Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

  I remember some of the play, which lasted just under an hour and a half. About forty-five minutes into it, Luther shifted his weight just slightly so that our shoulders and upper arms came into contact. This simple touch was enough to make me nearly unaware of anything except the roaring in my ears and the snugness at my crotch. And these jeans do not have a lot of room for . . . expansion, shall we say, so the sensations were extremely distracting. I both wanted and didn’t want to move enough to adjust the seams.

  It was quarter of ten by the time we were outside. “Fancy a nightcap?” he asked, and when I turned a puzzled look towards him, he laughed. “I know a great little coffee shop, just across Huntington. We could consider a bite of dessert. Maybe share something ?”

  “As long as they have tea.”

  In a horrible English accent, he said, “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it otherwise.”

  As we crossed the street, looking around us to avoid being run over, my eyes landed on a young man in a jean jacket, hands in his jeans pockets, standing under the awning of some store, watching us approach.

  Michael.

  Oh, my God. What the hell was he doing there? I didn’t know whether I should say anything or not acknowledge him at all. Michael solved the problem by turning away before Luther and I got too close. If Luther noticed him staring at us, he didn’t let on, and I said nothing.

  Stalking me. He was still stalking me. How creepy.

  Over my tea, Luther’s coffee, and a shared molasses biscuit, in that funky little student hangout that could almost have been in Paris, I put Michael out of my mind. I mentioned a couple of things about the play until I felt Luther’s foot, under the small table, bump gently into mine and stay there.

  He said, “I have to confess, I got lost after the second or third time jump.”

  “You’re the one who likes this format!”

  “Yeah. But something was distracting me so much I had trouble paying attention.”

  Knowing what he was going to say, I asked, “What might that have been?”

  “I think it was a certain fascinating guy who was sitting to my right.”

  Well, what could I say after that? I landed on this: “I’m sure I don’t know whom you mean. The only fascinating guy I saw was in the other direction. On my left.”

  He lifted his chin. “I think we have time for a stroll by the reflecting pool.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Come with me.”

  I almost said, “Anywhere,” but I caught myself in time.

  I was glad I had brought my new gloves and muffler; it had grown rather chilly. The pool, when we got there, was divine—appropriate, since it parallels the outside wall of a huge church. Around the edges, the water flows over rounded stone, much like an infinity pool, falling quietly down into a narrow space between the pool and the walkway, making it seem as though the still water is floating on air. We walked a little way and then Luther stopped, facing the church across the water.

  “You religious?” he asked.

  “Not especially, no. Why?”

  He pointed with his chin. “That’s the Christian Science Mother Church.” He pulled me gently away into a semicircle of stone, one of many along the side of the pool. “And I think they wouldn’t approve of this.”

  His hands wrapped gently around my neck under my jaw, controlling my face, and he placed his lips on mine and his tongue in my mouth and sent me to heaven right there. I think I grabbed his hair, I’m not sure, and then something came over me. I reached one hand behind him, grabbed his ass, and pressed him against me. Maybe all that practising with Graeme had paid off. He pulled his face away just for a second, his eyes wide, and locked his mouth on mine again.

  Before long it was obvious things were going to get out of hand, as it were, so we pulled apart, a little breathless, and sat on the ledge of cold stone.

  He spoke first. “I have to say, you’ve surprised me.”

  “How, precisely?”

  He watched whilst a man and a woman walked close by and passed. “After I met you at James and Roy’s party, I was intrigued. In one way you seemed so young. But in another—I don’t know, but there was something that stayed with me. I almost didn’t call, but I couldn’t get you out of my mind.” He looked at me. “Simon, you’re—I’ll give you credit for seventeen. But—shit. I’m friggin’ twenty-one. You’re still in high school!”

  I waited, but he didn’t go on. So I prompted, “And the surprise ?”

  “I guess that would have to be the way you’re acting. I mean, like, pulling me towards you just now. And picking up the dinner tab. I didn’t expect that.”

