Educating Simon (2 page)

I've done everything I can think of to arrange a different reality, to stop this thing moving forwards. Mostly all I've been able to do is drag my feet, and I've done that as much as possible. For example, the school they've decided I'll attend in Boston—which Mum has tried to assure me has a reputation equal to that of Swithin for Oxford prep—sent a whole packet of material, from colourful, glossy brochures to lists of things like dress codes and class schedules. I looked at them long enough to see what they were and dropped them on the floor, where Mum saw them.

“Simon, have you decided on the electives you'd like to request for your first semester? It's rather a long list. Lots of interesting subjects.”

“I'll get to it.”

“Will we sit down together and go over it?”

“We will not. I said, I'll get to it.”

Another procrastination I indulged in to make it clear to my mother that this move couldn't happen was to refuse to help pack. So at first I refused to participate in the decision tree that happened with every item she pointed to or picked up. It goes like this:

Obviously, her goal has been to pack as few things for the move as possible and then assess how important the stored stuff is, for a potential follow-up move. Pretty quickly she figured out that she could force me to cooperate by starting on
my
stuff. Like yesterday morning.

“That's fine, Simon. If you don't want to help, then I'll just make all the decisions myself. Now, what about this music collection, hmmm? Seems to me we don't need all these CDs. How many different versions do we really need of the
Goldberg Variations
? And surely not
all
of Mozart's piano sonatas need to come with us.”

I know what you're thinking.
Bach? Mozart?
And here's my answer : Yes. I have some contemporary stuff, too; don't worry about that. KT Tunstall sees into my soul; the Indigo Girls prove they know what I'm going through with “Share the Moon”; and One Direction are great fun for a lark. But I love the classics, and whilst there are a few sonatas I think Mozart must have written in his sleep, I have at least one recording of most of the important ones. And having Daniel Barenboim's piano rendering of the
Goldbergs
as well as Trevor Pinnock's harpsichord is not the redundancy it might seem like to some.

My mother knows this. I really shouldn't have let her push my buttons like that, but my tolerance for irritants was never great, and this move, this project of packing, has shrunk it further. Lately I snap at everything and everyone. Sometimes it feels good. Mostly it doesn't.

Finally I told Mum, “Stop it. Go away.”

 

BM, meanwhile, keeps swooping in from the States. I hate it when he's here even more than when he's not. It's August now, so they've been married for a couple of months, and he stays with her in her room. My father's room. My father's bed.

How can she
do
that?!?

I really do try not to think about it. Where was I? Oh, yes. Packing. And BM. He's here now for a few days, as it happens. And he came into my room not long after Mum left me alone with my music collection.

With a quick glance around he said, “I know this isn't any fun. I could help, if you'd like. Be glad to.” And he stood there, waiting, a dorky look on his face that caused me to notice yet again how much too big his forehead is. The first time I saw him, I thought it was just that his hairline is receding, which it is; his dull brown hair is fading with age and pulling away from his face—a face that almost asks to be pulled away from, in my opinion. But it's also that his forehead is just too big. At least he's not doing a comb-over. That would be the limit; I'd sneak into my father's room at night and chop those hideous strings off.

I gave BM a look that said,
You must be mental.
What I said was, “That would not be a good idea, no.” And I turned away so I could silence the scream that wanted to escape.

He went back to the packing job Mum was leading in the room next to mine, and I heard him say, “Em?” (I hate that he calls her that! Her name is Emma, and he should use it.) “Don't you think we should tread a little carefully with Simon? Tough love might not be the best approach.”

The packing noises stopped, and I heard an exasperated sigh. “I know him; you don't. Coddle Simon at all, and he'll walk all over you. He'll lose respect for you.”

Like I ever had any respect for BM.

I could almost hear him shrug. “Okay. If that's what you think is right. I just wish there were something that would get me at least a foothold on his good side.”

“I am sorry, Brian. I'm really sorry it has to be like this. We're uprooting him completely, and he's just going to hate both of us until he doesn't hate us anymore. Can't be helped.”

