Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

  After putting the finishing touches on the application package, I did take a little break this afternoon to realign my brain cells before digging into the schoolwork that waited for me. Mozart does that better than anything else, so whilst Brian (yes, I’ve decided to have mercy on him and use his actual name) and Mum were out walking Persie—a prescribed route that doesn’t vary, evidently a large circle around several neighbourhood blocks—I dug out my book of Mozart’s piano sonatas and played through a few of my favourites. Time got away from me, and I was in the middle of the first movement of No. 17, K. 576, which is fairly boisterous (at least for Mozart), when everyone came home. I didn’t hear them, so when Persie appeared silently at my side I jumped about a foot off the bench. It took me several seconds to realise she had her laptop with her.

  “More Clyfford Still art?” I asked her, my heart still pounding a little. From the corner of my eye, I could see Mum and Brian standing in the entrance to the music room, watching.

  Persie stood on my right and looked down at the piano bench, and I took this to mean she wanted to sit there, so I scooted over to the left, wondering how soon I could get back upstairs.

  She opened the laptop, which was displaying something on YouTube, and she clicked Play. It was that scene from the film Deliverance with the “Dueling Banjos” number, even though it’s a banjo and a guitar. I’d heard the piece before—who hasn’t?—but I hadn’t seen the film, and I didn’t know the banjo player was supposed to have a condition that appears to be something between deformity and autism. He won’t speak to the guitar player, who’s visiting the area with some other men, but his face lights up as he plays.

  As I wondered how Persie had stumbled upon this clip, knowing she doesn’t like films, wondering if she thinks the scene on YouTube is real, she let the video play all the way through. Then she shut the laptop and set it on a table. Right hand on the keyboard, she picked out the opening theme and waited. She was waiting for me, I realised, so I echoed the notes an octave down. She repeated the theme, and so did I, and then she launched into the tune. I don’t know it as well as she evidently does, but I could follow the harmonic progression, which is pretty simple. So I improvised chords in the lower register to follow her melody, in a lively rhythm that kept everything moving. Her fingers flew over the keyboard almost as fast as the banjo player had fingered his notes. Finally she began a kind of musical coda that told me she was closing in on the end, and we raced together to the final cadence.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw Mum start to applaud, but Brian caught her hands before she could make a sound. Persie turned her face towards me, grinning from ear to ear. I couldn’t help smiling back. She stood, still smiling, picked up her laptop, and walked past Mum and Brian without acknowledging their presence.

  Mum turned to watch as Persie headed towards the stairs, and then she turned back to me. “Oh, Simon! That was marvellous!” As I stood, she came over and hugged me briefly. I felt almost like Persie; didn’t really want to say anything. And then I noticed Brian, who stood where he’d been. He was rubbing the heel of his hand on his eyes, wiping away tears.

  To Mum I said, “Thanks. Um, guess I’ll go back to my homework.”

  Brian caught my arm gently as I came near him. “Thank you,” he said.

  “My pleasure.” It was the polite thing to say, but as I said it, I realised it was true.

  Back upstairs, it wasn’t easy to focus on homework. When I’d headed downstairs to play Mozart I had been avoiding coming up with a topic for my Theory of Knowledge project (TOK), a requirement for the IB curriculum. TOK is about the nature and limitations of knowledge, determining the meaning and validity of critical thinking, or so the course description says. With “Dueling Banjos” still playing in my head, it occurred to me that I should be able to work out a topic inspired by Persie. Applying the course concepts to the way she acquires and exhibits knowledge, and the limitations she faces, could be just the thing to make my project unique. I made a note to ask her about how she perceives that video. How she even found it.

  By the time I went down to dinner I had a pretty good basic outline of what I want my project to look like. I was ready for the Monday afternoon class. Thanks to Persie. Though that duelling tune refused to leave my head for the whole next day.

  Boston, Tuesday, 11 September

  It’s Tuesday night, and we’ve had our first full City day on our own as teams. And I think this particular day will haunt me for a long time.

  With our assignment being institutions of higher learning, Olivia, Maddy, and I decided to visit the registrar offices at Harvard and at Boston University, or BU. It was a warm day, and I was annoyed that we’d be required to wear school-sanctioned clothes, which meant I was in a long-sleeved shirt and had to wear a tie. I mutinied a little and left my blazer at home.

  Harvard was about what you’d expect, and we collected printed material and spoke for a little while with some administrator about the school’s history and its influence on Cambridge and Boston. Then there was the obligatory walk around Harvard Yard, which was a little more interesting in present company, but not much. Then on to BU, which was also about what you’d expect, except that an hour after we left the registrar, my life changed.

  It had become apparent to me as this hot day progressed that Maddy had set her cap at me, as the saying goes. She exhibited all the signs, and she’s not a shy girl. Even Olivia noticed, and I caught a look on her face more than once that basically said, “Oh, I can’t believe this.” I’d had about enough of Maddy “accidentally” bumping into me on the T, but as we left the BU registrar she was up for more and suggested going back to school to pull together what we’d learned. I lobbied hard to find someplace air-conditioned nearby instead where we could order something to drink whilst we talked, and Olivia (bless her) agreed with me.

