Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

  I set my bag down and got a good grip on the dictionary. Toby hadn’t said how he wanted to proceed, but I reckoned I might as well dig in. There was an upholstered chair, blue with a soft rose-coloured throw, and I sat there, opened the book towards the back, and dropped my finger. “Schadenfreude.”

  Toby stood before me as though on stage already. “Language of origin, please?”

  “German.” I didn’t need to look at the book to know this.

  “Is it from Schaden, harm or damage, and Freude, joy?”

  “Yes.” I knew this, too. I was surprised he did, though.

  “Definition, please.”

  I consulted the dictionary for this one; this book is the bee’s official version, and what I say should match what Toby will hear in the competition. “Delight in another’s misfortune.”

  “Are there alternate pronunciations?”

  Not that I knew of, but I looked to be sure. And I saw that whilst I had given the word its genuine German pronunciation, there was another that was more anglicised. I said that as best I could, knowing I was massacring the wonderful Germanic sounds.

  “Spelling, please?” I looked up from the book, and Toby giggled. “Just kidding! Can I have it in a sentence, please?”

  “The girl’s schadenfreude at hearing her main competitor misspell arrhostia gave her pangs of guilt.” I knew he was asking every question he was allowed by the bee’s rules, though I was sure he knew the word.

  “Schadenfreude.” He used the fingers of his right hand to scribble on his left palm. “Schadenfreude. S-c-h-a-d-e-n-f-r-e-u-d-e. Schadenfreude.”

  “Ding!” I gave the sound indicating an error, and his jaw dropped. “Just kidding!”

  More delighted laugher. “I knew that! Another word. Something really unusual.”

  It went on like this for nearly an hour. I did my best to trip him up, and once—with the word Ugaritic—I did stump him. He put an e before the u and turned the a into an e. He demanded to see the word.

  He stared at the page for perhaps twenty seconds. “I was going to tell you your pronunciation was wrong,” he said, “but this kind of thing happens a lot, where the phonetics make a letter sound like something else, and you just have to know the word or the derivation so well that you can get it right anyway. Stuti Mishra lost to Snigdha Nandipati because she didn’t know that there should be an umlaut over the a in schwärmerei. That makes the a sound like an e when it’s said aloud, and that’s how Stuti spelled it.” He handed me back the book and picked up a notebook. “I keep lists of everything I miss.”

  “Toby, what would be most helpful for you?”

  “Actually, this is great. On my own, I can’t fake myself out with pronunciation the way you just did.”

  “My accent isn’t getting in the way?”

  He smiled, shook his head. “Nope. Time for cookies and lemonade?”

  “Tell me the derivation of lemon first.”

  “I . . . I can’t do that.” He looked almost ashamed.

  I smiled at him. “I can’t, either. I doubt they’ll ask you that one.” I opened to lemon in the dictionary. “From Middle English limon, through Old French, Italian limone, from Arabic and originally from Persian.” I closed the book. “Now we know.”

  “It might come in handy for some word that has the same root. Thanks!” He made another entry in his “mistakes” notebook and then bounced out of the room.

  Colleen must have put the pitcher of lemonade in the fridge; the ice cubes floating in it had barely melted when she brought it to the dining table. Just as I was sitting in a chair, a movement under a table on the far side of the living room caught my eye.

  A cat! A beautiful, sleek, all-black cat. But what was wrong with its ears?

  “Who’s that?” I asked Toby, nodding towards the animal.

  “Shangri-La. We call her La La. Isn’t she pretty? She’s my mom’s cat.”

  La La sat several feet away as if to allow me to admire her, her huge, round, amber eyes trained on me. The ears were folded forwards entirely, very nearly giving the appearance that she hadn’t any. “What happened to her ears?”

  Toby laughed. “You should know!”

  “Why is that?”

