“She knows he works.”
“Right. And she’s always so aware of everyone else’s constraints.”
“You got me there.”
“I’m at school all day, and I have massive amounts of homework at night. But she asked me. And this particular conflict began after I told him that she doesn’t know how to ask him for what she wants. So she asked me for help. Me. Plus, Mum’s been spending a lot of time with her, lots more than Brian could. Or, she had been, before Maxine.”
“I hear you.” More scowling. “Well, I’ll be surprised if Maxine stays longer than the weekend. She’s bruised and battered and traumatised. She said something to me today that sounded like she thought Brian had misrepresented Persie’s mental state. I assured her that Persie has never been like this, but that probably just made her more convinced that she should leave. I don’t know. . . .” He stood and went back to dinner preparation.
Just then we heard a thud from upstairs loud enough to startle us.
“Simon, you’re so good with her. Do you think you could calm her down just a little? For our sake as well as for hers?”
Not my problem. Not my problem. “I doubt it.”
“Try? Please?”
“You sound like my mother.” Don’t know why I said that, but there it was. I heaved a melodramatic sigh, went to collect my book bag, and headed up to the landing. Halfway up, I heard another loud thud and a near-scream from Maxine. I dashed to the door and opened it.
The room was a shambles, and Maxine was white as a ghost, her frizzy blond hair making the effect almost comical. Beside her on the floor was a three-ring binder, which I gathered Persie had thrown at Maxine without quite hitting her. The binder had popped open, and some papers were still on the rings, whilst others had been thrown loose. I bent over and picked up a loose one. It was BREATHE with the Still painting, the one Persie had found. I picked up a few other pages, each of which had a painting printed on it, each with a different word. I saw PATIENCE and LONELY. And I saw BETRAYED.
B is sky blue, and the word BETRAYED also has periwinkle and two lilacs in it. Only the d is brown. But this painting had so much brown in it. She had skewed the colour importance to choose the painting she wanted, evidently one that suited her mood.
Art therapy. She’d said she didn’t need it, but this said otherwise.
I looked at Persie, who had sat down on a wooden chair, her arms crossed over her chest and her face in the deepest pout I think I’ve ever seen on anyone. At least she was quiet.
I pulled another chair away from the wall, planted it across from her, and sat down.
“No,” she said, her voice loud and sulky. “It doesn’t go there.”
I gestured with my arm, taking in the entire mess. “A lot of things are not where they belong. I’m choosing to move this one.” I did my best to look calm and unruffled, even though I knew I had just challenged her.
I watched her face for several seconds—though, of course, she wouldn’t look at me—and then I said, “Persie, you don’t want Maxine to be here, do you.” Not a question.
“No. I told him.”
“Do you mean you told your father you didn’t want Maxine, or that you didn’t want a live-in tutor?”
“No live-in tutor.”
“And he hired a live-in tutor. But here’s the thing, Persie. That’s not Maxine’s fault. So you’re unhappy with your father’s decision, but you’re taking it out on Maxine.”
She didn’t say anything, just continued to pout.
“I’m not taking anything out on you.”
That got her attention. “Why would you do that?”
“Because when my mother forced me to move here with her, I had to give up my friends; I had to give up my piano teacher; I even had to give up my cat. That was horrible, Persie. I love my cat very much. And do you know why I had to give up my cat?”
She shook her head.
“It was because of you.”
If Persie had been a more typical child, this would have been a horrid thing to say to her. But if Brian was even half right about how AS affected her, it shouldn’t cause guilt in Persie.
“Your father was afraid you and the cat wouldn’t get along. So I had to lose my cat, my sweet, loving cat, whom I adore, a cat my father gave me before he died, Persie”—I had to clear my throat before going on—“because of you. I could have hated you for that. I could have hated you so much, and I could have treated you so badly. But would it have gotten me my cat back?”