  After our consultation, I begged off when they got up to head back into town. “I might go back up the street to the fine arts building. Maybe check out the Stone Gallery.”

  This was too specific; it gave Maddy an opening. “Ooh, I love art! I’ll come with you.”

  Think fast, Simon. “Um, I hope you won’t mind, but I really prefer looking at art alone. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” I gave her my sweetest smile.

  Now, having said what I’d said, I had to go look at art, which I love doing, but I was feeling tired and a little grumpy from the heat and from my efforts to avoid Maddy’s attentions all day. But I reasoned that art would take my mind off all that, so I loosened my tie until the knot hung a couple of inches low, rolled up my shirtsleeves, hefted my school bag, and walked down Comm Ave, as they call it here.

  I wasn’t taking anything in, really, just wandering vaguely from one piece to another, letting the cool air and the slightly echoing sounds from other people wash over me, until I noticed him. He was standing near a piece of ambiguous sculpture made of various materials, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at me. And when I looked at him, he didn’t turn away.

  Dark hair, slightly long, gentle waves around his face, a long, Roman nose, and dark, intense eyes. A latter-day Romeo. He made no move, and I was unsure what to do. Should I walk towards him? Ignore him? Pretend I didn’t see him? No, too late for that. So I gave him as cryptic a smile as I could and turned back to the art on the wall near me. I moved to the next work and stared at it without taking it in, insisting to myself, I will not look around. I will not look around. I will not ...

  “I know the girl who painted this one.”

  Steady, Simon. Be calm. Wait two beats, and then turn your head slowly. “Do you?”

  “She was in the art history class I took here over the summer.”

  I looked back at the painting. “What’s your medium?”

  “Sculpture.”

  Still not looking at him, I asked, “Was that your piece, where you were standing just now?”

  “Yes. Do you like it?”

  I turned to face him again, tilting my head
and smiling just slightly. He had perhaps two inches on me, height-wise. Two well-built inches. “That’s a brazen question.”

  He shrugged, a smooth motion that allowed me to imagine the slide of muscles under his skin. Speaking of sculpture . . .

  He said, “I can be brazen when the need arises.”

  “What need do you have now?”

  “For you to like my art.”

  He was flirting with me. I was sure of it. As I turned so I could see the piece better, I know his eyes stayed on my face. I studied the piece for a few seconds, and then walked away from him towards it, around it, stopped a few times, and around again. I looked for the title. “Discord.”

  “Well?” he prodded.

  “It makes me feel off-balance.”

  “Perfect.”

  “What was your inspiration?”

  He turned his head to look at nothing in particular, collecting his thoughts perhaps, and I noticed a small, stylised X tattooed on the right side of his neck. He looked back at me. “Ever hear of Straight Edge?”

  “Is that a music group, or something?”

  His scornful expression made it appear he thought I’d said something stupid. No doubt having identified my accent, he told me, “It’s only a cultural revolution, that’s all. It’s in England too, y’know.”

  If he was flirting, he was failing with me. And if he thought he could out-smug me, he was about to learn a thing or two. I gave a tiny snort, decided to ignore the certain hyperbole of “revolution,” and said, “There are rather a lot of things going on in England, as it happens. Why should Straight Edge mean anything to me?”

  “Maybe you should look it up.”

  “Maybe you should stop talking to strangers. You don’t do it very well.” I turned my back on him and moved off, but before I got all the way to the next painting on the wall he was in front of me.

  “Sorry. And you’re right; I don’t talk to strangers very well. Can I treat you to a soda or something? Make it up to you?”

  I looked him up and down, taking in the jeans, the roughed-up, olive-green trainers on his feet, the scuffed maroon messenger bag, the black T-shirt with STRAIGHT EDGE scrawled across it in grey letters so faded I had to look hard to make out what it said. I looked back at his face again, thinking I’d turn down this odd offer. But my eyes caught on his, and I heard my voice say, “And you’ll tell me about this Straight Edge thing in civil tones?”

  He grinned. “Promise. Look.” He turned around long enough for me to read the back of the shirt: LIVE TRUE. LIVE FREE. LIVE BETTER. “Let’s get outta here.”

  We went from the cool gallery to the hot pavement. “How about the Oven?” he asked.

  Thinking we’d just stepped into one, I shook my head. “Don’t know that, either.”

  “Amalfi Oven? In the GSU?” More head shaking on my part. “How long have you been here? I’m a freshman, and I know the Oven already.”

  “I’m not a student here. What’s the GSU?”

  He paused for just a second, taking in this information about me. “George Sherman Union. Food, cultural events, a kind of student hub. So you just happened to stop in at the Stone?”

  “I was . . . I was in the area. Sorry if that sounds lame. Doing research for some coursework.”

  “So where do you go to school?”

  “St. Boniface, Marlborough Street. Senior year,” I specified, not wanting him to think of me as a child.

  “You some kind of brainiac?”

  Okay, I thought, going anywhere with this guy was a bad idea, no matter how gorgeous he was, no matter what effect his smile had on me. “Yes. Look, maybe I should just head back.” He stopped in his tracks, gave me a vaguely amused look, and laughed. And I got irritated again. Intending it to be a parting shot, I said, “Good luck with your off-balance sculpture.”

