Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

  And, I remind myself, I will still apply at Oxford. If they don’t want me, they’re going to have to tell me that.

  Boston, Day Six, Thursday, 30 August

  I had set my alarm for very early, because I hadn’t felt like doing any research last night on the spelling bee thingy. So I’d given myself half an hour this morning to gain a little familiarity; I didn’t want to show up at Toby’s with no knowledge at all. I tried to put an odd mix of depression and excitement behind me as I waited for my PC to wake up.

  Eligibility, competition rules—all the expected stuff was on their Web site. Nothing surprising, other than the size of the prizes: thirty thousand dollars; a US savings bond; a complete reference library. And then I found links to the word lists. Rhipidate. Bisbigliando. Heiau. Cholecystitis. Lymphopoiesis. Chamaephyte. It was easy enough for me to look at them and see that the way they’re spelled made sense, but if I were standing on a stage, hundreds of people plus television cameras trained on me, and someone spoke the word axolotl . . . If I hadn’t studied that particular word, and I couldn’t see the x or the tl, would it help enough to be told that it derives from Nahuatl, and that it’s a Mexican salamander? I don’t know. But Toby will have to do it. And I will have to help him get to where he can.

  I was puzzling over how the hell I’ll be able to coach a kid who can probably already spell several times better than I can when I heard my old mobile’s tone for an incoming text.

  Graeme!

  Right. I knew better than to expect anything from him even before I admitted he isn’t there for me. Isn’t texting me. Isn’t in love with me. So—who would text me on any phone?

  The text was from Margaret, the girl who has Tink now. It said, Pics! Check yr e-mail.

  My fingers flew over the keys to log onto my e-mail account, and—yes! Pictures and pictures. Oh, sweet Margaret!

  There was Tink in her perch, basking in the sun, and the perch seemed to be right where I had told them to place it. There was Tink the huntress with a feathered toy in her mouth, green and white feathers against her soft white and blue-grey fur, eyes bright with excitement. Tink sitting on the floor, her sweet face turned up and intent, the look in her big, round eyes telling me she was expecting something really delicious, immediately. Tink in her harness, on the patio, pawing at iris leaves. Tink on a lovely blue rug, on her back in her signature pose, front and rear paws gently curled, her adorable face at a relaxed angle, her eyes almost closed. Tink nestled on Margaret’s shoulder, both girl and cat smiling. I could almost hear the purr.

  Oh, Tink! I was laughing and crying at once, delighted that Tink seemed so happy and devastated that it wasn’t my shoulder she was settled on. Much as I truly don’t want her to miss me, it hurts that she doesn’t seem to. And it hurts that I miss her so much.

  I went through the images once more before I shut the PC down and went in for a shower, knowing that their being here for me to see again tonight will help me get through the day. I decided to send Margaret a thank-you reply later; couldn’t take the time now.

  The strangest thing happened in the shower. Maybe I’d just grown so accustomed to imagining Graeme with me that he’d become real somehow, but there he was in the shower with me. And it was all right. It wasn’t the Graeme of reality; it was the Graeme who’s there only for me, to be whatever I need him to be, to do . . . whatever I need him to do. And after he did what I needed him to, I stood there, water hammering the back of my neck as I stared at the drain, calm for the moment, almost happy for the moment, whilst around the edges of my mind there was a voice trying to get in. It was saying things like, This isn’t healthy. Imaginary lovers are not good for you; they make you want what you can’t have. They make you expect perfection you can never get from anyone real. You’ll be alone all your life.

  “I don’t care.” The sound of my voice startled me. I turned off the water and focused hard on that “one step at a time” Ned had advised me to take. To keep that inner voice at bay, to keep my mind too busy to hear it, I forced myself to notice every detail of reaching for the towel, drying my hair and back and chest and legs and feet, shaving carefully and noticing every tick the blade made on every whisker it encountered.

  In my room, I aimed the same mental focus at each tiny step involved in dressing, right down to socks and shoes, and then each tiny step of putting my school bag together. I moved towards my closed door, but before I could reach the knob someone stepped in my way, put his hands on my face and his mouth on mine. I dropped the bag and gave in to the imaginary but oh, so real embrace of Graeme’s arms. When finally I opened the door and walked into the hallway, I was smiling, sure in the knowledge that he, too, would be right there when I got back from school.