She stared at the wall, silent, but here was another he-who-speaks-first-loses moment. I wasn’t sure how it would play out with someone like Persie, and maybe this whole thing was pointless. Maybe it wouldn’t matter at all to her that I’d wanted to hate her, or that I’d had to give up my beloved cat. So I waited. I heard Maxine shift her position behind me. I heard a car horn maybe a block away. I heard a timer go off in the kitchen.
Finally, “No.”
“No. Correct. It would not. And it would have been a very, very mean thing to do to you, because it wasn’t your fault.” I couldn’t tell whether that had sunk in or not, but I kept going. “And you’re being very, very mean to Maxine. And it’s not her fault you didn’t get your way.”
I got up and found BETRAYED, looked around for a pen, and found one on the floor next to a table. I crossed out BETRAYED and wrote DETERMINED. I handed it to Persie, who stared at it maybe ten seconds before taking it.
“This is a better word. Not only is the word colour better for this painting, but also it’s a better way to get what you want. Maybe you feel betrayed, but that won’t get you what you want any more than my being mean to you would get me my cat back. So be determined. Figure out what you need to do to get what you want, and be determined in how you go about getting it. Not mean. Not sulky. Determined. I know you can figure out how to do that.”
“I can’t! I don’t know how!”
“So let’s work it out. Maybe you start with what you want the most, or what would be easiest to get.” I waited, and then realised she was waiting for a question. “What would you choose first? Where would you start?”
“Museums.”
No hesitation at all. I turned to Maxine. “How much do you know about art?”
“Not as much as I’d like to.”
Back to Persie. “So you need to convince your father that Mum and Maxine can both go with you. Have you ever heard of water torture?”
“Dripping until you go crazy.”
“If your father has already said you can’t go see art, you might try something like water torture.” I hesitated, remembering that she wasn’t comfortable with metaphor. “If you ask very sweetly, and smile—you do know how to smile, yes?” She just stared at the floor, so I moved on. “Maybe at dinner on Monday, you smile at him and ask very sweetly if my mother and Maxine could take you the next day. Don’t treat it as though it’s once and for all; treat it like you’re asking only for Tuesday. If he says no, you just sigh sadly. No sulking, no pouting. Because all he’s said is that you can’t go on Tuesday. Tuesday at dinner, you do the same thing. Smile, and ask sweetly for Wednesday.”
She was listening, I could tell; her pout was less pronounced. “Why start Monday?”
“If you ask tonight about tomorrow, he’ll say no just because the museums are more crowded on Saturdays, and he would know that would make it harder for you. They’re closed on Mondays. If you ask tonight about Tuesday, the best you’ll probably get is ‘We’ll see,’ because it’s three days away. You want a firm yes. So start Monday. Do you think you can do that?”
“Of course.”
“You say of course, but I’m not convinced that applies to smiling. Can you smile right now and show me?”
She pursed her lips, but at least that got rid of the pout. I waited, and then I smiled at her. She twisted her mouth in what she probably thought was a smile, but I gave her credit for it.
“That’s good.” I stood again. “And now, you need to hel
p Maxine pick up all this stuff and put it back where it belongs. She won’t know all the places yet, but you do, so you need to be patient. I’ll see you at dinner.” I set my own chair back where I’d found it to set an example.
As I passed Maxine on my way to the door, I barely heard her whisper, “Thank you.”
I shut the door behind me and was immediately wrapped in Ned’s arms. “That was magnificent,” he said into my ear.
My trek up to the top floor was slow and plodding. With every step it hit me again what I’d just said to Persie. It was so very much like what everyone had been saying to me. Figure out what’s a bramble, hack it away, and focus on the good things. Keep moving forwards. Success depends on how you work through change. Be determined, not sulky. Every step was another of these maxims, another nail driven into the coffin where my own sulk lay, where my own nasty, vindictive responses waited for good opportunities to jump out and slash at someone. All right, so my three-ring binders were aimed at the people who had fucked everything up for me rather than at a proxy like Maxine, but heaving things at these people would still not get me what I want. Only I can get me what I want.
