Educating Simon (26 page)

Sundays seem to be the best time for me to do these journal entries. By Sunday night most weeks, I've been working all weekend on schoolwork, and most or all of it is done; I leave nothing to the last minute, and I leave nothing to chance. Plus, I don't exactly have an active dating life. Nor do I want one. Not now, not here. I have Graeme, and that's all I need until the rest of this surreal time of my life is over and I'm home again.

Which is why I'm a little unsure about something Ned suggested. He invited me to go with him this coming Saturday night to a small party one of his friends is having.

“Don't worry, dearie,” he told me. “I'm not asking you out. I just think you need a little life in your life, and one evening with this crew will give you enough to last for a month. And besides, we gotta get you outta that room before you start bonding with the wallpaper.”

I'll have to work really late most nights this week to make up for the fact that I won't be able to put much time into homework Saturday night, but he's right. I could use a little diversion.

Kay still hasn't told her parents anything. She has told me about some other kids she's met online, other transgender kids. She hasn't yet gone so far as to meet any of them, but she's talking about it.

“Just be careful,” I told her. “You don't know who these people are, really, just who they say they are.”

“Oh, Simon, don't be silly. I'm Skyping with them. I can see who they are.”

I didn't want to admit I'd never Skyped. “Still, be careful. I don't want you to get hurt.”

She gave me a hug. “I like you, too, Simon.”

Time to change the subject. I'd had an idea on the ride over to see her. “Kay, is there anyone at your school, someone who's friends with you, who was in the spelling competitions with you? Someone who did really well and would be willing to help you now?”

“Andrew. He was so good, I thought he might beat me.”

“He's a good friend? Good enough to help you now?”

“How would he do that?”

“I'm thinking we could stage a little competition. It would be even better if you had more than just one competitor. I know you've done this before, but let's keep you in practice. I can throw words at you all day long, but the adrenaline rush you get when you're waiting your turn against someone who might outdo you can be a good thing or a bad thing. Whichever it is, I think it would be good to be as accustomed to it as possible.”

“Brilliant!” Kay had recently gotten off of “fabulous.” Now, everything is “brilliant.” Anyway, Kay's going to see how many classmates she can talk into a couple of practice bees. She said, “You'll have to call me Toby again, you know.”

“Yes. Sadly. But I will.”

 

Dr. Metcalf was impressed, when I met with him Friday afternoon, that I'd come up with this idea. He even suggested we use the auditorium at St. Bony. “We'll publicise it, too,” he said, “and have at least a bit of an audience. Great idea, Simon!”

He was also pretty taken with my letter-reading to Signora Vitale, which I'd managed to work into an interim City report. “Simon, I have to say, you are proving to be remarkably resourceful. From how you're handling your work with Toby—I mean, Kay—to the new focus for your essay, to this unique approach to The City, I'm very impressed. And your Theory of Knowledge course . . . What are you drawing on for the empirical portions of your draft?”

I opted against giving Michael credit for the letter-reading idea. “Brian Morgan's daughter, Persephone, has Asperger syndrome. She's eleven. She's been very sheltered so far, and she's just beginning to push the envelope in terms of what she's willing to try.”

He nodded. “And I'm guessing you've had something to do with that.”

I'm not prone to bragging, but I know that what this man says about me to Oxford will carry a lot of weight. “Actually, yes. I have.”

“I think you should begin documenting your interactions with her, without names, of course. It would make an impressive appendix to the report.”

I didn't mention that I'm already keeping a journal; I'll let him think the appendix, when I write it, reflects how well I remembered everything.

“Keep up the great work, Simon. I'm already adding very complimentary notes in your record, and I want to keep doing that.”

My walk home that afternoon was so different to the one after he'd informed me about my spelling coach assignment. This time, I was walking on air! Surely, those other school applications will be nothing but insurance. Oxford will definitely want me.

Where to start. My head's buzzing with everything that happened at the dinner party Ned took me to, but I think I'll save that and get events down here in chronological order. I'm still too hyper to sleep; maybe writing it all down will make me drowsy.