  “She’s a Scottish fold! Her father is a British shorthair, and her mother is a folded fold. The original fold was a white British shorthair named Susie who lived on a farm in Scotland.” He went on at length about how it took geneticists decades to figure out how to breed for the cartilage weakness in the ears without cartilage weaknesses elsewhere, which would result in deformed kittens. It seems the doctor who finally solved the puzzle had been from just outside Boston.

  La La stretched, walked nearly to the table, and sat, watching me. Almost to myself, I said, “I love cats.”

  “You can pet her if you want.”

  “I’ll let her get used to me first.” In fact, I had to remind myself not to stare at her, which she would have interpreted as confrontational. I allowed my eyelids to lower just a bit, and she did the same. Excellent. Now I just needed to wait for her to make the next move. I turned my attention to the lemonade.

  More to make conversation than anything else, trapped as I was at this table with this child, I asked about his parents, where they work, that sort of thing. His father does something in finance for Blue Cross Blue Shield, and his mother is a junior partner at some law firm specialising in environmental law. I took this in and filed it away, not knowing whether I’d ever need to know it; I might not ever even meet these people.

  Toby babbled on for a bit about his past conquests at spelling bees, relating some of the words others missed, detailing a couple of close calls he had when he was given a word he didn’t know.

  “I gather that the strategy is to know as many words as possible, then,” I asked, “rather than merely having enough background to try to figure out how to spell them when you’re standing there?”

  Toby nodded, swallowed some biscuit, and said, “You still ask all the questions you can, just to be really, really, really sure, because there’s no going back. I mean, you can start the spell again, but you can’t change any of the letters you’ve already given. So taking your time helps you be sure it really is the word you think it is. ’Cause, I mean, you have to know so many, you know? The similar words start to blur together.”

  “And so my calling out words to you is the best way for me to help you?”

  “Yup. Some coaches do other stuff, like test you on etymology. You could do that, if you want. Like, tips for when the word comes from Latin, which means the middle vowels are usually i, there is no k, that sort of thing.”

  “And Aztec words often end in tl.”

  “Right! So that stuff is good. But the practices . . . That’s the best. Especially when the pronunciation can cause problems. Like schwärmerei. You just have to know the word. The more words I miss with you, the more I’ll learn.”

  He was telling me my task was simply locating words that are as unusual as possible, and words that sound the least like they’re spelled. “That seems almost too easy. For me, that is.”

  “It’s time-consuming, though. You’ll help me, right?”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I had no choice, but I caught those words before they could escape. “Of course.”

  “All the way through to the contest?”

  “The end of May, correct?”

  “Coaches get to come and watch. It’s near Washington, D.C. You’ll come, won’t you?” I hesitated just a little too long; no one had mentioned this to me. Toby’s face fell, and he reached for another biscuit. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

  “I might. I just didn’t know it was an option.”

  “You like me, right? I like you.”

  Eleven, is he? Seemed more like five, emotionally. I leaned on my cultural roots to avoid a declaration. “Now, Toby, you know I’m English, yes? You know how reserved we English are. I don’t know of any reason I wouldn’t—”
r />   “Because if you do, I’ll tell you a secret. A really important secret.”

  This wasn’t part of the deal. “I can’t promise to tell you one back.”

  He blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that. Okay, you don’t have to. Can I tell you?”

  How would I stop him? “If you like.”

  “You won’t tell anyone?”

  This gave me pause, even though he’d already called it a secret. “Does anyone else know?”

  He looked around, furtive, even a little scared. “Nobody.”

  This might not be such a good idea. “Are you sure you should tell me?”

  “I have to tell someone! I’ll explode!” His hoarse whisper had a note of desperation in it.

  “Why not your parents?” He made a face I couldn’t quite interpret, let alone describe, but he didn’t say anything. “All right, then. We can’t have you exploding.”

  He leaned forwards, looked around again, opened his mouth, and evidently decided he was still too exposed. Out of his chair, he leaned towards my ear, cupped his hand, and whispered, “I’m a girl.”