Michael had said something like that to me once, that first day he’d shown up at St. Bony. He’d told me he was the only one who could open the doors to his true inner self.
Michael. I haven’t heard from Michael since I turned away from him on Sunday, leaving him standing there holding that ridiculous bag. It was entirely possible I would never hear from him again. And I am not, I mean not going to contact him. If having his nonna see us as a couple disturbed him so much that he won’t ring me again, what point would there be in my ringing him? This whole relationship was set up to fail, anyway.
I stood at the top of the stairs, coming to all these conclusions, when another one hit me. Michael is a bramble.
It was a chilly, overcast day, but I dropped my school bag and went out onto the roof. At the wall, the one I had contemplated jumping over, I stood there, leaning on the granite, until I was shivering. Then I stood there some more.
All these problems I don’t want anything to do with! I have enough of my own, thank you very much. And how far will I get with them if I take the advice I’d just given Persie? What problem do I want to solve first—the most important, or the easiest to fix?
The most important, of course, is getting home and into Oxford. And to do that, I have to do just what I’ve been doing: nose to the grindstone and keep batting away other people’s problems as best I can. And no Michael.
I sighed, and for some reason my mind went next to Kay. At least there’d been no drama with her this week. She’d been all business Thursday, partly I think because she was a little ashamed of chickening out about telling her parents she wants the hormone treatments. Can’t say I blame her; that is going to be one awful scene.
Finally I decided I’d had enough shivering; it was beginning to feel like I was prolonging discomfort so I could feel mistreated, when I was doing it to myself.
Inside, before I hit the books, I called Mass General and was told that Sofia Vitale was still there and in good condition. They wouldn’t tell me whether she could speak.
By breakfast Saturday morning, I’d already spent two hours on homework; I hadn’t touched my extended essay—the one that compares different cultures’ attitudes towards homosexuality—in months, and Dr. Metcalf wanted me to e-mail him my work to date over the weekend. I’d collected some really good research material that I intended to start working into the paper right after breakfast.
But as I poured myself some tea, Mum asked, “All ready for the seniors’ apple-picking event today, Simon?”
“What apple-picking event?”
She leaned back in her chair and tilted her head at me. “Nashoba Valley Winery. They have orchards, and a restaurant—quite the outing. You’ve forgotten? You did agree to go. It’s a family event, and Brian and I want to meet some of your classmates.”
Not what I’d planned for my day, no. “What time?”
“We’re to meet at the school at ten. They have buses picking us all up.”
“Until when?”
“They’ll have us back by three. We’ll have lunch at the vineyard, courtesy of the school. It will be fun!”
It will decidedly not be fun. “I don’t think I’ll be able to go. I have an assignment I have to finish today.”
“You’ve been working very hard, Simon. A little time off won’t hurt you. And you can finish this evening, and tomorrow.”
“I have to turn it in tomorrow. It’s important, Mother. My extended essay. It’s part of my Oxford entrance requirement.”
“You’ve been working on that for a year.”
“I have worked on it on and off over the past several months. I haven’t touched it in a long time, and Dr. Metcalf expects a certain level of completion by tomorrow.”
“Sunday?”
“Yes, Sunday. Tell you what. If you don’t believe me, you can go apple picking, and if he’s there, you can ask him.”
“Well, I hope he is there; I want a chance to speak with him anyway. But you need to go, Simon.”
“Why?” So much for not sulking.
She sighed, an exasperated exhale. “Oxford won’t be looking only at your marks. They’ll want to see what the staff at St. Boniface think of you as a person. If you spend all your time on academics, you will not appear well-rounded, which makes you a less desirable candidate.”
“They are never going to know—or care—whether I go apple picking.”
“St. Boniface will. And you know very well Oxford will want to know what they say about you. As a person.”