  I nodded, remembering what Ned had told me about Luther: meeting his own needs, but honest about it. It was beginning to look like one of his needs was to be in control. “I could tell you didn’t seem enthusiastic about my offer. Maybe you would have preferred me to let you treat me as though I were some old-fashioned girl?”

  “Oh, now you’re getting huffy. All I said was that it was surprising.”

  “But why? Because I’m still a child in your eyes?”

  He scowled thoughtfully at me. “It’s true you don’t seem as young as your years.”

  Several seconds went by whilst I considered whether to reply to that and, if so, what to say. Did I want to call him out on his control issues, or would that be the death knell to anything else we might do together? And would that be a good thing or a bad thing?

  He said, “Tell you what. Let’s see where we might go from here. And let’s start with something I might not have told you right away. Maybe not at all, depending.” He paused briefly. “I’m bisexual.”

  I could tell he wanted me to be shocked. So of course, I refused to be, even though I was. “Should that matter to me?”

  He laughed, really laughed. “No. But I can’t tell you how many people it has mattered to very much.” He ran a hand down my arm. “So this could work well for both of us. Neither of us will be here next year, and we know we’re going in different directions. We can enjoy what there is to enjoy and go our separate ways. And you fascinate me. I’d like to see you again. You?”

  I turned my gaze away from his face towards the church, stalling for time. I’d really, really liked kissing him. I’d like to do more than that, but I wasn’t sure how much more. He seemed to be heading towards something more than a kiss-and-cuddle. Did I want that?

  “I’m not sure quite how far I’d want to go.” I looked back at him. “Can you live with that?”

  “Why don’t we see what happens? We can start low-key. How about brunch, my place, two weeks from today? I’m a pretty good cook.”

  His place. Well, brunch seemed unassuming enough. I decided to take the risk. “I’ll bring the champagne if you provide the orange juice.”

  “Of course you will.” He smiled at me. “I’ll text you the address.”

  Time to take a little more control. I stood and reached a hand out. He took it, and stood, and we kissed again, with less heat this time. I pulled away. “See you in two weeks, then.” And I turned and left him standing there, I hope staring after me.

  I had no idea where I was, but I ended up walking north up Massachusetts Avenue, and a consultation with my iPhone—once I was sure I was out of Luther’s sight—told me it wasn’t far to the T stop near St. Bony. I didn’t have enough time left to walk the whole way.

  So yeah, I’m in lust. Because I do want to see him again. I do want to fascinate him. Will the result of that be more than I can take, though? And will I be able to control that?

  Now that there’s a time and place for it, I’m incredibly anxious. I’m not convinced this is how most people my age set dates up; that is, two people who barely know each other say, “Let’s have sex. When’s good for you?” I’ve heard there’s a tradition, or an expectation, something, with adult straight couples, that if they’re going to have sex it often happens by the third date. But I’m seventeen (for all practical purposes), and Luther i
sn’t that much older, and we might well be skipping over two dates’ worth of courtship and jumping into bed.

  Is this right? Is this what I want? And how do I figure that out in two weeks?

  There’s this big storm headed towards the Northeast, with New York and Boston dead in its path. Sandy, a hurricane. Everyone around me has been talking about it for days. Luther and I didn’t mention it; we had other things on our minds. But with my date behind me, I can sense the tension. They’ve even cancelled school for tomorrow. Brian had all the outdoor furniture taken in, which I gather happens every year for the winter, anyway, because of snow.

  I really shouldn’t have spent so much time writing about my date with Luther; if we lose power, I won’t be able to get much schoolwork done.

  Somehow I can’t work myself into a guilty swirl over that.

  Boston, Sunday, 4 November

  This will have to be a short one; still haven’t finished what I need to do this weekend for school, and it’s after ten.

  We didn’t lose power in the storm, but lots of people did. It was quite exciting. At one point I went out onto my roof, which is fairly well shielded by taller buildings around it, and it was everything I could do not to get sucked into one whirlwind or another. The only bad thing for us was that it made Persie agitated, which affected everyone in the house.

