Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

  “Thanks. Try the iced tea.” And he started reading. Feeling obstinate, I took a biscuit instead. Without looking up, Ned said, “Your mom says that’s your favourite cookie.”

  Tricked. He’d tricked me into accepting a biscuit from Mum by telling me to go for the iced tea. I nearly spit it out, but it was too good. Plus, he’d silently reminded me I wasn’t supposed to use the word “biscuit” when Persie would want that particular baked confection to be called a “cookie.” I set that imperative aside.

  I waited a full two minutes before I took a sip of the tea. Unfortunately, I liked it.

  “This class on twentieth-century literature looks interesting. Did you know Thomas Mann was gay?” he asked without looking at me.

  “Yes. Why do you mention it?”

  He gave me an arch look. “As I said, we hear everything. And I’m gay, so don’t try to hide anything from me.” He set the list down. “What major are you aiming for at Oxford?”

  I considered pursuing the question of who had been talking in Ned’s hearing about my sexual orientation, but I wasn’t sure I cared. “We don’t have ‘majors’ in the UK. I’m considering Oxford’s Psychology, Philosophy, and Linguistics course of study.”

  “What languages have you studied? Other than English, of course.”

  “Italian. Latin. A little German.”

  He shook his head. “Too predictable. And too easy, for you.” He picked up the list and pointed. “If I wanted to impress a place like Oxford, I’d go for this. Beginning Chinese.”

  I blinked. This idea hadn’t occurred to me. “Why that?”

  “Why? Well, for one thing, because all the world is facing east now and will be for a while to come. And even if that weren’t true, learning a language that doesn’t look or sound anything like the one in which you’ve already proven yourself is a massive undertaking. It’s almost got an ‘Abandon All Hope’ banner over it. In fact, it sort of does, except that it adds, ‘unless you’re really, really smart.’ ” He handed me the list. “You, Simon Fitzroy-Hunt, are really smart. And if you don’t do something that stands out, you might be seen as having done only what you need to do. You won’t be seen as having stretched yourself.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be Chinese. But it needs to be something that will catch their attention in a good way.”

  “Schenkerian Analysis would have done that.”

  “Maybe, maybe. You know Oxford better than I do. But consider this: If the course is full now, it might be offered again next semester. Get your name in now.”

  “It’s a two-semester course.”

  “Better yet! Someone’s bound to drop out, either during first semester or between semesters. Are you good enough at it to start behind the other students and keep up? Maybe you could get Persie to help you get a head start.” He popped a biscuit into his mouth. “Just a thought.”

  “Persie is twelve.”

  “Eleven, actually. What’s your point?” I didn’t speak, so he said, “She knows this stuff better than you do. Admit it.” He grinned at me, expecting an answer this time.

  I had to fight the smile that wanted to spread across my face. I sipped more tea to hide it. “Well, she’s been working at it.”

  “And you haven’t. So she’s ahead of you. But she doesn’t judge. She doesn’t gloat. There isn’t a drop of arrogance in her blood. Unlike some people.” He lifted his glass. “I will say she’d be a very difficult taskmaster. No sympathy. She might not be patient enough with you.”

  “I’m not stupid, you know. I know you’re baiting me.”

  “Sometimes we have to be pushed into doing what we want to do. No man is an island, and we need each other. Right now, you need someone to push you. That might be Persie. It might be me. Or it might be the Beginning Chinese teacher.”

  “What makes you think I need pushing?”

  “You’re stuck.”

  “Stuck?”

  He set his glass on the tray. “Look, Simon, I know you didn’t want to come here. And I understand why not. But you’re here. Take advantage of what you can, and use it to put yourself back on the course you would have chosen. And believe me, there’s lots here to take advantage of.” He stood. “Call me on the intercom when you’re ready to send the tray down.” And he headed for the door.

  I called a challenge after him. “You’re really too smart for this job. Do you need some pushing?”

  His hand on the doorknob, he turned and said, “I’ve finished my master’s degree in food chemistry. Just taking a break to earn some money and figure out where I want to go next.” And he was gone.

  Sitting there, watching the light change on the buildings as the sun got lower in the sky, I tried to regain my sulk, but it wouldn’t cooperate. Finally I picked up the list again. If there was one thing Ned had said that I should listen to, it was that Oxford will expect me to stand out. Even with the connection through my dead grandfather, there’s the question of which fellow I’ll be assigned. I’m not saying Oxford would have any unacceptable fellows, but a good match can make all the difference.

  Other than Chinese, was there something else I might want to bargain for? Flipping through the course list my eye fell on African Studies, Doing Business in India, Ancient Rome, Environmental Systems and Societies, Information Technology in a Global Society, Public Speaking, and The City: A Living Palimpsest.

  Palimpsest. Not a word typically used for anything alive. Scraping off an old manuscript to reuse it doesn’t sync up with city life for me. I shook myself and went over the list again.

  It’s no good! I want that Schenker course.

  Think, Simon. You’re smart. Think. Who else might be able to help?