Monday, the fifteenth, was the deadline for Oxford admissions. Of course, I had submitted mine a while ago, and now I've managed to complete the other three applications as well, so all that part of the process is behind me. Over dinner I mentioned Oxford, because they'll be sending out invitations around the middle of November for December interviews.

“I'll need to plan a trip for it,” I said, “though I won't know the date for a while.”

Mum asked, “You can interview on the phone, or over the Internet, can't you?”

“I'm not doing that! I need to talk to them in person. It makes a huge difference.”

Maxine doesn't often speak at dinner, just as Anna didn't used to; I think she's conscious of not being part of the family and is reluctant to take the liberty. And she shouldn't have spoken tonight, either, but she did.

“How can you be sure you'll go? They don't interview everyone who applies, do they?”

The room was silent for several seconds as everyone but Persie stared at her. She'd ask this, and after I'd helped out? Finally, in a tone brooking no argument, I said, “Of course they'll invite me.”

Brian went next. “I'm sure they will, Simon. You have completed the applications to your other choices, though, correct?”

“Yes.” I wanted the subject dropped. I couldn't afford to consider the possibility of not having an interview. And, of course, not everyone who is interviewed gets in. I have to see myself beyond the final portal. I have to take smooth passage for granted, or I won't be able to go on.

I think Mum heard this in my voice, and she changed the subject. “Where is this party you're going to on Saturday, Simon?”

“Ned's friend lives in the South End.”

“Chandler Street,” Ned said as he placed dinner plates around the table. “I'll make sure you have the full address before we go.”

I could tell, when Ned and I had talked with Mum after school about this party, that she wasn't exactly thrilled. I think she's concerned because everyone there will be older than I am. And even if she doesn't know my “boyfriend” doesn't really exist, maybe the fact that I've never had a real date enters into the mix. She made Ned promise to watch out for me, and I decided discretion was my best course and didn't faff about her faffing about it.

Most of the rest of the week has been same-old, same-old, though Kay tells me she's lined up three friends to play pretend-bee with her. Friday Dr. Metcalf said he'd line up a couple of dates and reserve the auditorium. He suggested I put a flyer together, and he'll send an e-mail to the faculty to see if we can line up a small audience. The flyer took me less than an hour this morning, and I'll have the school make colour copies as soon as I have dates.

And there was one fun thing on Thursday. Just before dinner, my mobile rang and displayed Michael's number. I ducked into a corner of the music room.

“Hey. Sorry it's been a while,” he opened. He didn't leave a pause for me to respond to that before he went on. “I'm at Spaulding with Nonna, and she wants to talk to you.”

She wants to talk to me, but you don't?
I waited until I heard, “Ciao, Simon!”

“Signora Vitale!
Che meraviglia.
” I wasn't sure of my choice of words to say “How marvellous,” but I figured she'd get the message.

Her words were slurred but intelligible. “Your accent is very good. I love to hear you.”

“I love to hear you, signora. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, good, good. I want to go home, but they say not yet.”

“Soon, I hope.”

“
Si, si.
I wanted to thank you for reading to me. I'm sure it helped me. And I want you to come to dinner after I'm home. You'll come, yes?”

“I will, certainly. You let me know when you're going home, and we'll work it out then. It's wonderful to hear from you.”

“
Mille grazie,
Simon. Ciao.”

“Ciao.” I held onto the phone, thinking Michael would come back on the line, but no; it went dead. End of that chapter of my life, I figured. There was a painful jab as I thought of his beauty and, though he wouldn't acknowledge it, his tragedy. But it would be no great loss to me, or at least no loss that would set me back. I wonder if he'll be at that dinner.

And on to tales of the party.