  This revelation caused some lightbulb to go on in my head. On some level, it made perfect sense. But is he biologically a girl dressed like a boy, or a biological boy with a girl trapped inside?

  On another level, it made no sense to me at all. This was not something I’d encountered before—heard about, sure, but not had to deal with. My brain fired in a few different directions at once, and finally I decided the only reasonable course of action for me to take was to accept the information at face value.

  He’d scampered back to his chair and was bent over a biscuit, watching me intently. Keeping my voice low, I asked, “So, your parents don’t know? You’re sure?”

  Sotto voce, he said, “I’m sure. They think I’m a boy.”

  That was one answer, then. Biologically, he’s male. “Why haven’t you told them? It seems very important.”

  “I don’t know what they’d do. They might get rid of me, or something.”

  The weight of this crashed into my brain. Even if the fear were unfounded, it would be earth-shattering to live with the possibility—with the very idea—that one’s parents might actually discard one, toss one out with the garbage. “Why tell me?”

  “I just felt like you’d understand.”

  In the spirit of acceptance, wanting to avoid admitting that I didn’t understand at all and hoping he wouldn’t toss me out, I said, “Well, I will tell you a secret—maybe a semi-secret—about me. I’m gay.”

  “Ha! I knew it.”

  “You did?”

  “Not really. But I could tell there was something special about you.”

  I felt a soft weight land on one of my feet, and when I looked down Shangri-La was on her back, front paws curled against her chest, hindquarters squarely on the toe of my shoe. Enjoying the cat’s approval, I glanced back at Toby and asked a question that might or might not help me grasp this thing. “Do you like girls or boys?”

  “Oh, boys! I’m not gay.”

  “I see. Straight boys, then?” I had to stop a sardonic chuckle; maybe he’ll do better than I had.

  “Of course. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I like you, but not that way.”

  Well, that was a relief, even if it hadn’t occurred to me. “Your parents don’t guess, with all the pink going on in your bedroom?”

  He toyed with a crumb beside his plate. “My mom might have guessed. I’m not sure.”

  “She might just think you’re gay.”

  He nodded. “But I’m not gay. I know all about being gay.”

  “Do you, now?”

  “So many kids at school call me gay. Always have. Well, for a long time, anyway. I wanted to make sure I knew what it meant, so I researched it. But I haven’t told them what I am.”

  I nodded, and thinking to provide a little comfort, I said, “I got called names, too, mostly because of my hair. Some kids used to call me Ginger.”

  “That’s not so bad.”

  “Oh, but it is. In England, it’s a mean thing to say. It’s intended to be derogatory.”

  “Not as bad as gay, though.”

  “No? What’s wrong with being gay?”

  “Well . . . I mean . . . you know.”

  “No, I don’t, actually. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being gay.”

  “Not if you really are gay. And there’s nothing wrong with having red hair, either.”

  To my surprise, I laughed. “You’ve got me there. Will we go practise some more?”

  I didn’t know what to do with this confession. Really, there’s nothing I could do. And this isn’t my problem.

  As I was about to leave, Shangri-La trotted over to me, bouncing on her little black feet, and threw herself on the floor, belly up, her head at a sweet angle. Fur colour and ears aside, she looked so much like Tink I felt tears well up in my eyes. I leaned over, let her sniff my fingers, and scratched under her chin. She tilted her head up so I couldn’t see her eyes and let me go on for a while as I scratched from ear to ear and back again.

  Toby asked, “D’you wanna pick her up?”

  I shook my head. “She hasn’t given me permission to do that yet.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She’s staying on her back, which doesn’t give me access to pick her up. If she rubs against my legs and then stands still, I might pick her up. Maybe next time.”

  He glanced around—I was sure—to see if Colleen was nearby. “You’re not creeped out?”

  “You mean, about the girl thing?” He nodded. I lied, “Not at all.”

  “So you’ll come back?”