  Mum, obviously exhausted whilst forcing herself to appear cheerful, was putting my breakfast together. She smiled as well as she could when she saw me. “Good morning, Simon. Sit wherever you like—table, island, wherever.”

  I set my school bag down inside the entrance to the kitchen and moved towards the island, and I stood watching as she set a place for me, with a bowl of corn flakes and sliced bananas beside a pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar. She gave me another smile that I knew she intended to look cheerful and then started to turn away, no doubt to pour me some juice or fetch the tea, but I touched her arm to stop her. When she turned her face towards me again, there was so much sorrow behind that forced smile that it hurt even me. She must have seen this, because she wrapped her arms around me, and mine went around her, and we embraced for several seconds. Perhaps it was what I’d heard last night, knowing how sorry she is for what she’s done, knowing that she understands how I see it, that softened something in me. But only so much.

  As I pulled away, I told her, “Don’t worry about me, Mum. Brian’s right, and I’m not a child any longer.” With a start, I realised that might be the first time I’d referred to him in her hearing as anything other than Mr. Morgan. She swiped at her eyes as she moved towards the counter where my tea was waiting.

  St. Bony started things off at a run. Most classes are on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, leaving students time on Tuesdays and Thursdays to focus on the various required papers and presentations, as well as our CAS projects. But perhaps it was because we hadn’t officially started that work yet that this first Thursday we had Wednesday classes. Except for those of us taking The City, because that course has a one-hour eight o’clock session on Thursdays. Evidently The City trumps most other classes, so whilst several of my peers were in the first “Wednesday” German class, I went to my first City meeting.

  In that first class, we found out what the time commitment for The City will be. Dr. Metcalf had warned me, I suppose. Every week, we’ll spend the entire day on Tuesday—unless the teacher calls a meeting, which will happen sometimes—independently taking whatever action we need to: travelling around the city, researching, meeting with classmates for the occasional team assignment, putting our interim papers together in a way that will lead up to the final report and presentation in May.

  Our very first assignment was in teams, which I hate. There’s only one other boy in the class; perhaps this broad curriculum appeals more to girls. And evidently I was the last person to sign up, so there are nine students, and Dr. Osgood made three teams of us. But starting that team project won’t be the first thing we do. Next Tuesday we’ll do a Freedom Trail tour in the morning and a walking tour of Beacon Hill in the afternoon, as Dr. Osgood put it, “to get your feet under you, as it were.”

  We had a short huddle in teams for the first assignment. I was put with Olivia Steele, a dark-haired, prim-looking girl in a pale yellow shirt with a Peter Pan collar, and red-haired Madeleine Westfield—in a pink blouse despite that hair—who is as talkative and invasive as Olivia is reserved. We’re to call her Maddy, she informed us.

  Each team was assigned a general topic. We got education (or, more specifically, institutions of higher learning), and the other two got arts and medicine. Dr. Osgood
told us that whilst we’re to do this first segment in teams, we’ll all be working on the other two topics individually, and then other topics of our own choosing.

  Before I left the classroom at the end of the hour, I decided to ask Dr. Osgood about getting to Toby’s house the same way I’ll have to get around Boston, which means no taxi.

  “I’m so glad you asked!” she said. She pawed through things on a rather disorderly bookshelf and came up with a pile of maps. “This has the subway and bus routes, and also the train routes to the suburbs, though you won’t need that for the class. Where are you going?”

  “Longwood Towers in Brookline. It’s for my CAS.”

  “Nice!” She opened a map and pointed as she spoke. “Turn right up Marlborough to Mass Ave and then turn left. Stay on the left side of the street. You’ll walk for a few minutes before you come to the T stop for Hynes Auditorium. Follow signs to outbound trains, and wait on the platform for a D train. You’ll go three stops—Kenmore, Fenway, and get out at Longwood. Cross the street and walk up this way, and this,” she jabbed with a finger, “is Longwood Towers. Oh, do you have a mass transit pass?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Here”—and she dug in a different pile of stuff. “I’m going to hand these out next week, but you can have yours now.”

