Educating Simon (19 page)

“It's okay. I'll spell the words and then look them up myself to make sure I have the etymology right. That's almost as good. You hold her. I know you miss Tinker Bell.” Then she added, “I just noticed your hair's different. I like it.”

 

This week Dr. Metcalf asked me about my college admissions progress. He was rather irritated to learn I hadn't seriously considered any place other than Oxford.

“Simon, since you don't seem to have anywhere in particular in mind, I'm going to suggest a few schools, and I want you to apply to them. No one—and I mean, no one with any sense—applies only to one school.” He started digging through some files as he asked, “Are you enjoying working with Toby?”

“Reasonably,” I said, hoping he wouldn't ask me to explain that; with yesterday's development still on my mind, I wasn't sure what I might reveal.

“What are his chances, do you think?”

“Not knowing very much about the competition, I couldn't say.”

“I'm going to send you a link to videos of the competition this past May, the semifinals and finals. I think you're on the right track with the training approach, but I want to make sure you're working hard enough to help him. Watch your e-mail.”

And he did send it, and I watched it, and he was right. I did have to work harder. And this was fine, because I was trying to keep my mind from focusing on Michael.

Plus now I guess I'll have to complete some more applications. Dr. Metcalf handed me information about several, and I think I'll do just a few. Maybe Princeton, and Yale, and Stanford. I'm deliberately avoiding Harvard, of course. I think Princeton would be my first choice of these. They have an early-admission process, which I really want to do so I know something as soon as possible. This means I can't apply early admission to the other two; so be it.

 

This afternoon, shouldering my bag on my way out of the building after school, I heard my name called by a now familiar voice. And when I turned, I saw it was, indeed, Michael. My heart racing, I waited for him to approach me. It had been a full week since our museum visit, since I'd caused a scene with Dick the dick, since I'd walked out on Michael and Chas.

He grinned a lopsided grin at me.

“What do you want?” I hadn't intended to be antagonistic; it was almost as though I couldn't help myself.

But my response didn't seem to dampen his mood. “Well . . . what
I
want isn't the question. I thought
you
wanted to meet my
nonna
and ask her questions about emigrating from Italy.
And
get a really great Italian meal at the same time. She's very excited about meeting you.” He looked harder at me. “New do. Looks good.”

It took me a second to realise he meant my hair. I stepped out of the way of other pedestrians and dropped my bag to the ground. “So . . . you're not angry with me?”

He shrugged. “You were a bit of a prick last week; that's for sure. I was a little pissed, yeah. I don't think you gave Chas a very good chance to explain X.”

“I gave him every chance. But not only is it not going to be something I can use for my class work, but also nothing he said helped me understand what's good about it, other than keeping kids off of drugs and booze.”

“That's a lot!”

“Sure, sorry, I didn't mean that's small beer. As it were. But as I've already told you, I'm gay, and not only do I not intend to try and do anything about that, I don't think there's any reason I should want to. I'm pretty sure he and X both disagree with me.”

“And that makes X bad?”

“Michael, anything, anyone who tries to force you to be something you're not is bad. But that's not the only reason—” I searched the sky for words. “Here's the thing, Michael. When Chas said that Xers have no friends and he wants to shout, ‘In your face, fuckers,' I get that. Because I also get ‘We're here; we're queer; get used to it.' Both of these make good battle cries at a pep rally for the indoctrinated. For the members. These battle cries don't do so well when your audience is anyone outside the group, unless you actually
want
to make enemies. I don't know if all Xers are looking to make enemies, but it sure sounds like a lot of them are. And besides that, Chas wants me to allow him his battle cry, but he won't let me have mine.”

From the look on his face, either Michael didn't see what I meant, or he disagreed with me. I tried again. “It sounded to me as though the only thing that connects one X group to another—outside of the behaviour modification—is the music. X would seem to have nothing to do with the growth of a city's social structure, and little or nothing about it connects one city to another. So it doesn't help my project, but, okay, that's not a judgement. What bothers me is that mostly X seems to be about cheesing off everyone who isn't in the club. And Chas proved it by telling me I should turn my back on my true self. It's just another kind of fundamentalism. ‘Belong to our club, do what we say, or fuck off.' ”

“Y'know, you don't exactly bring out the best in people.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You walk around with this chip on your shoulder. It doesn't take much to set you off, and when you're set off, you let everyone know it. Maybe Chas was just reacting to that.”

“Chas thinks he's persecuted because he's X. Tell him to google Matthew Shepard.” I picked up my satchel. “I hope your
nonna
hasn't gone to a lot of trouble. Please apologise to her.
She's
done nothing to ‘set me off.' ” I turned my back on him and started to walk away.

“See, now, this is what I mean.” He caught up with me and walked alongside.

“I don't see. The
chip
is on
Chas's
shoulder. It's shaped like an
X.
And anyone who disagrees with him is just plain wrong.”

He sighed. “All right, so be pissed at Chas if you want. But don't disappoint my
nonna.
”

It took several more paces for me to get off my high horse. “Fine. When's dinner?”

“Saturday? Is that all right?”

I hadn't mentioned anything about this to Mum or Brian or Ned, but I didn't expect any pushback. Saturday, though . . . Date night. Interesting.

“I'm sure it will be. I'll ring you if there's any problem. Where should we meet?”

“Where do you live?”

I hesitated for just a moment as a combination of
Do I want him to know where I live
and
Do I want him to know how different our financial situations are
flashed through my brain. Then another voice prompted,
What difference does it make? You don't think this is going anyplace, do you?
And then it occurred to me that if Ned were around and had a chance to meet Michael, he might be able to give me his impression: Is Michael straight, or just Straight Edge? This would be worth breaking my intention not to talk to Ned about Michael.