Ned arrived to get me around seven, looked me up and down, and ushered me upstairs to see what else might be in my clothes cupboard. He found nothing he deemed appropriate other than a pair of black jeans—which he declared almost tight enough, but said they'd do—and my oxblood Italian loafers. He'd brought a canvas satchel with him, and out of it he pulled a shirt in a lively pattern of stripes and diagonal lines in various muted colours that he said made my red hair glow. I put it on, and he folded the cuffs up and pushed the sleeves a little way up my forearms. Then he gave me a sly grin and pulled a pencil out of the bag.

“Follow me, my dear.” He nearly sashayed on his way to the bathroom, making me wonder what this party would be like.

I did my best to watch in the vanity mirror whilst he made tiny brown dots all around my eyes and then smudged them with the rubbery tip on the other end of the pencil. I almost protested; why on earth would I want to be made up like this? Whatever; I figured I could always wash it off. But then he turned me fully towards the mirror.

“Voilà!”

I couldn't think of anything to say. It was still me, still real, but somehow there was a transformation. Ned's dots, smudged together, seemed so natural that I was hard-pressed to detect actual makeup. My eyes seemed bluer, and my light freckles stood out in a way that I thought looked kind of charming. I'd never liked them before.

“May I see that?” I took his pencil and examined it closely.

“It's yours. I bought it for you. That colour wouldn't show on my skin.”

I took another look at his face, and—sure enough—he'd treated his own eyes with something black, subtly enough that I didn't notice unless I looked closely, but it really did enhance his eyes.

“You have a jean jacket? A leather jacket? Something like that?” I shook my head. “Of course you don't. That's why I brought one for you.” The last thing in the satchel was a short, black leather jacket he said was too small for him, anyway. I put it on, and he grinned at me. “Honey, I am gonna get so much cred for bringing you! You are a sight for jaded eyes.”

I was trying to contain my own grin, but I failed.

He pulled one more thing out of that bag of his. A bottle of fragrance. He sprayed a little into the air. “Do you like that? Step close but not into it, to test.”

I sniffed, and the scent was completely unfamiliar to me. There was something soft about it, but it wasn't a sweet smell. “What is it?”

“It's a vetiver scent. I can't remember which one; I got several samples. What do you think?” He handed it to me, and I pointed it towards my neck. “Not that way. Take the jacket off, and then spray it into the air and walk into it.” I did so. “Again.” Once more, and he pronounced me complete and let me put the jacket back on. I picked up my iPhone.

“You expecting any urgent phone calls this evening?” he asked.

“No.”

“Got anything super personal or super sensitive on it?” I shook my head. “Then put that thing in the jacket breast pocket, not into those jeans, and leave it there. A phone is not a fashion item and should stay hidden unless you have a particular desire to show it off.”

I wanted to sneak out without having to let Mum see me in leather and jeans and eyeliner, but Ned insisted it would be better in the long run not to do that. She was in the living room anyway, which has a view of the front door, so my plan wouldn't have worked. She stood, smiled, moved towards me, and then stopped smiling.

“Simon . . .”

“What?”

“What are you wearing?”

“Oh. This is Ned's jacket, and he's lent me—”

“No, on your face. Are you—are you wearing
makeup?”

Ned came to my rescue. “It's just a little pencil, that's all. I'm wearing more than he is.”

She gave him a careful examination. “Is this typical?”

“Depends. Not everyone there will have used it, but it's kind of fun. And I thought Simon could use a little extra fun.”

“And fragrance?”

I said, “Vetiver. Do you like it?”

She was shaking her head, more in puzzlement than denial. “It's just . . . I almost don't recognise you. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Quite sure. Yes. This is already more fun than I've had in years.” With a bit of a shock, I realised that this was true.

“Well . . .” She turned to Ned. “You have him home by eleven.”

Ned replied, “I could do that, but I think it will put a major damper on the evening for him. What if we say before one?”

“One in the morning! Oh, I don't think so. Midnight. And not a moment later.”

I filed this negotiating ploy away for future reference. We turned to go.

Ned had opened the door, and I was about to step through behind him when I heard Persie's voice.

“Good-bye.”