  I picked up my new iPhone and rang up the main number on St. Bony’s Web site. When they answered, I said, “This is Simon Fitzroy-Hunt. I’m enrolled for the first time this year, as a senior, and I have a question about my electives. Is there someone I can speak with?”

  “Certainly. Your assigned counsellor . . . hold on, please . . . is Dr. Metcalf. He’s in his office at the moment. I’ll connect you.”

  Perfect. He already knew me a little. I hadn’t given any thought to what I would say; bad planning. So when he got on the line I plunged in. “I have my schedule, and there are a couple of things.... Well, first, why is it that I’m registered for the junior year History of the Americas?”

  “I have your placement exam in front of me. You show a solid understanding of connections around the globe over time, but if I were to graph your depth of knowledge on a map, the coverage of the Americas in general and the US in particular isn’t enough to support your application to schools here in the US. Before you protest,” he added quickly, “I realise that you have your sights set on Oxford, and I know of no reason to worry. However, it’s always a good idea to have a few backup schools, and it’s also possible you’ll change your mind about where you want to go.”

  “I’ll be submitting my application very soon. I’m not going to change my mind.”

  “Then consider it insurance for your backup plan.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Simon, this is knowledge that will stand you in good stead, whatever your future.”

  “Is there no one else I can talk to about this?”

  “Certainly. You can speak to anyone all the way up to Dr. Healy if you like. It won’t change anything, however.” He paused whilst I ground my teeth some more. “Was there another question?”

  “Yes. There is. I had expected to take Schenkerian Analysis, but it’s fully subscribed. What do I need to do to get a place in that class?”

  “Ah, yes. Not a course we offer frequently. It’s currently oversubscribed with a waiting list. We can put you on that, but I must warn you that you’ll be around number four or five.”

  “Can I get into it for second semester if someone drops out?”

  “It’s not an easy course to drop into. And it would depend on how many names are still on the waiting list.”

&
nbsp; “And is there anything I can do to move up higher on that list?”

  “I don’t know of anything, other than waiting your turn.”

  “Financial generosity would not be rewarded?”

  He laughed. He actually laughed. “Good try, but the reward for generosity would not be in the form of a waiting-list advancement. It would be in the knowledge that you’re supporting a worthy institution.”

  I was trying to be calm, but I was also getting desperate. Talk about a backup plan . . . “Then, Beginning Chinese?”

  There was a brief silence. “It looks like as of a few minutes ago, that class is full, too.” It was everything I could do not to scream. “Tell me a little about yourself, Simon. What plans do you have for your future?”

  I could feel my jaw working as I tried to hold my temper in check. “I’m planning on the Psychology, Philosophy, and Linguistics course.” I wanted to know if he knew what I meant by that.

  He didn’t miss a beat. “That course of study has a very broad scope. Would it be fair to say, then, that you’re not the kind of person who has one or two very focused academic passions? That your interests are more diverse?”

  That was easy. “I’m interested in many different things. And I’m good at most of them.” I couldn’t resist. “Like history.”

  “Good. Then you could consider the City course.”

  “The Living Palimpsest one? What on earth for?”

  He chuckled. “If you think that’s an easy course, you’re very much mistaken. Students have to find their own way around the city, and you’re not allowed to use any kind of chauffeured service, private or taxis. You’ll look at every aspect of Boston, figure out why these aspects developed as they did, and translate that into a conceptual model transferable to any world city. Your final exam will include a written paper and a thirty-minute presentation to a large group of staff and students.” I was quiet for long enough that he asked, “Do you know the meaning of palimpsest?”

  I almost snorted. “Of course.”

  “Picture how a city—London is a wonderful example—is built, rebuilt, reorganised, destroyed or partially destroyed, rebuilt—on and on. Each time a city changes, there are driving forces behind those changes. If you know what these forces are and understand how they drive the development of cities, all kinds of academic doors will open for you. And here’s a suggestion. If you take that course, it would allow you to kill a few birds with one stone.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s a two-semester course, and it meets the IB requirement for the Individuals and Societies class. If we add one extra assignment in the course specifically for you about Boston’s influence over US history for, say, one hundred years after the American Revolution, we could remove the History of the Americas requirement. And because it includes the city’s cultural development, it could fulfil the arts and humanities requirement as well. What do you think?”

  I was trying not to get sucked in, even if this was sounding more interesting. “Two semesters . . .”

  “You couldn’t do it justice in one. Are you comfortable with public speaking?”

  “I delivered presentations to large groups at Swithin.”

  “I have to say, Simon, you seem like an ideal candidate for this course. And I would not say that to very many students. I think you have what it takes. And there’s yet a third bonus.” His voice took on weight. “Students who do well in this course receive a special commendation from the headmistress that’s noticed by university deans of admissions.”

  “Why don’t more students take it, then?”

  “It’s a very challenging course. Time-consuming. And many students prefer to focus on one or possibly two disciplines rather than spend a lot of energy on this expansive curriculum.”

  “How many of last year’s graduates are at Oxford now?”

  “Two. And one of them took this course. The other is a mathematician.”

  I had expected him to say “none.” St. Bony is not a large school; I think there will be just over two hundred students as of this autumn, across four grade levels. “What if I take the first semester and want to drop the second part?”