  My birthday was more fun than I would have expected. First, Brian had arranged for one of the housecleaners to be here and answer the door for any trick-or-treaters, so we wouldn’t be disturbed. Mum and I hadn’t known how much more seriously Americans take this holiday, and this was not a trivial thing. It surprised me how much I appreciated his thoughtfulness.

  Ned pulled out lots of stops for dinner: beef Wellington, which I adore, creamed spinach, also a favourite, and baby red potatoes boiled and then heated in butter and crushed rosemary. The wine was a chewy St. Emilion, and Brian and I competed to see who could be more specific with tasting notes. He said I won, and I don’t think it was just because it was my birthday. We both got coffee and truffle on the nose, but he didn’t pick up on the liquorice until I mentioned it. The flavour notes included dark cherry and chocolate. With all the fuss, even Persie decided to try a little, but she pronounced it “awful.”

  The cake was a triple-layer, heavenly devil’s food (if that’s not an oxymoron) with the richest buttercream icing. Ned had decorated it with clumps of tiny purple dots which, when I noticed the green vines, I realised were grapes. He didn’t do anything tacky like put my name or the number seventeen on it, but there were several tall, very skinny, candles clustered in the centre.

  I wore one of my new outfits for dinner to acknowledge Brian’s gift, but he’d done me one better. He’d bought a pair of shoes I’d tried on and loved but hadn’t taken last week. They had seemed a little too flashy: a low shoe, smooth dark blue leather, with deep reddish-purple leather piping around the side panels and along the opening. The laces matched the blue. And he had remembered them.

  Mum had bought me an iPad and a gift certificate for apps and material I could load onto it. You can even use it to read textbooks, so this should come in handy.

  Ned gave me that leather jacket that was too small for him, the one I’d worn to the South End party. In the same box was a small bottle of Frédéric Malle Vetiver Extraordinaire.

  Persie surprised everyone by asking Brian, “What did I get him?”

  Brian seemed at a loss for words. So I said, “Tell you what, Persie. Over school break this winter, you can pick a place for us to go where you can show me some of your favourite art. How’s that?”

  She nodded and went back to her cake. I noticed Brian looking at me. I couldn’t read his expression—there was amazement, but there was also some intense emotion that defied interpretation. At first I thought maybe it had to do with my suggestion to Persie, but then it hit me that Persie’s question—what she might or might not have done for someone, in this case for my birthday—was not something she would ever have asked before.

  I had thought this birthday would be my worst yet, other than the first one after my father died. But it was the best one since he’d taken me to get Tinker Bell. This confused me. It confused me so much that I didn’t even feel like having Graeme do me any particular favours that night.

  Thursday was the first of the two spelling bees at St. Bony, with Kay and her friends. I mean, Toby. I had to do a major adjustment to get back to thinking “Toby” and “him” so that I wouldn’t cause any grief.

  His friends Andrew, Johnny, and Janice competed with him. I was the pronouncer, and I’d reviewed the video Dr. Metcalf had sent me to be sure and do it in the official way.

  I got to meet Abby Lloyd for the first time. She showed up alone, which irritated me; why couldn’t Toby’s father have come with her? Was he out someplace with Colleen? Or maybe “in” someplace? Mrs. Lloyd was friendly, and beautifully put together: short, dark-blond hair, stylishly cut; simple makeup; a dove grey, light wool suit, no lapels, with a pale pink blouse and a single string of creamy pearls. Simple, low-heeled black shoes. Very conservative ; she’d no doubt come straight from work at her law firm.

  She thanked me graciously for helping Toby prepare. We didn’t talk much, but I found myself liking her a good deal. No doubt it helped that I knew she had fought with her tyrannical husband after he had had Colleen remove all Kay’s girl accoutrements. And it probably helped that she told me at least twice how much it meant to Toby that I was working with him, how he thought the world of me.