“If you walk another few blocks, you'll see.”

“You live here? On Marlborough Street?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit.”

“No, I think that location is at least half a mile away.”

It wasn't that funny, but he laughed anyway. “I guess I should have known. It fits.”

I decided not to pursue that; didn't want to get “set off” again. “It's not actually my house, you know. It's my stepfather's. Will you text me your grandmother's address?”

“It's kind of hard to find Nonna's if you don't know the North End. I'll stop by your place.”

I debated whether to point out that I could take a taxi and probably find anything, but I just said, “What time?”

“Five thirty? That way we can have some antipasto and talk for a bit. I've asked her to make manicotti; it's her signature dish.”

“I'll text you in the morning if there's any problem. Or you can walk me home now and go in with me, and we can be sure right away.” This would be tantamount to “meeting the parents.” Would he do it?

There was just a slight hesitation, and then, “Okay. Sure.”

If he was impressed by Brian's house, he gave no indication. I walked him through to the kitchen, where I expected Ned would be, and he was. I introduced them, told Ned that Michael was helping me gather resource material for a school project, and left them alone whilst I went to talk to Mum, who was on the patio.

It took me two seconds to secure permission for my Italian dinner, though I noticed that Mum seemed rather down. “Everything okay?” I asked, not really sure I wanted to know.

She sighed. “I think Brian's just about decided on Anna's replacement.”

“Is this a bad thing?”

“It's just that I've spent a lot of time with Persie this week, and I think we're getting on very well. I suppose I was holding out hope that I'd at least have more time with her, even if Brian doesn't think I could manage the job itself.”

“Well . . . Even if you're not in the job officially, can't you still spend time with her?”

“It won't be the same.”

Well, of course not, but... “Mum, I don't mean to be impertinent, really, but are you trying to make up for Clive?”

“Brian accused me of that, too.”

“Hey, I wasn't accusing.”

“Do you really think I hadn't considered it? And as a matter of fact, it's watching you with her that's inspired me. You don't even seem to be trying, and yet you've made a lot of headway with her. She trusts you. I've watched how that has happened, and I understand at least some of it. As you put it once, I'm going to be ‘saddled' with her for the rest of my life. So why not be as involved as possible? It would be better for everyone.”

Carefully not allowing myself to get set off, I said, “Okay, but you could be involved with her in ways other than tutoring her. Anna was a whole lot more than a tutor, but it was only Persie and Brian in the house then. What's this new person's role?”

“That's the problem. Brian and I disagree over the best candidate. He wants a woman who would be another Anna. I voted for someone who wouldn't live here and would be here on weekdays only. My candidate would also be available for temporary overnight stays. If Brian and I were to go away for a week, for example, we could arrange for her to stay in the house. Brian thinks that would be too much irregularity for Persie.”

“I don't.” I didn't know where that came from, but there it was. I agreed with Mum that Persie didn't need quite as much protection as Brian believed.

“You . . . you agree with me?” Her astonishment seemed genuine.

“In principle. I haven't met these candidates, and of course Brian knows Persie better than we do. But, yes, I think Persie could handle it. Though, of course, if it doesn't work out for some reason, that's more change for Persie, because you'd have to find another Anna after all.”

Mum nodded. “Yes, but I can't help thinking that if we don't expose Persie to a manageable level of challenge, she won't grow. She won't learn to function at a higher level. Even autistic individuals can often learn to interact. Look at Temple Grandin.”

“So you've explored this difference? Between AS and other forms of autism, I mean?”

“While you've been at school, I've had several consultations with experts who specialise in supporting people with AS. I don't put myself forwards as an expert by any means, but yes, I understand the difference. And I think Persie can grow.”

Wow. Like, wow. And I never use “like” like that. “Where is she now?”

“As of twenty minutes ago, she was in her rooms reading a book that's a visual history of paleontology. She was telling me about a bacterium that still exists today that appeared 3.8 billion years ago, the earliest known form of life on Earth.”

I didn't quite know what else to say about this situation, and I had to get back to the kitchen. “Um, anyway, I need to let Michael know we're on. He's in the kitchen.”

“Aren't you bringing him out? I want to meet him.”

“He's just a friend, Mum.”

“I can't meet your friends?” It didn't escape my notice that she gave no indication of surprise that I would even
have
a friend.

The last thing I want is for Mum or anyone else to fixate on Michael as a romantic figure in my life. I don't need anyone encouraging me to think that way. But there didn't seem any way out of this introduction. “Fine; I'll get him.”

“Never mind; I'll come in with you.”

I trusted Ned not to say anything awkward, even though he must know that I find Michael attractive. He didn't disappoint. Mum asked Michael a few questions about his studies, and then about his art. She actually said she'd love to see some of his work, that she and Brian are very fond of contemporary art. He responded enthusiastically whilst I groaned inwardly; I do not want this guy integrated into what passes for family in my life.

After Michael left, promising to return at half five tomorrow, I went back into the kitchen, hoping to find Ned alone. He wasn't, but Mum didn't hang around for very long before going back outside.

Ned raised an eyebrow. “You were planning to keep Romeo a secret for—how long, exactly?”

Funny how we'd both landed on the same metaphorical name. “Yeah, about that . . .” I rummaged around for something sweet, found a fresh batch of brownies that I know Mum made, and settled myself on a stool at the island. “He's not gay, you know.”

“Oh, honey, tell me another one.”

“I'm just telling you what he told me.” So Ned agreed with me; Michael is fooling only himself. I took a bite of brownie, examining the other half; you can
see
the richness in Mum's brownies. “He almost was, you see. But then he found Straight Edge.”