I wheeled towards the stairs, and she was sitting almost at the bottom of them, watching me intently. “Bye, Persie. See you at breakfast.” I got no other response, but when I looked at Ned I saw that he was as surprised as I was that she had initiated this greeting. He laid his arm briefly across my shoulders for a quick sideways hug, and we were off.

As we walked to Arlington Street to hail a taxi, I asked Ned if he thought Mum was really worried.

“Mothers worry. It's part of the territory. Plus, she'd never seen you look like this.”

“In leather? Made up?”

“Sexy. It didn't take much to turn her son from a good-looking young man to an irresistible temptation, but she wasn't prepared for the transformation. That's to her credit, actually; I don't think mothers should be in the habit of seeing their sixteen-year-old sons as sexually inviting.”

“Is that how I look?”

He gave me a sideways glance. “Now you're fishing.”

I shook my head. “It's just that I'm not used to thinking of myself as attractive at all.”

Both his eyebrows shot up. “Wake up and smell the pheromones, my dear.” He said no more, but he didn't need to. That taxi ride felt like a magic carpet.

Ned had the driver drop us off on a main street, Tremont, I think, and he walked me around a little. It wasn't a part of town I'd been in before. There were restaurants and shops and a playhouse, and lots of people out walking around. Several times I noticed two men walking together, some of them obviously couples. It was thrilling, and I wanted to take everything in.

Which is probably how I happened to notice Mr. Lloyd, Kay's father. He had just come out of a restaurant called Hamersley's, a couple of storefronts ahead of us. In front of him, a young woman turned, smiled, and held her hand out to him. The young woman was Colleen.

I froze in my tracks, and Ned said, “Seen a ghost?”

Turning around so my back would be towards the couple, I said, “That's Kay's father. And that is
not
Kay's mother. It's their housemaid.”

Carefully, not drawing attention to himself, Ned turned slightly to watch them. “You can turn around; their backs are towards us.”

“I don't think they saw me.”

Ned grinned. “Don't worry; they wouldn't recognise you.”

“What do you suppose his wife thinks he's doing out on the town, without her, on a Saturday night?”

Ned shrugged. “Maybe she's with her own paramour.” In a heavy, fake German accent he said, “Can one ever choose where the heart leads us?” I stared at him. “No?
Cabaret
? Never mind. You're just a baby, too young to know that one. But, truly, watch the film sometime. A Bob Fosse classic. Liza Minnelli is perfection as the naïvely decadent Sally Bowles.” He kissed his fingers and sent the kiss towards the sky.

Chandler Street is tiny, like so many things in Boston, but it's tiny and charming. It's very narrow, with brick walkways on either side and trees planted every thirty feet or so. The townhouses are only a few stories high, but the street is so narrow they nearly block out the sky.

So much of the evening was a blur; I think I'll just try to document the highlights. First, the wine. It was Veuve Clicquot champagne, orange label. Nothing else was served, and nothing else needed to be. There were glasses of it on a side table on one side of a large, high-ceilinged room. On the other side was a long table full of finger food that kept coming from the kitchen, carried by what appeared to be caterers. There were little smoked-salmon spirals with cream cheese and chives, broccoli florets wrapped in strips of soft cheese, something Ned called q-cakes which were little quiches with no crust in cupcake papers, and maybe four other options.

Ned said, “Note the conspicuous absence of heavy carbs. Start watching your figure now, and you'll be set for life.”

The flat wasn't huge, but somehow it seemed spacious. Ned introduced me to the hosts, James Miller and Roy Kennedy. It was their condo. James was maybe twenty-five, whilst Roy, I would guess, was forty. As I struggled to think of something witty to say, James told me more about the condo than I could take in, let alone remember.

“James, darling,” Roy said as he hooked an arm through one of mine, “this adorable boy is too young to be concerned with real estate.” To me, he said, “I'll bet you'd like nothing more than to meet some nice men. You're not ‘with' Ned, are you?” He glanced at Ned and winked.