“Has he chosen his electives for St. Boniface?”

“I don't know. I've been after him about it.”

“Well . . . has he said anything about the school?”

“Not to me, no.” She didn't sound like she was enjoying this interrogation. The packing noises picked up again.

“It might help if he understood how good the school is. Have you explained that they're an IB school? That they have International Baccalaureate standing and their college prep is up to Oxford's standards? I know he expects to go there. Many St. Boniface students—”

“Brian, can we just get on with what we're doing? I promise you, I've sung the praises of his new school more than sufficiently. Simon has had every opportunity, and then some, to help himself. If he doesn't do what he needs to do, he'll have dug his own grave.”

Little does she know. . . .

Whatever St. Boniface has to offer, Swithin is
famous
for its preparation. They send massive numbers of students to Oxford and Cambridge. I'll bet St. Bony can't make that claim. Gritting my teeth, breathing hard through my nose, I turned my attention back to my piles, and after an hour or so I'd made some progress, at least in terms of decisions. Hadn't actually packed anything yet. Mum and BM had moved downstairs.

I sensed rather than heard someone in my bedroom doorway, and when I turned I saw Graeme. (He's very good at finding me without my even knowing he's in the house. It helps, I suppose, that I gave him a copy of my key.) One hand was on the doorframe over his head, and he looked at me as though a truly intense gaze might keep me here. He stepped in and silently closed the door behind him.

I was in his arms so fast, and he was in mine, and we stood there like that, willing time to stop. It didn't, of course. I reached behind him and turned the lock.

We lay on my bed for a while, mostly kissing, touching, sighing. Before too long, though, his hand found its way to my waistband, then to my dick, and he teased and tugged and stroked until I came, really quietly, almost peacefully. He kissed me again, and I buried my face against his shoulder until I drifted off.

I'll never forget the first time he kissed me. It was at a birthday party last year for this girl at school. It was at her family's country house. One of the activities was a treasure hunt in a privet maze that had been on the property for generations. There were little favours hidden in the hedges, and whoever found the most would get some prize. What it was, I've forgotten; I got
my
prize.

I'd collected a few of those meaningless, colourful doodads and had found my way into a dead end. I circled back and somehow ran smack into another one. Or maybe it was even the same one again. Facing the direction I had come from, I stood still to listen, thinking maybe if I could hear someone else moving around, I could at least get to where they were, when around the near corner came Graeme. I'd admired him for months and months, from a distance, never dreaming he'd noticed me.

He stood there, looked around to see that it was a dead end, and I thought he'd turn to leave. But he didn't. He came towards me, watching my face. I was stunned and just stood there, waiting. When we were maybe a foot apart he stopped, put his hands on my shoulders, and leaned his face towards mine. It was a sweet kiss.

“I've wanted to do that for a while,” he said.

“Would you like to do it again?”

The next kisses were not what I'd call sweet. Even today, my body tingles at the memory. And there have been oh, so many kisses since then.

This is what I'm losing. This is what's being torn away from me.

I woke up to the sound of Mum calling my name through the door. I saw that Graeme was gone, and my heart tumbled. Nearly tripping over packing paraphernalia, I went to the door and yanked it open.

“What?” My tone was so angry it surprised me.

Mum and I both have quick tempers, and she didn't back down any more than I would have. She repeated something she's said my whole life, something I've never understood and she has never explained. “I have asked you not to lock doors!”

We stared at each other. Glared, really. I flung the door open so it bounced against the wall and waited for her to walk away.

Facing the bed, looking through a red haze, I saw Tinker Bell there, front paws tucked under her chest, green eyes looking at me as though to say,
Life sucks, and then you die
.

No, that's not right. Cats don't really have that attitude. People do. I do. I sat on the edge of the bed where I could stroke her dense fur, mostly a bluish-grey with the occasional patch of white.

So if she wasn't saying the same thing I was thinking, what was her message? I sat quietly and listened.

You're leaving me
.

