Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

  Ned was beside me, and almost under my breath I said, “I know I sound like a whingy little kid. But it just goes on and on, one thing after another.”

  His voice was calm again, soothing. “And what’s this latest thing?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I turned and slithered down until I was sitting on the gravel. The sharp stones would have hurt if they hadn’t felt good. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Ned lowered himself to sit beside me. His voice gentle, he said, “Let’s think about time. Let’s imagine eight or nine months. Picture how large that amount of time looks against seventy or eighty years. Just see that in your mind for a minute.”

  He waited, then, “Now let’s take those proportions, and instead of time, fit them into a landscape. Those eight or nine months, they’re brambles, and maybe some nettles and poison ivy. Nasty stuff. But you have a long stick and a scythe. Getting through this part might not be fun, but once you’re clear of it, on the other side—even from here you can see it—lovely, open, green pasture, a sweet little village, and in the distance a beautiful, lively city.”

  Emerald City? But no, that wasn’t Dorothy’s real home. Ned was painting an English landscape. “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Good. And do you know what you’re doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know what you’re going to do next?” I shook my head. “No? I do. You’re going to come with me back to the table and enjoy that scrumptious meal I put together for us.” He stood and held a hand out. “One step at a time, Simon. You’ll get through the brambles.” I took the hand, and he pulled me to my feet and into his arms for a quick, firm hug.

  Ned brought an oil lantern to the table and lit it. We didn’t talk whilst we ate. Outdoors, it didn’t matter that the game hens, the beans, and the tiny red potatoes had gone cold. It was more like a picnic this way. The wine was cool, and that was perfect. The only sounds that registered for me were the tiny clinks of sterling silver on china, which—when I hear them outdoors—always seem to be the very sound of luxury.

  As Ned poured the last of the wine, he said, “Dessert, which is a divine almond torta served with vanilla bean ice cream and the richest fudge sauce you have ever tasted, is in the kitchen. And before you can have any, you have to tell me what today’s load of shit was all about.”

  I took a sip of wine and set the glass down carefully. “I have to help an eleven-year-old boy named Toby Lloyd—Christ, another Welshman, and another eleven-year-old—prepare for some national spelling bee.”

  Ned sat up straight. “The Scripps National? Wow. That’s a huge, huge deal, Simon. So, you’re his coach?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how is this appropriate for you?”

  “There’s this course IB students have to take, almost like a community service sort of thing. But mine is special.” My tone of voice reflected how special I thought it was. “I can spell anything. Well, anything I’ve seen once, and most words I haven’t. I have a really good memory, and of course there are the colours. The synaesthesia.”

  “Mmmm-hmm. How is your synaesthesia going to help young Mr. Lloyd, do you think?”

  He was right. “I don’t know.”

  “Because if I remember rightly, the words those kids have to spell would challenge even you. They aren’t words most people ever see, really. The kids have to know etymology, derivations—that sort of thing. So I doubt the colours would help you, and I certainly don’t see how they’re going to help Toby.”

  “They won’t. That’s not something I can teach him.”

  “So it looks like you’ll need to figure out what will help him. And I guess you can’t really begin to do that until you meet him. When does that happen?”

  “I’m supposed to go to his house tomorrow afternoon. Brookline, wherever that is. Two o’clock, for a couple of hours. Every week.”

  “Are you taking a cab, or do you want to try your hand at the T? I can help you figure out how to get there.”

  “What’s the T?”

  “It’s the subway. Only not all of it’s underground. T stands for transit, I guess.”

  I hadn’t thought about that option. “A taxi, I suppose. But you’re talking like it’s really going to happen.”

  “Isn’t it?” That question hung in the air for maybe a minute. When I didn’t agree or disagree, he asked, “If you were in London, and your school there gave you this project, would you take it on more willingly?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So, here, it’s just a case of all this shit getting to you. You might actually enjoy it, you know. I get that you’re wading through a lot of crap that’s been thrown at you. I really do. So figure out which bits aren’t really shit, focus on those, and hack your way through the rest of it.”

