Educating Simon (18 page)

I glanced at Michael. How would he take it if I told this guy what it really means to have people hate you for no good reason, a reason you didn't choose? What if I told Chas he didn't have a clue? Or if I suggested he tell people he's gay, or maybe that he's really a girl, and see how many friends he had?

I opted for a less confrontational way to make my point, even though I knew it might be a conversation-stopper. Instead of asking if anyone had ever been killed by being tied to a fence and then beaten and tortured to death because they were X, I said, “I know what you mean, in a way. You see, I'm gay. There are people who wouldn't want to be my friend because of that.”

I watched Chas's face. This was a kind of challenge for him. He was not gay; I had no doubt. So would
he
refuse to be
my
friend?

His grin drooped a little, and it was obvious to me he was struggling to maintain it as though I'd said nothing that disturbed him. I decided to take advantage. “How does X feel about gay people?”

Chas shrugged, which gave him a chance to change his facial expression and let go of the fake grin. “Sort of depends. I mean, X is kind of a tough crowd.”

Fighting to keep sarcasm out of my voice, forcing myself not to tell him what kind of guts it takes to be openly gay, I said, “Then being devotees of bands like Rotting Out or Harms Way must validate you. Tell me, who knows about these bands, other than Xers?”

Chas blinked. “Well . . . I dunno. I mean, we play our music real loud. . . .”

“So you gang together at festivals like—what was it? Oh yes, Sound and Fury, which I'm guessing would be attended by Xers. It sounds like, really, you're tough for each other. Who else knows you're tough? Because I have to tell you, I'd never heard of you before the other day.” The parallel between this exchange and my telling Dick that it wasn't cats he was offending almost made me laugh; I struggled to keep a “straight” face.

Chas glanced at Michael. I didn't dare do that; I'd probably just sealed my fate with him, spending the entire evening alienating everyone he introduced me to. Something in me was rebelling against the “movement” that I'd yet to hear anything good about other than avoiding drugs. In particular it bothered me that X gave Michael permission to lie to himself about who he is and call that “living true.” And I was beginning to realise that the kind of thesis X would fit into would be more along the lines of groupthink psychology than the social culture of cities. X obviously has nothing to do with cities.

With Chas dumbstruck and Michael with his nose practically on his plate rather than look at anyone, I decided to refocus the conversation. “What does X here, do you think, have in common with X in another country? Is X in Boston more different or more similar to, say, X in London?”

Chas perked up a little. “Oh, X is X! It's worldwide, and . . . well, of course there will be some differences. But that's just because the members are, y'know, English or German rather than American. But the promise is the same.”

“Right. No drugs, no booze, no sex. Is there any kind of leader?”

He went on for a while about some prominent Xers who mostly seemed to be associated with bands, and he made a strong point about how even though some people think Xers are like gangs, the vast majority are nonviolent. He said there's a group called Boston Hardcore that's a Straight Edge group, and that they are more likely to be seen as troublemakers than the regular X group here. But it sounded as though the phenomenon is essentially autonomous from group to group, city to city, from what Chas could tell me.

Then he started quoting lyrics from some of his favourite songs, all of them dark, depressed and depressing, fatalistic. From different songs he quoted phrases like, “Youth is a wound time won't mend.” “The rusty gates of Eden lock to never let me in.” “We‘ll hold those barren bodies bereft of any soul.”

“About the sex, though,” he offered, “not all Xers swear off sex. We swear off promiscuity. And you have to decide for yourself whether it's possible to have sex before marriage without being promiscuous.”

“And how about you? Have you sworn off sex until marriage?”

I could tell he was avoiding looking at Michael; not sure how I knew, but I did. Had Michael confessed to Chas his struggles with sexuality?

Chas grinned almost shyly. “Well, not exactly, no. I mean, you know.”

“Earlier when I asked you about homosexuality, I didn't get a good sense of the X attitude towards it. Anything else you can say about that?”