I buried my nose in her neck and dropped tears onto her fur.

Our next fight, Mum's and mine, was the very next day, and it was about Tinker Bell.

Before Mum had dropped the bombshell on me about marrying BM and packing us off to the colonies, and without saying anything to me of course, she had already made arrangements for Tink, which were to give her to one of Mum's friends for her little daughter, a few days before we leave. It's upsetting enough to have to give Tink up at all, but to learn that she'd go to a child— who wouldn't understand Tink in particular or cats in general and would no doubt make Tink's life miserable—was adding insult to injury. It had been presented to me as a fait accompli because, as Mum had put it, “You don't want Tinker Bell to have to suffer through a terrifying quarantine period, which would be required for her to come with us to the US.”

Of course I'd replied that neither Tink nor I wanted to go at all, and that discussion had ended in a shouting match that changed nothing.

For this latest fight, I was more prepared. After that heartbreaking accusation from Tink about how I was leaving her, I looked all over the Internet for information about the quarantine business, how long it was, what the conditions were, and what I'd found out is that all you need to bring a cat into the US is a health certificate from the cat's vet in the UK. The vet gives you a sort of animal passport that includes rabies vaccination verification. There is no quarantine period. The biggest hurdle is transportation.

“You lied to me!” I shouted at Mum, waving a printout of what I'd found as proof. “I'm not going anywhere without Tinker Bell!”

Mum didn't rise to the occasion the way I would have expected. She and BM were kneeling on the floor in Dad's study, packing books, and she was looking very tired and a little sad. All she said was, “I told you that for a reason, Simon. I knew it would be easier for you to leave her if you thought she had to go through a quarantine period and risk being destroyed.”

I stood there, dumbfounded, printout dangling impotently in my hand, trying to wrap my brain around what she was saying. “But—that makes no sense . . . unless your real intent is to destroy me completely! Why would you try to make me leave her behind at all?” Mum and BM exchanged an odd look that went on too long. “Well? No answer? That settles it, then. If I'm going, so is Tink.”

Mum got to her feet, slowly and awkwardly, and sat in Dad's reading chair. She took a deep breath whilst I waited for something I knew was going to be really horrid. Finally she said, “The reason we can't bring Tink with us is that Persie is allergic to cats.”

Well, this put me right over the edge. “I didn't ask for this! I don't want to leave home at all! I don't want to live with him”—and I gestured at BM without looking at him—“or his daughter with the stupid name. And I am not—repeat,
not
—giving up my cat to do so!”

I stomped upstairs to my room in a righteous rage, ignoring the fact that Mum was following me. By the time she got upstairs, my door was shut and locked, and I was throwing things into a duffle bag. I don't like Aunt Phillippa very much, and I had no reason to think she's any more enthusiastic about me, but this had ripped it. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Simon? Simon, please, open the door. I need to talk to you about this. About Tink.” I didn't respond to her in any way; as far as I was concerned there was nothing to say. “Please?”

Half a minute later I heard BM's calm voice. “Come on, Em. He's not going to talk with anyone right now. Wait until things have cooled down.”

I almost shouted through the door, “Things will
never
cool down! I hate both of you, now and forever!” But then I realised that they had not only cooled down; they had frozen. Or, at least I had frozen. I was in a rage, but it was a cold rage.

I finished packing essentials for a few days and shoved the bag under my bed. I grabbed my mobile, unlocked my door, went downstairs to the hall cupboard, and dug Tink's carrying case out of the mess in there. I didn't take it out; I didn't want them to know what I was planning just yet. I knew where it was, and that's all I needed for the moment. Then, as quietly as possible, I headed out into the warm air of early August. I rang Aunt Phillippa. Bless her heart, she answered.

“This is Simon,” I told her. “Um, we need to talk.”

“All right.” Her voice was friendly, if maybe a little wary. That was fine; I could work with that. She added, “What is it we need to talk about?”