  I toyed with my glass, sulking, not looking at him.

  “Life’s not fair, Simon. I’m sure you’ve heard that before. Now you’re living it.”

  “It’s my mother’s fault.” I tried that again, though it was rather halfhearted by now. Maybe she hadn’t lost Oxford for me, or Graeme, but she’d made me lose home, and Tink.

  “I’m not arguing. But it kind of doesn’t matter. Laying blame isn’t terribly useful. What’s useful is figuring out how to get out of the mess you’re in. And for you, time will be a big factor. Once you wrap your inestimable brain around that, you’ll make the rest fall into place. If you never forgive your mother, that’s up to you. But when we find ourselves standing in shit, we need to wade through it to get out. You’ll get out, I promise.”

  “I told her I have a boyfriend.” I don’t know what possessed me to say this; maybe it was so I wouldn’t blab that I’d almost taken another path out of that shit just a little while ago.

  Something in my voice tipped him off that there was some question about it. He asked, “And . . . do you?”

  I shook my head. “He’s straight. But I love him. I’ve wanted him to be my boyfriend. I almost convinced myself he was.”

  “Ah, Simon, if I had a dollar for every straight guy I’ve fallen for, I think I’d have . . . I’d have maybe two dollars.” He laughed at the look on my face. “They’re fun to fantasise about, but they’re like knife grass. Wander in there, and you’ll come out bleeding from a thousand cuts that don’t go very deep but that sting like hell.” He shook his head like he was remembering something. “Well, I ain’t tellin’ yo mama. You want her to think you gave up even more than you did, that’s fine by me.”

  “Speaking of my ‘mama,’ how did it end up being you who came up to find me?”

  “I gather there were—shall we say, words—between you and your mom earlier. When you didn’t show up for dinner there was a lot of discussion about whether she should come upstairs, or Brian should, and it started to get a little heated. Persie . . . didn’t react well to your absence, or to the discussion. And even though Anna’s here tonight, Brian didn’t feel he could leave Persie without things getting worse, and he was sure you’d react badly again, yourself, if your mom did. So I offered to come up, and your mom offered to finish serving dinner.”

  “I see. So now I’m as bad as Persie?”

  “I didn’t say Persie was bad.”

  “But I’m as obstreperous as she is. You might as well have said that.”

  He gave me a wry smile. “It’s true that there are two offspring requiring special handling in the house, if that’s what you mean.” He chuckled. “I think she missed you, actually.”

  I couldn’t begin to understand the weird jolt this gave me, so I ignored it. “Special handling won’t help.”

  “It might, if they knew what the rules were. Do you know what the rules are?”

  “My only rule was, ‘Don’t make me leave home.’ They ignored that one. I told them they were ignoring it at their peril, but they ignored that, too. And here I am.”

  “And if someone puts a cat into a new home, does it or does it not establish a new set of rules to fit the new sit
uation?”

  “Yes.” My voice sounded sulky. “But I’m not a cat!”

  “Aren’t you? If you were a dog, you’d be happy wherever you were as long as you were with your people. Cats bond to their people because the people are part of their world, so losing their people is upsetting, but it’s really their place, their home, they’re attached to. Am I right?”

  This was true, and BM had said something very like this to me once. But somehow this made Ned more like BM than the other way around, and that made me angry. “I’m still not a cat. I don’t have to be a cat or a dog.”

  “Maybe not, but you might let cats instruct you a little. You might want to think about what your new rules should be. That would help you, and it would help others treat you the way you want to be treated.”

  “The way I wanted to be treated was ignored! I was yanked out of my home—”

  “Yes, you were. And that sucks. That sucks big-time. You’re mad at everyone involved, and I don’t blame you. But as you said a minute ago, here you are. Now what?”