He sounded a little more sure of himself this time. “Like I said, we swear off promiscuity. And lots of us swear off premarital sex. So if you don't have sex until you're married, you can't ever have it with guys.”

“Of course you can.”

Both Michael and Chas said, “What?”

I looked at Michael. “Come on. We're sitting here in the first state in the US that supported marriage equality. And it's not the only state anymore.” I looked back at Chas, who had started babbling something, but I interrupted him. “And from what you just said, should I infer that gays would be unwelcome in X under any circumstances, or only if they refuse to be chaste? Or are they welcome if they lie about it? Are they welcome if they marry some poor, unsuspecting woman?”

Chas sat up straight. His tone giving the impression he was dealing me some kind of lethal blow, he said, “Have you considered that maybe if you became X you could leave that part of you behind?”

“Have you considered that maybe there's no earthly reason someone would want to be something other than gay, if that's who they are?” He was still staring at me, trying to take this in, when I added, “Would you be willing to leave a part of yourself behind? Your leg, perhaps? A hip? Your penis?”

Chas looked at Michael. “Did you know he was just going to find fault with us? Did you know he was just one of them?”

Michael opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

I said, “ ‘One of them'? You mean the people who don't like you?
I
didn't know I was ‘one of them.' So no, Michael didn't know. I don't know that I'm ‘one of them,' now, either. But I can tell you I've heard almost nothing tonight I find appealing about X. You've even named your bands with terms designed to turn people away, so it stands to reason that you have detractors. In fact, it would seem you go out of your way to make sure you do.” I smiled to try and soften my approach. “But that's not why I'm here, you know. I'm not here to like or dislike X. I'm here to learn about it. And I think I know all I need to.”

I looked at Michael, who was still staring down at his empty plate. A sadness hit me; my sarcasm and antagonism had alienated him. The most I could hope for out of this meeting was that maybe he'd rethink what X is and is not, rethink what's true and what isn't. No more art lessons. No Italian dinners made by his
nonna
in the North End. Maybe it was for the best.

I dropped a couple of twenties on the table. Quietly, directly to Michael, I said, “I'll get a taxi home. Thanks for trying.”

Chas watched me leave the table. Michael didn't look up.

 

On the ride home I watched sightlessly as the nighttime streets of Boston moved past my window. I repeated
Maybe it was for the best
to myself several times, eventually dropping the “maybe.” By the time the taxi arrived at the house I was feeling resigned but also a little sulky, and all I wanted was to get upstairs and do as much damage control as I could, in terms of homework, so that I wouldn't earn demerits in
all
my Friday classes.

I turned the front door lock as quietly as possible and scoped out where people might be so I could avoid them. I was in luck; the only people I could detect were Mum and Brian, evidently in the kitchen, talking. I headed for the carpeted stairs and would have tiptoed up them, but two things happened. First, I heard a loud thud as something struck a wooden surface upstairs. Second, I heard Brian say, “Em, I just don't think this is going to work. I'd love for you to help with the interviews, but as for taking care of her yourself . . . It's a specialised skill. You're not trained.”

Taking care of whom? And could the answer be anyone other than Persie?

Mum's voice sounded . . . offended, maybe? “You don't trust me.”

“It has nothing to do with trust. And, Em, it has nothing to do with Clive.”

“So that's your problem? You think that because of how I treated him, I can't treat Persie well, either?”

“There, see, that just proves my point. No matter how well she's treated, no matter how much she's
loved,
what she needs even more is someone who
understands
her. Who's been trained to work with people with autism. That's not you, Em. I'm sorry, but that's not you.”

I wasn't sure why, but I didn't want them fighting. It wasn't just that I didn't want to witness it, though that was true as well. I didn't want them fighting. I opened and closed the front door loudly as though just making my entrance to the house, and I headed for the kitchen.

They both turned to look at me, and even if I hadn't overheard anything I'd have known something was wrong. So I said, “What is it? What's happened?”