I wanted to scream. I’ve been trying so hard to do what I need to do to get through these fucking brambles. It’s already taking everything I’ve got.
“Five hours, Mum? Really? Do you know how much work I could get done in five hours?”
Brian chimed in. “Em, here’s an idea. What if we three drive out ourselves in time to have lunch and be sociable, grab a few apples, and leave? We know where they’re going. And we could get Simon back here well before three.”
Wow. Brian, being nice to me? Ned must have told him what I did for Maxine. Good thing he doesn’t yet know about Persie’s upcoming water-torture routine.
Mum wasn’t on board with this plan, though. “But that wouldn’t give us much of a chance to talk with people.”
“How much time do we really need?”
“We won’t know until we meet them. And we’d be the only ones not staying the whole time.”
“Maybe not. And I can’t help thinking letting Simon finish his assignment is more important.” Before she could protest again, he turned to me. “What about it, Simon? If we leave here at, say, eleven, and get back by two, would that be better?”
What would be better would be not going at all, but that seemed like a losing battle. So I accepted the compromise graciously. “Yes. Thanks. That works much better.” I stood. “I’ll just take a tray upstairs now and get back to work. I’ll be downstairs a few minutes before eleven.” I gathered some food and left, noting the dark look Mum was giving Brian. Too bad; let her. Three hours wasted was better than five, and I’d take it.
The trip out to the Nashoba Valley wasn’t bad, actually. Pretty countryside, lots of maple trees turning intense shades of yellow and orange. I was finally able to see what people meant when they rave about New England in the fall.
I managed to nab space with Olivia and her family for lunch, barely avoiding Maddy. I did notice Mum talking to Dr. Metcalf, and I hope she asked him about that assignment that’s due tomorrow.
They released us into the orchard after lunch, and Mum wouldn’t hear of leaving until I’d tried my hand at agriculture. Most of the trees near the parking lot were picked out already, of course, but Mum made me pose a couple of times, holding an apple I had in fact not just picked, so she could snap a pic. Then I headed into the trees, thinking I’d just grab a few apples and tha
t would do it. Mum didn’t follow me, but guess who did.
I had just about enough fruit to give Ned something to work with and was backing away from a tree to see if it had any more low-hanging fruit to offer when I bumped right into Maddy.
“Jesus!” I hissed, startled.
“No. Maddy!” She laughed, and it took me a second to realise she’d pronounced her name in a way that she intended to be a loose allusion to Mary, as in mother of Jesus.
I pointed towards her meagre cache of apples. “Looks like you haven’t picked very much.”
“I was hoping someone taller could help me.” Her smile said it all; I was someone taller.
“I think they have ladders you can use.” Not very gracious, but I didn’t want to waste time, and didn’t want to spend any more of it alone with her.
As if I hadn’t spoken, she pointed towards a nearby tree. “That one has lots of great-looking apples, just a little too high for me.”
I gritted my teeth, set my bag down, and held my hand out for her bag. As quickly as possible, I harvested several bright red specimens, which brought her bag to nearly full. Handing the bag back to her, when I tried to pull my hand away it didn’t come; she had clamped hers onto it and was stepping nearer to me. With my other hand I pushed on hers until I could free both of mine. The time had come.
“Maddy, look. You’re a great girl, but you’re not my type. And I mean really not my type, if you know what I mean.” I thought this would be obvious. But it wasn’t; not to her.
“What’s your type, Simon? Give me a chance?”
Wow. Not wasting time on subtlety. I took a deep breath; I hadn’t had to say this phrase to anyone at school yet, but . . . yes, the time had come. “I’m gay.”
She scowled a little as though trying to take this in. “Maybe I could change that.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. And she looked hurt. “Maddy, the most seductive siren in the world couldn’t change it. It’s not a choice. It’s a fact of life. My life. It would be cruel to both of us for me to pretend otherwise.” I almost added, “I’m sorry,” but I was afraid that would be misinterpreted.
Educating Simon Page 24