  It was a colourful, stiff plastic card with a cartoonish man hanging out of a train window. “CharlieCard?” I asked, reading the heading, noting the absence of a space—a modern gimmick that I find irritating.

  “Charlie on the MTA?” she said, as though I would recognise the phrase. I shook my head. “Tell you what. Between now and Tuesday, you look that up, and at our next meeting you can tell the class what it is. Locals, and maybe some others, will know, but they won’t expect you to know, and there will be others who don’t.” She grinned broadly at me, like this was some special treat. “Now, off you go! Don’t want to be late to your next class.”

  I had Biology HL (Higher Level) II, then Language and Literature HL, and then IB Math SL (Standard Level) before lunch, which I took in the canteen. Despite Ned’s cookery, most likely I won’t bring lunches, I decided; the café isn’t bad.

  I’m not going to write in my journal everything that happens in all these classes; I’ll be busy enough doing the work for them.

  After lunch, I debated. Should I take a taxi this first time to Toby’s, or should I just dive into mass transit? I used the tube at home, though Mum never descended into it. And London’s underground system is far more complex than Boston’s. Which will no doubt be puny. It was a little drizzly today, but as a Londoner I wasn’t fazed. I pulled out my folding brolly, settled my bag on my shoulder, and headed towards Massachusetts Avenue. Might as well get started clearing away some brambles.

  Puny, yes. Almost laughable, compared to London’s underground. But serviceable. I had no trouble finding Longwood Towers, though I did have a few minutes of trepidation, of hating that I have to do this, of wanting to leave Queen Toby to his own devices. But the doors opened inevitably at the Longwood stop, and I stepped out.

  I pulled out my iPhone and sent a text to the number in Toby’s file for his mobile to let him know I was approaching the building. It was the first contact we’d had. Within nanoseconds I saw, Fabulous! I’ll be in the lobby.

  There were three towers, and in the couple of minutes it took me to locate the one named Alden, the sun came out and made everything steamy. The grounds are immaculate and beautifully landscaped, curved walkways leading the way to each tower. I told the doorman Toby Lloyd was meeting me inside, and he let me in but watched me. As I entered the lobby, I had to blink several times to adjust to the cool dimness. When my vision cleared, I saw lots of dark wood in a massive room, floors that appeared to be large cork squares, a beam-and-plaster ceiling high overhead. There was low-key but extremely contemporary furniture placed on islands of equally contemporary area rugs, a softly-lit reception area, and a very excited boy dressed in lime green and white, practically bouncing across the floor towards me.

  “Simon! You’re here! Oh, this will be so fabulous!”

  I did my best to smile. “How do you do,” I said, falling back on formality by default. This made Toby laugh delightedly.

  “Oh, you’re so English! I love England. We were there last year for a few weeks. London was fabulous! Why would you ever leave it?” The child speaks in exclamation points.

  “Sometimes we don’t choose what happens to us.”

  I followed him around a corner to a bank of lifts. “We call these elevators,” he said as though I’d pronounced “lifts” aloud. “Will you go back, do you think?”

  “As soon as ever I’m able.” The massive doors slid shut, and Toby pressed the number seven. But he didn’t stop talking.

  “We’re not quite at the top, but we have great views! You can see the John Hancock building and the Prudential Center from our living room. How soon do you think you’ll be able?”

  “Able?” I’d lost track of where his ramblings were going.

  “Able to go back.”

  “Ah. That. If all goes as planned, I’ll be at university next year in England.” Somewhere.

  “Really? I want to go to Cambridge. Or maybe Yale. Mommy wants me to go to Princeton. So I guess I’ll apply there, too. Doesn’t hurt to have a backup, you know?”

  “I expect you’re right.” Ye gods; my own father didn’t mention Oxford until I was maybe thirteen. And this kid already has a number of schools in mind?

  The lift doors opened almost silently, and Toby bounced out into a carpeted hallway with occasional furniture placed demurely here and there, as though waiting for someone to settle and watch the wallpaper or admire the art on the walls.