Mum stood and carried a teacup and saucer to the sink. “Anna has given notice.”

I nearly gasped; I knew what this would mean to Persie. “How soon?”

Brian said, “She tried to give two weeks' notice.”

“And evidently I've ruined that,” Mum said, her tone angry and sarcastic.

I decided against opening that door. “Why is she leaving?”

“She's found a clinic position,” Brian said. “She wants more of a personal life, and regular office hours will make that possible. I can't say that I blame her. But she's the best tutor Persie's ever had.”

I added, “And even small changes are giant ones in this house.”

“Exactly.”

There was an elephant in the room, an amorphous blob of lilac and blue and pale yellow and black, keeping to the shadows. But where had it come from?

Leaning her back against the counter, arms crossed over her chest, Mum said, “Evidently I destroyed all hope of a gentle preparation, because Persie overheard me talking with Anna about tutoring Persie myself. So she found out suddenly, and now she's furious and won't talk to anyone. Anna will probably need to leave right away.”

“So that thump I heard a minute ago . . . that was Persie throwing something?”

Brian's face, already strained, took on an alarmed expression, and he got up and nearly ran out of the room.

Mum told me, “She threw a glass figurine at me. She missed, but it was a beautiful thing she loved, and it's in shards.” She sounded near tears.

I turned and went into the music room. The day Persie had told me about Clyfford Still, she'd been toying with a glass bird. It was gone. Upstairs, Persie was now screaming.

I was torn as to whether to try and console Mum or try to help Persie. I didn't know what I could do in the kitchen, but maybe I could do something for the cat in pain upstairs. I raced past Persie's screams and up to the top floor, turned on my computer, and searched for Still's paintings. I wanted one in blood red, bright blue, bright yellow, and orange, the colours in the name, Still, and also in the word
still,
meaning calm. And I wanted one in sky blue, bright red, lilac, pale yellow, bright blue, and cream.
Breathe.
This one was harder to find, but there was one that was pretty close. I captured the images on separate screens with their words in capital letters beneath them and sent them to the colour printer, standing impatiently over the thing, willing it to work faster, hoping fervently that Persie had memorised the letter colour chart she'd asked for.

Printouts in hand, I thundered down one flight and saw Anna standing tentatively just inside the door to Persie's room, as though trying to come up with an action that would quiet the girl. I went in, past her and a grey-faced Brian, without saying anything; it would take too long to explain. I walked past as though I were Persie, only my goal in mind, and stopped in the middle of her playroom.

Persie sat on the floor, objects around her that had obviously been yanked from their proper places and thrown indiscriminately. She saw me and froze. I knew that not asking her permission to come in would not be good, but I couldn't risk rejection. Knowing also that to a cat, a long look usually means confrontation, I glanced only briefly at her before placing the first sheet of paper on the floor. I set it far enough away from her that she couldn't reach it easily and shred it, but she could see it and read the word
STILL.
Then I watched her face. She looked at the paper, her gaze moving from the art to the letters and back several times, and then her eyes flicked to mine and away.

Beside
STILL
I placed
BREATHE.
She stared at this one a long time. Finally, in her usual unmodulated tone, she said, “It's not right.” It was not criticism; it was fact. She got up, went to her own laptop, and pretty soon I heard, “Here it is. Here it is.” She brought the computer towards me and held it for me to see.

She'd found it, the perfect
BREATHE
Still.

“Yes,” I said. “Will you do that?”

“I am breathing. I'm always breathing.”

I closed my eyes, took a long, deep breath, and let it out slowly. Lazily I opened my eyes on her and saw her close her eyes before following my example. Before opening her eyes again she took four of these long, deep breaths. Then she set the laptop back where it had been.

To Anna she said, “I don't want you anymore. Go away.” To me she said, “I'm going to bed now.” And she turned away, presumably to do just that.

I looked at Anna, wondering how she'd take this, but she was turned towards the door, where Mum now stood just outside the room. Her voice tense, anger barely controlled, Anna said, “This was not the way to handle things.”