  I crossed my arms on my chest and stared at him. “I’ll tell you ‘now what.’ Now I get all this shit dumped on me, shit I didn’t ask for and don’t want.” Even as I heard myself say this, I was tired of hearing it. I just wasn’t ready to give up the mantra.

  “Seems to me people around you are looking for the rules. They’re trying to make sure the things you have to do are things that pertain to you in some way. Take this spelling coaching thing. What do you know about this kid? Anything?”

  I got up, went into my room, grabbed the folder, and practically threw it at him before I sat again. He skimmed through the information, raising his eyebrows a couple of times. Once, he looked up at me intently and then back at the material. “Did you look up Longwood Towers?”

  “No.”

  “It’s pretty ritzy, for condominiums. And did you happen to see this photo of Toby?” He handed me a page.

  “What’s a condominium?”

  “Condo? You don’t have those in England?” Based on the description he gave me, it’s similar to something we call a common-hold, or a share of freehold.

  I looked at the page, and my first impression seemed unlikely, so I held it closer to the light to be sure I’d seen it right. I had. I wouldn’t have guessed there was that much clothing a boy could buy that was pink. The way he’d combed his dark hair made his face look like a girl’s, and the pose he’d struck added to the effeminate effect.

  Ned said, “Seems to me Toby ain’t just gay, honey. Seems to me he’s royalty.”

  Royalty? And then I got it: a queen. “So they gave him to me because I’m gay?”

  “Do they know you’re gay?”

  Good question. “BM . . . I mean, Brian could have told them.”

  After Ned stopped laughing, he said, “He wouldn’t have done that.” He chuckled and wiped his eyes. “ ‘BM.’ That’s priceless.”

  I did my best to stifle a smile, and then I remembered the college entrance requirement called the extended essay, which I’d begun last year at Swithin and will have to complete this year. It’s a four-thousand-word research paper on a topic the student chooses. I chose to compare several major world cultures’ views on homosexuality. Dr. Metcalf probably knows this, even though I’m not due to hand the first draft in for a few weeks. Of course, it didn’t even matter whether he saw a connection to me in that area or not. It’s the spelling that’s the connection to Toby, not our sexual orientation.

  I think.

  Ned said, “They, um, cast this particular ‘spell’ on you because of your capabilities. You can handle it, can’t you?”

  I almost groaned at the pun. “Of course I can.”

  “So handle it.” He leaned forwards. “Simon, I don’t think doing your best to get back home is giving in to the people who ignored you. I think it shows them you meant what you said. You were serious. And it proves that nothing they’ve done has changed your mind.” He sat back and grinned. “You could take a lesson from Miss Dorothy. She did whatever it took.”

  I took a moment to put it all together. The IB course load is heavy, and the classes won’t be easy, but the City course takes two of the requirements off. Of course, the City will take time, but I don’t doubt I can do it. And this thing with Toby . . . I picked up the photo again. Dr. Metcalf had said Toby was thrilled that I’m English. That might mean he’ll be easier to get along with.

  “It’s mostly that you don’t want to be here, isn’t it.” Not a question this time. “Good. We’ve got that settled. And you know what you need to do to make sure you’re not here any longer than you have to be. Now, how about you put on something a little less comfortable, and we’ll mosey on down to the kitchen and have some dessert. Sound like a plan?”

  I don’t understand why, but Ned makes me smile. And I think he knows this. I think this is why he’s the one who came upstairs.

  BM and Mum were sitting across the kitchen table from each other, deep in some intense conversation, and I couldn’t help assuming that it had to do with me in one way or another. I sat on one of the stools at the island in the middle of the room, but Ned walked to the table. “Simon and I dined alfresco tonight. I’m about to feed him some of my famous almond torta. Would either of you care for seconds?”

  Mum’s eyes had been on me since I came into the room. Without answering Ned she got up and came to stand across the island from me. “Are you all right, Simon? I was very worried about you.”