“You know how Mum has married this Welsh American fellow? And you know she's planning to make me move with them to Boston?” I waited for acknowledgement and then unveiled my plan. “I can't go, Aunt Phillippa. All my friends”—all none of them—“my cat, my whole life—everything's here. I have to find a way to stay in London, and I think you're my only hope.”

There was a second or two of heavy silence, and then, “Simon—”

I sensed negativity and tried to head it off with a plea for sympathy. “Aunt Phillippa, they expect me to give up my cat! Mum even lied to me and said Tink would have to go through quarantine. She wouldn't! That's not true! The only reason Tink can't go is because the guy's stupid daughter is allergic!” There was too much silence. So I added, “Please tell me you'll think about it? I can be ready any time.”

“Simon, I'm so sorry. I'm allergic to cats, too. And as for having you live with me, well—my house is just too small.”

I tried to breathe in; couldn't really do it. I tried to breathe out, and a half-cough, half-sob escaped me. Finally I managed to say, “What am I going to do?” My voice sounded like that of a little kid who couldn't find his way home. Or maybe a kid who couldn't go home because being there would kill him.

Aunt Phillippa mumbled something I didn't really hear, and then there was more silence, and I rang off. Phone back in my pocket, I started walking. I didn't know where I was going or why or how long I'd walk or whether I'd ever walk home again. I considered calling Graeme, but what could he do? I couldn't even give him my cat; he lives in a flat where no pets are allowed. I turned my phone off, thinking,
If Mum wonders where I am, well . . . let her wonder.

Without really thinking about it, I headed for Hampstead Heath, following Platt's Lane to the entry point on West Heath Road. If I'd had any grandparents still living, I'd have tried that option, but they're all deceased. I began forming this plan where I really would kill myself, and this time I'd take Tink with me. A kind of suicide pact. Surely Tink would rather that than have to go live with a little girl who'd pull her tail and make her wear disgusting lace hats and aprons. But then it occurred to me that I was willing to live with Aunt Phillippa, unpleasant in so many ways though that would have been. So it might be that Tink would rather go live with the little girl than check out altogether. It wouldn't be fair of me to make that decision for her.

I think of the Heath as my park. It's so close to our house on Hermitage Lane that I've spent a lot of time there. It's massive, with fields and ponds and horse trails and woodland paths. I've always been drawn to the woodland paths, the less frequented by others the better.

I left Sandy Road, the horse/bicycle trail, as soon as possible and pointed myself towards my favourite tree, a weeping red beech. The branches cascade down from high above in a grand expanse like a great skirt, and I can lean on the trunk, standing or sitting on the ground, and no one going by can see me.

I sat in my usual spot, a soft concave between two thick roots, and leaned back against that solid, constant, trustworthy tree. Knees up, I laid my forearms across them and dropped my head on the backs of my poor, battered wrists, as they appeared in my imagination.

To keep the tears away, I allowed myself the painful pleasure of dwelling on the ultimate fate of Earth and everyone, everything on it. Because, you know, it won't last. It's doomed.

I skimmed the possible topics. There have been enough cataclysms through the millennia to satisfy even my imagination. One of my favourites is the Great Dying, which killed about 90 percent of life on Earth at the time—250 million years ago. But life recovered. I was more in the mood for something we couldn't recover from.

Everyone knows that the stability of Earth's magnetic field is decreasing, and that this field is our main defence against radiation from the sun. Satellites and even telescopes are already being affected. The ethereal beauty of the auroras borealis and australis increases as the magnetic field struggles to protect us. Once or twice in the distant past, the magnetic field has weakened in a way that caused the north and south poles to switch their locations. This is going on right now, and anything might happen—even to the unlikely but still possible point of radiation's killing off all life on the planet. Mind you, even if this happened, it would take a while. There's no need for anyone alive today to see this phenomenon as a cue to hurry up with their bucket list. But it's doom, and it suited my mood.