Mum, her voice nearly breaking, said, “I'm sorry. I've said that several times already.”

Anna mumbled, “Excuse me,” and headed towards the top-floor stairs.

Holding her composure somehow, Mum turned towards the rooms she shared with Brian, went in, and very quietly shut the door.

Brian asked, “What do you think? Should we put things back where they were before she threw them?”

“Do you know precisely where they all go?”

He shook his head, and together we left Persie's rooms. Shutting the door behind us, he said, “I suppose Anna will need to do that while Persie's not in her rooms at some point tomorrow.”

“Persie might put them back herself. She won't like that they're out of place.”

Before I got as far as the top-floor staircase, still intent on doing at least
some
homework tonight, Brian asked, “How did you know, Simon? How did you know to do that?”

“I didn't know. I felt it.” If this came as a surprise to him, it was an even bigger one for me. I don't just “feel” anything. My brain is always engaged. Yet somehow I had
felt
what I needed to do for Persie. The only thing I can figure is that cats get under my defences. Or maybe I'm really a cat, myself, as Ned had suggested. It would account for a lot.

I didn't see Michael all week. Didn't expect to. Except, well . . . I did see him in my mind's eye every night trying to fall asleep. Graeme helped some, but even after his attentions, Michael would show up just as I was about to drift off. I'd see him concentrating on an art object at the museum, or changing his shirt, or not looking at me as I left the Chinese restaurant. The images, and the feelings, bounced around from longing to lust to loneliness.

I put Michael aside as best I could that week, focusing hard on my schoolwork and trying not to get involved as a steady stream of applicants for Anna's job ebbed and flowed. I even avoided Ned, because talking with him tended to make me vulnerable to all things that are important, and I didn't have time for anything other than the single-minded pursuit of excellent marks and making good impressions on my teachers. It was difficult, I found, to talk with Dr. Metcalf about Toby and not bring his transgender state into the mix. But I had to.

One fun thing that happened is that I went for a haircut. Ordinarily, this is just a basic thing—a nice cut from a good stylist. I had asked Ned for a recommendation, and I ended up going to a salon on Newbury Street. I had a man named Daniel, obviously gay, wacky sense of humour. He suggested we let the front area grow a little so it could be formed into a section that wouldn't quite curl over my forehead—my hair is straight as a board—but that could, with the aid of a tiny bit of product, be shaped into a fringe to cover just a small portion of one side of my forehead. He showed me what he meant with a lock of a hairpiece. At first it didn't look like me. But then another customer walked by on his way to a chair, a gorgeous man with a head of golden curls not unlike Graeme's. He stopped in his tracks, staring at me in the mirror. I looked at his reflection, and the look in his eyes convinced me.

“Let's do that,” I said to Daniel.

So now I have a new style, or at least a new style in the making.

When I arrived at the Lloyds' flat yesterday, it was Colleen who let me in. She looked very sober, and my first thought was that something had happened to La La. But then I saw the cat in a sunny spot on the rug, legs curled under her. Even she looked tense, though.

“Is something wrong?” I asked Colleen.

“I think Toby should tell you, if he wants to. He's in his room.”

If he wants to? Well, there was no point standing here interrogating Colleen, so I followed the sounds of Gloria Gaynor that emanated from behind Toby's door. “I will survive!” she was wailing to the world, to the man who had hurt her.

I knocked but heard no answer. Louder knocking; still no response. I opened the door, and was nearly assaulted by the music. Toby was facedown on his bed, and over Gloria I could just hear his sobs. I closed the door and waited for several seconds to see if he knew I was there, taking in the conspicuous absence of anything pink or girlie. The little rug, the throw, even the yellow-haired troll was missing. I located the volume control on the stereo set and turned it down. Toby sat up suddenly, eyes wild with an odd combination of fear and fury.

He made an attempt to speak which I translated as, “It's you.”