  “I’ll be here next week, same time. Good to meet you, Toby.”

  “Maybe next time, I’ll tell you my real name. My girl name.”

  “I look forward to it.” What else could I say?

  The trolley car was more crowded on the way back. The time went by quickly, though; my mind was back on Toby and his—her predicament. Transgender issues confuse me. I have no thoughts or feelings about being anything other than male. But I’ve heard about men trapped in women’s bodies and vice versa. I believe them, I guess; I just don’t understand them. And I wonder what Parents Lloyd would make of it.

  I was still preoccupied with the topic over dinner, and still keenly aware that whatever I thought about it, it was not my secret to share, so when Mum—no doubt encouraged by our hug over breakfast—asked about my first school day, I didn’t go on at length. Of course, I hadn’t exactly been a chatterbox about anything lately. Plus, it occurred to me rather suddenly that I hadn’t told anyone but Ned about Toby or my coaching job. As this thought was bouncing around in my brain, Mum must have said something else to me, and I didn’t take it in or respond. But I did notice the silence.

  I looked around the table; all eyes but Persie’s were on me. “Sorry. Just a little preoccupied with something.” I did my best to provide a little more information about my day without going into details. Then Mum asked if I’ll be going on the apple-picking outing the last Saturday of September. Evidently families are invited. There was some back and forth about it—I hadn’t even noticed it on the schedule—and finally I did my best to pacify her with “Probably.”

  Brian asked, “What steps will your City team take to complete your first assignment, do you think?”

  “We haven’t discussed it yet. I suppose we’ll select a few schools, visit them, research the history and the current focus, that sort of thing. Why? Any suggestions?”

  “I’ll be interested in where Harvard falls in your analysis.”

  I let my hand fall onto the table beside my plate, fork pointing towards him. “I’m not applying there, you know.” Even if Oxford won’t have me, I wasn’t impressed with Harvard.

  “I ask, because I went to Harvard.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ll let you know, if you like.”

  I did my best to fall out of the conversation again after this, though I
accidentally set Persie off. Preoccupied as I was, when Mum asked me what time I’d gotten to bed last night, no doubt because I looked tired, I said “half eleven.”

  Persie’s head jerked up. “That’s not a time. What is it?”

  I glanced at Brian and knew I was in trouble. “It’s eleven thirty.”

  “It’s not!” she shrieked. “It’s five-point-five! Five-point-five! Five-point-five!”

  Oh, boy. Here we go again. It took Brian and Anna a few minutes to quiet her down. At one point I mouthed “Sorry” to Brian, silently. He didn’t look forgiving.

  I had rather a lot of homework already, and I hadn’t gotten enough of it done between getting back from Toby’s and dinnertime. But when Ned set a piece of fruit pie in front of me, he whispered, “Cat got your tongue?”

  There was an intense look on his face, which I took to mean he’d be available later if I wanted to talk. And he must have noticed that I hadn’t mentioned Toby.

  So after I finished most of my homework, I wandered down to the kitchen, glad to see he was still here, marinating something to get a head start on tomorrow’s dinner. I grabbed a bowl, scooped some chocolate ice cream for myself, and sat at the island.

  “You’ll wash that yourself, young man.” He grinned at me. “How did it go?”

  “The coaching, you mean?” He put a hand on his hip as though to say, Duh, and I told him, “Weird.” I took a spoonful of ice cream. “This is one thing you Yanks do better,” I said around the silky melting lump in my mouth, pointing towards the bowl with my spoon.

  “Knock it off, kid. What was weird?” He leaned on the island across from me.

  “What do you know about people who are transgender?”

  “I’ve known one or two. Why? Something you want to tell me?”

  “Not about me. But our queen isn’t a queen. Or, she really is a queen. At least, that’s what he said. What she said.”

  “This is Toby we’re talking about?”

  I nodded and dug into my ice cream bowl. “Next time I go there, I’ll learn his girl’s name, or so he promised.”