  “No, wait. I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s just that you surprised me.” He shook his head, chuckled. “ ‘Yes.’ A brainiac. Simple as that.” He held out his right hand. “Michael Vitale.”

  Michael: brick red, bright yellow, pale brown, cream, pale yellow, lilac, bright orange.

  Vitale: Kelly green, bright yellow, bright blue, pale yellow, bright orange, lilac.

  Both names had so many similar colours in them; it was a good thing they started with different letters. The total effect of his name struck me as Mediterranean. Italian, of course. Warm, bright but not overwhelming, alive.

  I gave him my hand. “Simon Fitzroy-Hunt.”

  Another grin. They were growing on me for sure. “Your name is as English as your accent. Mine’s Italian.”

  “Sì, è evidente.”

  And again he stopped. “You speak Italian?”

  “Solo una piccola.”

  “I don’t know what that means. But my nonna would. I mean, my grandmother.”

  “So, this Amalfi place sounds Italian.” I took a step, and we were back in motion again.

  “After a fashion. Italian inspired, at least. So, what do you expect St. Boniface to do for you, anyway?”

  “Get me into Oxford University.”

  He whistled. “And then?”

  “Not sure. I expect I’ll figure that out whilst I’m there.”

  “What are you doing in Boston? I know they have good prep schools in England.”

  I gave him a thumbnail sketch of my life for the past few months, told him a little about my City course and why I was in this neighbourhood today, and by the time we were at a table with our drinks and two slices of sausage pizza for Michael, I told him I was ready for an explanation of his shirt, of Straight Edge.

  He knitted his eyebrows and glanced down at his plate. “If I were really good about it, I’d be vegan. No cheese, and for sure no sausage.”

  “So there’s a dietary component?”

  He lifted a shoulder and dropped it, took a few swallows of his drink, waved his hand in a circle. “Maybe a little. You were closer with the music group idea. Straight Edge is a lifestyle. We take a vow to live right. No alcohol. No drugs. No sex until marriage. Lots of music, though.” He dug in his bag and pulled out an iPhone and some earbuds, selected something, and handed the buds across the table. Before I lifted them to my ears the raucous sounds hit me like a wave. I tried to focus, but the words “no sex until marriage” were ringing too loudly in my brain.

  Now, I hardly expected to end up in the sack with this guy—at least, not immediately, if at all. I’ve never even kissed anyone real. Even so, his gorgeous face and attempts at flirting had drawn me in and allowed me to hope that I hadn’t misread his initial approach. But I must have been wrong. I mean, if he was so focused on this pristine way of life, “marriage” for him would necessarily involve a woman.

  I handed the earbuds back. “Quite a sound,” I said, deliberately vague.

  He selected something else and gave me the earbuds again. This time the music was harmonious, much easier to listen to, but still my mind was on other things. Like, I am so not falling for another guy who doesn’t want me. A “straight” edge guy, at that. No way.

  By the time I gave him back his earbuds he had pretty much finished his pizza. “So, seriously,” he said, “you should look it up. You’ll be able to get a much better sense than I can give you in a few minutes. A friend of mine got me into it last year. It’s changed my life.”

  “Oh?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I was working towards an exit line but didn’t say anything quickly enough.

  “Truly. Live true, live free, live better. I used to be different.”

  “Got into lots of trouble, or something?”

  He shook his head. “I, uh . . . I was fighting something, really hard, and losing. I was afraid I was . . . I’m not ashamed to say it now. I thought I might be gay.”

  A lift of my chin, narrowed eyes, tongue-in-cheek: I wanted to leave no doubt about my self-confidence. I slid out of my chair, picked up my bag, and shot my exit line at him. “I’m gay. And I’m not ashamed of that, either.”

>   I didn’t look back to see whether he watched me leave.

  Michael’s face kept sliding into my mind’s eye as I tried to focus on homework after dinner. He thought he might be gay. Which almost certainly means he is. And now he’s—what? Straight Edge? Which isn’t the same thing as straight, though maybe he’s deluded himself into thinking it is. I decided against looking this thing up; it would only serve to keep my attention on him.

  But if he really is gay, that means I’d been right about his approach. He had been flirting with me. Whether he would ever admit it was a different matter.

  Vitale. Vital. Italian, from vita, life.

  It was tempting to go downstairs, see if Ned was still here, and talk with him about it. But that would be no better—and maybe even worse—than looking up Straight Edge, in terms of keeping Michael on my mind.

  Note to self: Forget it, Simon. The only thing worse than falling for a straight guy is falling for a gay guy who won’t admit the truth about himself. Live true, indeed. Ha.

  Boston, Wednesday, 12 September

  This afternoon, classes over, on my way out of the school entrance I was trying to shake Maddy, who was ostensibly interested in my approach for our latest City assignment, but who was really asking questions she didn’t need to ask, about things that didn’t matter, so she could talk to me. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and nearly walked into someone who stepped in front of me.

  Michael Vitale.

  Maddy was still talking, not noticing or maybe not caring that I’d frozen in place.