  The format of this bee wasn’t to have anyone win or lose; all four of the kids stayed on stage the whole time. Even so, Toby didn’t do as well as I had expected. He seemed anxious in a way I’d never seen. It couldn’t be performance anxiety, or he wouldn’t be where he is in the overall competition at this point. Which made me think it was almost certainly because Dean Furley was there, along with three other people I’m pretty sure are transgender. I made note of everything Toby missed and planned to ask a few questions next week when I saw him again.

  Dr. Metcalf had done his bit; the event was pretty well attended. Even Maddy was there. We chatted for a bit before and again after—nothing terribly important, though she asked me a lot of questions about my approach with Toby. When she isn’t trying to make me love her, she isn’t a bad girl to talk to.

  Every so often, all the nervousness about Luther I’ve been pushing away as much as I can comes crashing to the front of my brain. I’ve made a date, almost certainly to have sex. And I’ve never had sex. I was kissed for the first time just over a week ago.

  I’ve been doing a lot of practising with Graeme.

  Boston, Saturday, 10 November

  Luther lived up to his word about texting me his address, though he waited until Friday afternoon to do it. I had to talk myself down from some psychological ledge several times, worrying that he’d forget, wondering what I should do if he did. Would it mean that he had just forgotten, which would make me feel completely unimportant? Or would it mean that he’d changed his mind and had decided this was the best way to stand me up? But, finally, a text arrived. Very direct, no frills. The address was first, followed by, See you Sat 11.

  Saturday morning, after the most fastidious shower I’ve ever taken, I called a taxi to pick me up at the house; I had the champagne in a waterproof, insulated bag, and I’d thrown a little ice in. It was heavy. No T today.

  Luther’s flat was really half a house not far from the BC campus. I’d worn my new blue shoes, jeans, a cotton shirt pieced together artistically from large, asymmetrical pieces of different textures of white fabric, and Ned’s leather jacket. The short walkway to the few steps up to the door was lined in tall yew shrubs, and I stopped there to turn my phone off; I didn’t want a well-intentioned text from anyone to interrupt whatever was going to happen.

  When Luther opened the door, he just stood there, looking at me. “You are always so well put together.” He grinned. “Come in.”

 
He put the champagne on the counter beside the sink and stared at it. “Okay, you non-child, you. Are you good at opening these things?”

  “I am.” He set two tumblers nearby. “No champagne glasses?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  This was not the most expensive wine, what with the plan to mix it with orange juice, but the idea of pouring it into tumblers was almost too much for me. I barely caught myself before saying something that would have been pointless. “Where’s the juice?”

  “Let’s just have a sip of bubbly first, shall we?”

  We clinked glasses together, sipped, set the glasses down, and were in a heated embrace before ten seconds had passed. Oddly, or perhaps not oddly, we ended up on the floor. He kneaded my crotch, and it was almost enough to make me soil my new jeans. I cried out, but he smothered my mouth with his until I grabbed him the same way. He pulled away, and each of us massaged ourselves whilst we panted and laughed.

  When he could speak, he asked, “There’s a saying that goes, ‘Life’s uncertain. Eat dessert first.’ Ever see that?”

  “Can’t say that I have. But I hope that wasn’t all we’re getting for dessert.” Yeah; I’m ready for something more than this.

  He chuckled. “No, it is not.” He heaved himself up and held a hand out to me. “Let’s have brunch first, eh?”

  And we did. He wasn’t bad in the kitchen, though either Ned or Mum could have taught Luther quite a bit. But it was fine: asparagus omelette, brioche from a bakery, mixed fruit, and of course the Buck’s Fizz, using my champagne and his orange juice—a nice blending of very different substances, rather like us. He’d bought some great-looking chocolates, but I suggested we wait until later; I don’t like to mix sweets with champagne.

  Food consumed, we sat at his small kitchen table, swirling the last of our drinks, saying little and doing a lot of gazing at each other. Well, maybe not gazing; that implies something soft. This was not a soft feeling. It was hard, direct, and male. Maybe I don’t know what the hell I’m doing when it comes to sex, but I sure know what I want to feel like.