of us knowing that wasn't why I had called, and finally I said, “I happen to have two free tickets to see Renée Fleming and Susan Graham at Symphony Hall on Sunday, 3 March. Any interest?”

“Wow. For real? I'd love that.”

Easy as that. We made arrangements to meet there. And because I'd told him the tickets were free, there was no awkwardness about who was paying for what.

 

Luther rang me on Monday evening. I had to chuckle as I saw his number appear on my mobile.

“Hey, Red,” he opened. “How are things?”

“Going really well, actually. You?”

“Don't be coy, Simon. How well? Did you hear from Oxford?”

I laughed. “I did. All's well. I'll be attending the college of my dreams.”

There was a slight change in his voice, a sense of—I don't know, relief or something, like he'd been worried for me. “Which college would that be?”

“Pembroke. I got in at two others, but that's where I want to be.”

“Two others. You little . . . Does anyone ever get more than one offer from Oxford?”

“Sure they do! Lots.”

“Prove it. Name one person.”

What did I know? “I don't think I will. Maybe I'd like you to go on thinking of me as truly special.”

“No question about that, Red.”

We chatted for a bit, nothing in particular, and rang off. There was no suggestion of getting together, which I think was his way of keeping just enough distance for comfort—a necessary precaution if he had, in fact, been worried about me. I'm pretty sure I'll be seeing him again.

 

So today was the concert. Daren was waiting in the lobby of Symphony Hall when I arrived. There was a little awkwardness at first: Shake hands? Embrace? Nod? We settled on the nod, found our seats, and I opened conversation by saying this was the first time I'd been in the hall. Which gave him a chance to talk about other concerts he'd been to there. He said one of his favourite times was coming to see David Sedaris. I didn't know who that was, but before he could enlighten me, the concert began.

After the concert, I asked if he'd like to get a coffee or something, and we went to that little place Luther had introduced me to, that student hangout that was a few steps up from most of the places right on Comm Ave. It wasn't too far from Symphony Hall. Daren had never been there, so that was a coup for me.

He told me about David Sedaris over coffee for him, tea for me. Evidently the fellow is some kind of raconteur and author, hysterically funny, and gay.

“He'll be here in April,” Daren said. “I have tickets already. Um, would you like to go?”

“Sounds like fun.” Another date. Who would have guessed?

We walked together to the T stop at Mass Ave. There was another slightly awkward moment as we parted. He was headed outbound for Newton, and I was going into town. Plus, there we were in public. Daren solved it; maybe he's had a few more dates than I have.

He held his hand out, and I gave him mine, but because of the way he held it, instead of a true handshake, it was more of a hand embrace.

“I really enjoyed this, Simon. Thanks for asking me.”

“Me too. Really glad you could come.”

I think we might do something else together before April. Maybe he'll ring me next time.

Kay's St. Boniface bee was tonight. She showed up with her mother, both dressed elegantly like the ladies they are.

“I'm really nervous, Simon. What if I don't win?”

“If you don't make mistakes, how will we know how to improve your performance?”

“Right. I'll try to think of it like that.”

“Even so, Kay . . . knock 'em dead!”

I was a little nervous, myself. After all, these weren't kids I was pronouncing for this time, not kids for whom I'd had to prepare sentences demonstrating how the words would be used, not kids for whom I'd chosen the words themselves. These were my peers, and my own performance would be under a more rigorous scrutiny and had to be letter-perfect. I had access to lists from the Scripps Web site, but still . . . And it had been so difficult not to work with Kay on the words I'd selected, not to give her that edge. Because what if she didn't do well?

The room was pretty full. Eighteen St. Boniface students had volunteered, including Maddy. So there were parents and siblings and teachers and who knew who else out there watching. Daren wasn't spelling, but he was in the audience. We spoke briefly before the bee began, and I couldn't help seeing that a number of other students noticed this; I guess Maddy was right, and there is some speculation. I kind of like it.

Mum, Brian, Ned, and Manuel were all there as well, which I thought was pretty great.

Three St. Boniface students fell after the first round. The next round saw two fall. Then no one fouled, and then four. Nine of them left, plus Kay.

Five went in the next round; the words were getting harder with each round. So five people were left now, including Kay, who looked nervous but excited in a good way. She smiled a lot and kept cracking jokes, including once when she pulled the same stunt she'd pulled in my very first session with her.

“Guilloche,”
I called out.

“
Guilloche.
May I have the language of origin, please?”

“French.”

“May I have the part of speech, please?”

“Noun.”

“May I have the definition, please?”

“An ornamental border formed of two or more curved bands that interlace to repeat a circular design.”

“May I have the spelling, please?”

To be honest, she nearly got me; I stuttered before actually saying the first letter, but it had been right there. Kay giggled, and behind me came a riot of laughter from the audience.

“Will you use it in a sentence, please?”

“The architect was at pains to convince his clients that guilloche trimming in their contemporary home would be extremely out of place.”

“Are there any other pronunciations?”