In the shady gloom, I had to focus deliberately to see the three black ants on the dirt under my legs. I watched them for several seconds, or maybe several minutes, fascinated and appalled at the apparent randomness of their meanderings. It struck me that most people seem to meander rather aimlessly through their own lives, and if someone were looking down from above they'd probably be about as unimpressed with us as I was with the ants. And yet these ants keep going, like it matters. Like life matters. Like their lives matter.

Suddenly I heard a soft rustle that told me someone was invading my sacred space. A sharp glance up told me it was all right: It was Graeme. He sat beside me so that our shoulders touched.

“How did you find me here?”

He leaned his head back against the tree. “It seemed likely. This is your spot, where you come when you're upset. I rang and got voice mail.” He turned his face towards me. “And here you are.”

“And here I won't be much longer.” We let that hang in the air, and then I added, “You haven't heard the latest.” I could practically hear his teeth grinding, bracing for more bad news and angry for me about it already. “Mum lied to me.” I waited, but still he was silent, so I told him there was no quarantine after all.

He said, “I can't wait to hear the rest. I'm sure there's more.”

“That horrid girl, Persephone, is allergic.”

In a quick, angry move, Graeme repositioned himself, facing me.
“What?!?”

“I know.”

“But . . . but that's . . . Oh, Simon!”

“I've just tried to get Aunt Phillippa to take me in. She wasn't enthusiastic, and also she's allergic, too. What's with that, anyway? Is it even a real thing?”

Graeme just looked at me, his beautiful face contorted into an expression between anger and pity. Softly, gently, he took one of my hands and leaned his face towards it, kissing first the skin on my wrist where bandages almost had been, and then the centre of my palm. I love when he does that.

“What we need,” he said between kisses, “is one of those large cone snails.”

I almost laughed. He meant a particular variety of snail that sometimes stings people at tropical seashores. There's no antivenom for its poison, and people who are stung usually die, sometimes within minutes. The shell is incredibly beautiful, and people are tempted to pick the snail up. It might not do anything right away, but eventually—gotcha! A harpoon-like tooth, capable of penetrating even a wetsuit if it's one of the larger snails, shoots deadly poison into you. There's pain, swelling, paralysis, respiratory distress, lots of nasty symptoms. If you're not taken someplace immediately where they can keep you on life support until the toxin is metabolised, you'll almost certainly die.

Graeme shares my fascination for things doom-oriented. Just one of the many things I love about him. I wrapped my tattered wrists around his neck, and he leaned back so he was lying on the ground, bringing my body onto his, and we kissed. For a long time.

 

Graeme walked me most of the way home. I stopped a few houses away, knowing Mum would be furious with me, not wanting to face that. I pulled out my mobile and turned it on; sure enough, there were five missed calls from her.

“Will I come in?” Graeme asked, perhaps thinking his presence would prevent a total explosion.

I shook my head. “No point in putting both of us through it. The sky will fall now, or it will fall later. May as well get it over with.”

Graeme ran a hand tenderly down my arm and smiled sadly, and I headed towards the house. I made as much noise as reasonable unlocking and opening the door: Don't let anyone think I'm the least bit penitent.

“Simon?” Mum came running towards me. “Your Aunt Phillippa called. Where have you been?” Her tone and her facial expression ran the gamut from afraid to thankful to furious in the space of those few words.

“Out.” I tried to get around her to the stairs and the haven of my bedroom. She wasn't cooperating.

“Do you know that I very nearly rang the police?”

“Of course I don't. I wasn't here.” I managed to get upstairs, nearly at a run, and I was in the process of shutting my bedroom door when I felt pressure from the other side. She pushed the door open, glaring at me. I'm sure she would have shouted something at me if BM hadn't appeared and taken over.

He put his hands on her shoulders. “Em, let me talk to him.” His voice was so calm, and the way he was touching her released something in her, and her face relaxed a little. In the nanosecond it took for her to turn away, a flash of recognition hit me and nearly made me choke: BM knows how to approach her, just like my father used to. Dad could calm her down, or calm me down, from almost anything. It's no wonder we're falling apart now that he's not with us anymore. He was the buffer. He was the bringer of peace.