“What's happened?” I was afraid I already knew.

This question, or perhaps the difficulty of answering it, brought on a new fit of weeping. I sat on the side of the bed and waited until Toby could sit quietly beside me, a box of tissues at his elbow. “He found out.”

“He?”

“My father.”

Ah. It was as I had feared. “How?”

Between hiccoughs Toby explained that yesterday he'd been dressed as Kay, singing along to something by Taylor Swift, when his father had arrived home unexpectedly. He had opened the door to tell Toby to turn the volume down and had caught full sight of his “daughter.” When Toby had gotten home from school today, his room had been purged of femininity.

Something like this had been bound to happen, one of life's inevitabilities. Still, I couldn't help thinking that cracking the metaphorical door to show me who she really was had made Kay more vulnerable and had exposed her sooner than would have happened otherwise.

“How do things stand now?”

His voice practically squeaking, Toby gestured to take in the room with a sweep of his arm. “Look at it! It's decimated! I'm destroyed ! Even my music. He's killed all the girls!”

Gloria began her song for maybe the third time since I'd arrived ; evidently Toby had it on repeat. “Where'd you get Gloria, then?”

He blew his nose. “It's an old iPod I'd thrown into a drawer.”

“What's the etymology of
draconian?”

“Simon, I don't care! My life is ruined. Can't you see that?”

“I was merely trying to sympathise in a way that might calm you down. Bad idea; sorry.” We sat there for a few minutes whilst Toby played with damp tissues, his breath catching from time to time. Then I asked, “How do you know you're Kay?”

“What?”

“Without the pink, or the skirts, or the music even. Are you still Kay, or was she all trappings and no substance?”

He was on his feet, facing me, glaring at me. “How dare you? I'm Kay! I'm Kay Lloyd!”

“So your father didn't take that away from you.”

“Of course not!” He breathed in and out a few times through his nose, somewhat juicily.

“And do you still want to get on that stage and present yourself as you really are?”

“How can you even ask that?!”

“Then I would advise that you keep your head down, let him think he's won. Otherwise you could lose his support for this competition.”

“It's not fair.”

“No. It isn't. Nor was it fair when my mother took me away from everything and everyone I'd known, made me give up my cat, and forced me to move to a place I have no intention of staying. My sole focus right now is on what will get me back home.”

“And getting there will take you out of your mother's control. You'll be on your own. I won't.”

“True, not right away.” This was a crucial difference; he was correct. “So are you having second thoughts?”

“No. I just have to find a way to make him understand.”

“Probably not the best way to keep your head down.”

“I suppose not.”

“Did he tell your mother?”

He sat on the bed again. “No. And he made me promise not to.”

“Why?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

“How did he get rid of all this stuff without her knowing?”

“He made Colleen do it today.”

“So, does Colleen know?”

“Well, she had to deal with the girls' clothing, so probably.”

“Aren't you afraid he'll come home early again and find the iPod?”

Toby jumped up and switched off the music. “I just had to hear that.”

“Does he come home early very often?”

“No. Well, sometimes.”

“Because he did one day when I was here, and I haven't been here very many times.”

“Well . . . he never used to.”

Thinking back to the day I'd met him, I remembered how hastily he'd drawn away from Colleen. It was a distinct possibility that he'd started coming home early when he began to—well, spend time with her. A slow burn of anger started inside me at the injustice of an adulterous man ripping his child's identity away in the name of—of what? “When he saw you, what did he say?”

Toby's voice was sulky. “He called it nonsense. He said it was twisted. ‘This is the last straw,' he said. ‘No more of this girl stuff.' He called it a phase and said it was time I got over it.” Toby's voice rose. “It's not a phase! It's not!”

“I believe you. I don't pretend to understand it, but I believe you.” Suddenly, it occurred to me to ask, “You know you're not alone, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“There are lots of people who are not the same sex inside as they are on the outside. Lots of boys who are really girls, and vice versa.”