  My talk with Ned had pulled me out of the ditch I was in, but now I was angry again, and I still needed someone to blame. Mum was an easy—and not an altogether inappropriate—target. “I had some unpleasant news at school. Just one more thing I hate, one more thing I very much don’t want to do, one more thing I have no choice about. One more thing”—and I almost glanced at Ned here—“I have to overcome before I can go home again. So it’s same-old, same-old.” Adding even more edge to my tone, I added, “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

  Worried? Perhaps she was. But now she was also cheesed off. She was trying to control her temper, and it looked like she was about to lose the fight. BM came behind her and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. “Simon, I don’t know what else to do. Are you going to be mad at me for the rest of your life?”

  “The rest of yours, probably. I intend to outlive you.” And I realised almost with a shock that I do intend just this. I’ll do whatever it takes.

  BM gave me a look that would have cut glass, but he said nothing. Still gentle, he touched Mum’s shoulder again and coaxed her out of the room.

  On my way upstairs later, after devouring the torta that was every bit as delicious as Ned had promised, as I stopped to unlock the door to the top floor I heard voices from the master suite. I couldn’t help it; I listened.

  What came through first was Mum, crying. If Ned had told me an hour ago that this sound wouldn’t give me a feeling of unholy glee, I’d have laughed in his face. But now . . . I couldn’t say it made me sad, exactly. But it did make me feel sorry for her.

  I had to listen hard to make out what she was saying.

  “I should never have done this. It was a mistake. It was too much to ask of him. And—Brian, I feel as though I’ve traded Simon’s happiness for mine. Just because what he said was cruel doesn’t make it wrong.”

  There was nothing but sobbing for a few seconds, and then Brian said, “This decision, this move, is for the rest of your life, Em. I’m not saying it was easy on Simon. It’s not. But he’s a lot tougher than he lets on. And this is just one year out of his life compared to the rest of yours.”

  “If I’ve ruined his life, that would ruin the rest of my life, Brian!”

  If only she knew how close I came this afternoon. If only I knew.

  “I understand that, and I don’t make light of it. But remember that he’s still a teenager, and life’s events seem to loom very large for him at this age. But what he said just now tells m
e he’ll fight. As long as he’s angry, he’ll work hard to prove us wrong, to show us we can’t ruin his life.” There was a pause in which I pictured him holding her. “He and Ned seem to have established a friendship. I trust Ned to let me know if he’s worried.”

  Mum’s voice was low, almost like she was talking to herself. “Sometimes I think I should go back. Pack Simon up, and just go back.”

  It was several seconds before BM said, “And if you did, would that put everything back to where it was? Would he go back to being merely arrogant and standoffish instead of hateful and venomous ?”

  My back stiffened. But—he wasn’t wrong.

  A short laugh escaped through Mum’s tears. “I don’t know.” And then, “There really is no going back, is there?”

  “I’m not saying he’s going to stop being angry at you—at us—anytime soon. Maybe not ever. But once he gets involved with his classes, makes a couple of friends, he’ll have a lot more in his life than he has right now. He’ll have something else to focus on besides his anger at us. It should at least get easier.”

  “And if it doesn’t? Simon does not make friends easily.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”

  I had allowed myself a glimmer of hope when Mum mentioned going home, but in my heart of hearts I know this is not going to happen. And I also know BM is right; we can’t go back, not the way we were. I’ll go back alone.

  Upstairs, I set my alarm; tomorrow is school. Then I lie on the bed for a bit before undressing, eyes on the skylight, wondering whether Graeme had any idea how I felt. If he even registered that I was alive on the planet, let alone missing from school, from home.

  Somehow, Ned’s understanding of my problems—and his giving me his permission not to forgive Mum—makes it easier for me to be mad at her without feeling desperate about it. The anger, the hatred or whatever, feels less heavy. It’s easier to carry now, so I feel like I might be able to move forwards. Emphasis on “might.”