  He opened the door to his apartment and walked into a short hallway. “That’s my room,” he said, pointing to the right, “and that’s Mommy’s office.” He pointed to the left. Out of politeness, I didn’t look into either of them. Past Toby ahead of me I could see a room full of light and a huge bay window that did, indeed, have an amazing view of the city. Toby jumped and landed amid beige and gold pillows on a love seat built into the window.

  “See? Isn’t this magnificent?”

  “Really lovely,” I said, hoping that was enthusiastic enough.

  Behind me I heard a woman’s soft Irish brogue say, “Welcome, Simon. I’m Colleen.”

  I turned, surprised; Toby’s mother’s name is Abby, or so the file said. But then I saw this woman was quite young, perhaps early twenties. “How do you do,” I offered.

  She gestured towards the kitchen. “I’m the Jill-of-all-trades here, during the day. I’ve made some biscuits and lemonade for you to keep your energy up. Let me know if you need anything.” She was lovely: black hair in a pixie-like cut and that clear, pale Irish skin. Startling blue eyes. If I didn’t believe Toby to be gay, I’d have expected him to be head-over-heels about her.

  Behind her and around the corner of a supporting column I could see the bar that separates the kitchen from the dining area and sitting room, a platter of biscuits and lemonade in a pitcher waiting there. Toby bounced over. “Cookie?”

  “I’ve just had lunch. Perhaps in a little while.”

  “Cookie. From the Dutch koekje, k-o-e-k-j-e, diminutive of koek, or cake, from the Middle Dutch koeke, k-o-e-k-e.”

  “Of course.” What was I going to do with this child? How could I help someone who’d taken the trouble to learn the etymology of a word he won’t even be asked to spell competitively? “Where will we work, then?”

  He clapped his hands. “I love it! Only English people say that.”

  “Say . . . what?”

  “You said, ‘Where will we work, then?’ Using ‘will’ there instead of ‘shall’ or ‘should,’ and finishing the question with ‘then’ is so English!”

  I looked over at Colleen, wondering if he subjected her to this scrutiny. She lifted an eyebrow, smiled, and turned towards the kitchen. I would guess he does.

 
; “And the answer?” I prodded.

  “My room. Come on!” More bouncing, and I was thinking he could live in a flat—condo—only if it were built as well as this one; otherwise the downstairs neighbours would be complaining constantly. I followed Toby, hoping he’d calm down soon; I needed to get along well with this child, and so far I wasn’t even sure how I’d manage an afternoon with him.

  His room was a bit of a gender-bender. The canopied bed, which by default for canopied beds in girls’ rooms everywhere really should have been covered with white or pink or yellow, was denim blue, and what should have been a ruffle around the canopy edge was more of a flat panel. The bureau and desk were a clean design, possibly cherrywood; but instead of model airplanes or plastic dinosaurs scattered about, I saw sweet little trinket boxes made of wood or stone—including a vivid green malachite specimen—some with carving or mother-of-pearl inlay. I was afraid to ask what was in them; the answer would have taken the rest of the afternoon and no doubt would have required much faked enthusiasm.

  On the desk was a bright pink pencil cup with several colourful pens and pencils, including one with a troll head, its bright yellow hair combed up into a sculpted swirl. The bookcases above and beside the desk were filled with books, and on the desk surface I saw reference materials for the spelling bee and a huge dictionary.

  The hardwood floor was mostly covered by a dark blue Chinese oriental rug, but on top of this beside the bed was a circle throw rug, in a sculpted floral pattern of rose and cream.

  The overall feeling I got was that this “boy” is, as Ned had guessed, royalty. It was as though someone had laid the room’s design foundations for what would be appropriate for a boy, and someone else had added touches suitable to a girl to mitigate the masculinity. Surely, his parents know. . . .

  “I read fifty dictionary pages a day,” he informed me, a smile on his androgynous face. “That’s almost good enough. Some kids read sixty or seventy. And some have read two dictionaries, cover to cover. I have to get up to at least sixty-five.”