  “There’s no penalty grade-wise, but there would be a note on your record. You’d need to include an explanation. And you might be required to pick up two second-semester courses. As I said, this one is very demanding.”

  “How many openings are there for it now?”

  “Let me check . . . It looks like there are two openings.”

  God. What should I do? “What were the other courses with openings, again?”

  We went down the list, but nothing stood out. “So, Simon, shall I sign you up for The City?”

  Oxford will take notice. It will make an impression.

  “Are you concerned it would be too much for you?”

  If I had reservations, they had more to do with Boston, which I’ve disparaged so many times to so many people. I didn’t want to be put into the position of having to eat my hat. But I also didn’t want to pass up an opportunity to get noticed at Oxford. “No.”

  “Then . . . what would you like to do?”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Excellent. Hang on.... Okay, I’ve just entered you. I’ll need to make some adjustments to your schedule, move a class or two around, to accommodate the City course. I’ll send you an amended version of your schedule this evening, so watch your e-mail. And tomorrow we’ll go over your CAS IB course. As you know, the International Baccalaureate programme requires three core classes, and Creativity, Action, Service is one of them.”

  “Yes, I know about the course.” I didn’t admit that I’d forgotten about it.

  “Then you know that we assign each student a unique project. After your orientation tomorrow, have the front office give me a call. We’ll talk about it then.”

  Christ, what next? “Do I have to come prepared with ideas?”

  “No, actually, we’ve got your project pretty well defined; just a couple more details to iron out.”

  “And you can’t give me the basics about it now?”

  “Best to speak in person, I think. See you tomorrow, Simon.”

  I rang off, but I wasn’t happy with this turn of events. Sure, the City course sounded interesting, and it would stand out on my résumé, but so would the Schenker course. I know I love music; I don’t look forward favourably on the idea of traipsing all over Boston. Crap. And now there’s a “unique” project?

  I considered texting GG, but there was too much to say. So I rang him.

  He didn’t answer.

  Boston, Day Five, Wednesday, 29 August

  Wait, just wait until you hear what my CAS project is. I’m nearly apoplectic.

  Orientation was about what you’d expect; they gave us our badges, then dragged us through the buildings on Marlborough Street and out for short tours—or at least drive-bys in buses—of locations they use for sport activities.

  Back at the school, around half three, the receptionist—a perky girl in a ponytail and a green polka-dot blouse—sent me to Dr. Metcalf’s office. We exchanged a couple of comments about the orientation, but I didn’t want to waste time. I asked about the CAS project.

  He told me, “The first thing you’ll need to do is brush up on rules and preparation for the annual Scripps spelling championship, which takes place at the end of May.”

  “Not to compete, I presume.”

  “No. You’re well past the grade level and age for contestants. As I’m sure you know, you flew through the spelling portion of the placement exam. I was very impressed that out of fifty words, you missed only one, and when I told you there was an error it took you no time to identify and correct it.” He sat back in his chair. “Your file indicates that you have synaesthesia. Specifically, letters have colours for you. Do you feel that has affected your ability in the area of spelling?”

  “Definitely. I know what colour a word should be, not just what its letters are.”

  “So
I assume you hadn’t seen arrhostia before. Yet you found it quickly.”

  “Once I knew there was an error, I knew it had to be one of the words I hadn’t seen before. I decided that with only one r, arrhostia didn’t make sense.”

  “Why not?”

  “It didn’t seem to fit any category. You know, medical, legal, linguistic, geographic, that sort of thing. So I played with changing letters, and finally it made sense that it was Greek. So adding the r made sense.”

  “Have you studied etymology, Simon?”

  “Not extensively. But I’ve studied Italian, Latin, and German, so if something has a Latin or a Germanic root, I recognise that. I’ve been exposed to enough Greek to be a little familiar with what its roots look like. Shall I go on?”

  “No, you’ve made your point. And it’s where I was hoping you’d go. I think you’ll enjoy this project.” He opened a folder on the desk. “There’s an eleven-year-old boy named Toby Lloyd at the Academy of New England, a private IB school. Young Toby has won spelling bee after spelling bee, and he’s nearly qualified for the national level. One more victory at a bee in March, and he’s on his way.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “The spelling abilities of these kids are unbelievable. I watch the televised competition every year, and I wouldn’t be able to spell very many of the words they’re given.”

  He closed the file again and handed it to me. “Toby needs a coach. We want that coach to be you.”

  Shock. Utter shock. I didn’t even open the folder. “What?”

  “You’ll meet him tomorrow afternoon at his home in Brookline. The address is in the folder. He’ll be expecting you as soon as you can get there after lunch. His school has allowed him to devote Thursday afternoons to this work, so you should plan to stay with him at least until four. You won’t need to have study materials; he’ll have lots of that sort of thing. By the way, he’s thrilled that you’re English. He can’t wait to meet you.”

  How can I stop this? “What other projects are there?”

  “If this one turns out to be problematic, we could reassess. However, the justification would need to be solid. Do you have some concern in particular?”