“There is one other.” I gave it to her, knowing she didn't need any of this information. And she spelled it perfectly, smiled at the audience (who laughed again), took a curtsey (to a smattering of applause), and sat in her chair.

The last three contestants, Kay and Maddy and Phil (who'd come in fifth when he had competed at the national bee several years ago), were tough, and we went three rounds with no errors. Then Maddy tripped up over
lymphopoiesis,
and it was Kay and Phil for four more rounds. Phil finally tripped on
aoristic
when he put an
h
after the
r.
If Kay spelled the next word correctly, she won; if not, Phil had another chance, and so did she.

Kay spelled
oecus “a-e-a-c-u-s,”
and I had to hit the bell. The entire audience groaned, and Kay's eyes went wide with horror. It was an effort to remain calm, myself, or at least to appear so. Still, I couldn't help but think this would be good for her humility. She'd done exceptionally well, and if she lost tonight she'd work that much harder.

Still . . .

Phil's next word, which I was so very tempted to skip, was
calo.
In my heart of hearts, of course, I wanted Kay to win. And this word looked just too easy. But Phil put two
l
s into it.

Back to Kay. The next word was
bombycinus.

She must have asked for the language of origin three times. I knew she was not listening to that same answer; she was thinking, picturing the word, and a finger on her right hand was scribbling furiously on her left palm. This is one of those words for which a number of different spellings could make sense, and unfortunately it did not appear to me that Kay knew the word itself. Or, if she did, she couldn't be sure she remembered the spelling quite correctly.

I had to call thirty seconds.

She closed her eyes, pronounced the word once more, and began to spell. She never paused. She got all the way through to the
s,
pronounced the word again as she was required to do by the bee's rules, and opened her eyes on my face.

My smile told her everything she needed to know. She raised her arms, gave a little scream, and danced back and forth whilst the audience clapped, cheered, stood, then clapped and cheered some more. Mrs. Lloyd joined her on stage, Phil stepped forwards, rather gallantly, I thought, and shook her hand, and Dr. Metcalf surprised the heck out of me by coming out of the wings with a trophy.

Once the hoopla had quieted down a little, Mum and Brian stepped forwards for an introduction, and it seemed so odd to me that these two groups of people, who had been so crucial—so central—to my life, had never met. Mum and Abby Lloyd hit it off immediately and agreed they'd be in touch about getting together. Kay, shy in a way I'd never seen her, cozied up to Brian in a big way, and he seemed very paternal. Solicitous, even. Ned picked Kay up bodily and gave her a big hug, which made her squeal with delight. In so many ways, she's younger than her eleven years. And in so many ways, she's a very old soul.

We're expecting a massive snowstorm—a true blizzard, they're saying—this weekend. Glad I'll get to have that experience before going home, where we don't have blizzards.

Ye gods. Nearly two months since my last entry? That kind of says it all, doesn't it? When I'd started, I really needed to “talk” about things; no friends, crisis after crisis (real or manufactured), and some odd combination of unfulfilled romance and fulfilling sex. Now my life is mostly about that one-foot-in-front-of-the-other labyrinth pattern with very few things to trip me up. Though, of course, schoolwork is a constant demand; I have to keep my marks up or lose Oxford again, and I will not let that happen.

 

The March bee is behind us. I say “us,” because it really is both of us: Kay and me. We're a team. Man, I never would have thought I would say that. And I never would have thought that, sitting there next to Abby (which is what she's asked me to call her), I would be so fucking nervous! Watching past years' videos of the final competition, I'd seen the camera land on the faces of parents who were covering their mouths with their hands, and the commentator would say something like, “Their son will be disqualified if anyone in the audience is seen to be mouthing letters.” I almost had to cover my own mouth. And the pride I felt at hearing her name—Kay Lloyd—called as the winner . . . My eyes are tearing up just to write about it. And it wasn't just that she'd won. It was that Kay's name, not Toby's, had been called, and an ecstatic girl dressed in a pink and white polka-dot dress had beamed at the crowd as she accepted the praise.

I almost felt bad for Toby, but he had never really existed, anyway.

So in May off she goes to the national bee. And Abby and I will go with her.

 

I have to say, I loved the blizzard (back on the first weekend in February). I did feel sorry for people who lost power for days or whose seaside homes were swept away. We lost power overnight on that Friday, but it was back before sundown on Saturday. Even so, we huddled in the living room in front of the fireplace. Ned, bless his heart, had made sure we had some firewood on hand, and he'd left us with lots of food we could eat without cooking it: boiled eggs, cheese, bread, crackers, lots of options. Plus gallons of water.

The wind howled and howled and sometimes blew smoke back down the chimney. Arria was very unsettled, and I think Persie would have been worse than she was, except that she was focusing so hard on taking care of Arria. They make a great team.

The city, after the storm, was a winter wonderland. There was a traffic ban through the entire weekend, and Mum and I braved the snowy streets on foot a few times, just for the sake of it, not getting very far and getting quite wet in the process. It was something I might never experience again, though of course Mum is likely to see real snow every winter now.