“Are you sure? Where are they?”

My heart twisted. This poor kid, thinking he was unique in this trap, and yet being brave enough to go as far as he had before he'd hit this brick wall . . . “Look up the term
transgender.
I'll bet transgender kids communicate over the Internet, and I'll also bet quite a few of them are in Boston. Do you want to do that now?” Some things, I felt, were more important than spelling practice.

He practically flew to his computer and was opening link after link faster than I could follow him. Watching over his shoulder, I was astounded at the number of hits. There was the Boston Area Transgender Support group, whose Web site said they supported people teenage and older. There was the Boston Alliance of GLBT Youth. There was TransAction, sponsored by Gay and Lesbian Adolescent Social Services. There was Massachusetts Transgender Legal Advocates, a group of lawyers dedicated to protecting the rights of transgender people. The list went on.

And suddenly the screen stopped changing. Toby stood and threw his arms around me. He sobbed and sobbed, and held me tighter and tighter. How long, I wondered, had he been in pain like this, not understanding how this could have happened to him, how this could be true in a world where—for all he knew—no one else was like him, terrified of being himself, terrified of what would happen to him if he allowed—if
she
allowed herself to be open, to relax for even one second? And now—now to see that this is a real thing, a phenomenon that's as true and as real for other people as it is for her?

I have a damned good imagination. And I could barely imagine what this must be like. When I realised I was gay, it's true that I had felt alone at first, and I had believed I needed to hide the truth. But I was sure in the knowledge that there were lots of others like me, that someday I would be able to come out, and that when I did there would be a community of people like me, and other people who accepted me even if they weren't gay. Mind you, I know gay people have to put up with a lot of shit, but so far I've encountered precious little of it. And it was never like this, like it is for Kay, for me. Never.

I led Kay over to the bed and reached for the box of tissues. When she was able to speak, she said, “Thank you. I didn't know. I thought—” and she went into a fresh bout of weeping. “I thought it was just me. I thought I was just weird.”

I laughed. “You might be weird, Kay Lloyd, but if so, it's not because of this.”

Taking a ragged breath, she said, “Now I just need to figure out how to get to them.”

“Them?”

“My people.” She got off the bed and stood in front of me again. “I have to meet them. I
have
to, do you understand?” Her voice was intense, strained, desperate.

“I do. So figure out which organisations are working with people your age, and contact them.”

She nodded, but despite the conviction of a moment ago, she looked anxious. “What if he finds out about this, too?”

I didn't suppose it would help much that her father hadn't forbidden her to contact anyone about it. Then I remembered that she had said her mother suspected something. “Listen, what do you think your mother would do if she found out?”

“I told you. I promised I wouldn't tell.”

“Hypothetically. What do you think she would say?”

“I—I don't know. But it might make them fight.”

“So you think she'd be more accepting than your father?”

“I think so. But I don't want them to fight any more than they already are.”

More than they already are
. . . I shook myself mentally. This is not my problem! “Well, maybe it's enough for now that you know there are others like you out there.”

“But I told you, I have to meet them!”

“Life's full of compromises, Toby. Kay. Full of choices that conflict. Either you keep your head down between now and the semifinals, or you risk not getting there at all. Of course, you know, if you don't make it past the March bee—”

“That's not an option!”

“Fine. I was just going to say you'd have less left to lose in that case. But, as I said, if you want to be yourself on that stage, you need to get there, first. So, do you feel up to some practice? I have some really tough words for you today.”

We worked for a little while, though Kay wasn't up to her best performance. No biscuit break today. At one point there was a thump against the door, and Kay said, “That's La La. Can you let her in?”

I opened the door, and La La trotted across the room and scooted under the bed. Kay and I went back to practising, and soon La La came out and rubbed against my leg. I picked her up, and she settled onto my lap like she was born for it. I could go on reading words to Kay like this, but with La La on my lap, that dictionary was unmanageable. I was about to put La La down, but Kay stopped me.