She nodded, and in sad, quiet tones she said, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
At which point I nearly said, “It’s not a secret. It’s who I am.” But the truth was I also didn’t want her blabbing it all over the place, either. I was still puzzling over what I might say to tread a middle ground between “I’m proud of who I am” and “It’s no one’s business who I am” when she held her right hand out.
“Friends?” she asked.
What else could I do? We shook hands. She smiled broadly at me, shades of sadness on the rest of her face, and walked away with her bag of apples. At least that problem was now off my plate. I threw a few more apples into my own bag and headed back to the main area.
We were back on the road by half one. And when the car pulled up to the house, who should be waiting there, sitting on the front steps and busy on his mobile, but young Mr. Vitale. And he had that flowered bag with him.
There was the obligatory small talk as we all bunched up near the steps, and Mum invited him in.
“Mum, I need a minute with Michael.” I watched Mum and Brian disappear and turned to Michael. He smiled, and it was a huge effort for me to think Bramble. “Why are you here?”
He blinked at me, a puzzled look on his face. “That’s not very friendly.”
“Why can’t you phone or text like a normal person?”
He thrust a hip out and planted a hand on it. “Why all the hostility?”
“Look, you’re the one who keeps insisting there’s nothing between us. We’re ‘only friends,’ right? Showing up here like this flies right in the face of that. I’ve told Brian and Mum the same thing you told your grandmother, but showing up like this will make them doubt that. And anyway, I don’t have time for a social call. Making sure it’s a good time to drop by is why you reach out in advance. And this is not a good time.”
“Okay, okay. You’ve made your point. I just thought you might like to read some more Italian. Nonna really loved it last week.”
“That doesn’t explain why you just show up. Could’ve saved yourself a trip. Because as it happens, I have a major amount of homework I have to finish this afternoon.”
“Can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“It’s due tomorrow. And then there’s more due for Monday. My school is a little more demanding than yours.” All right, that was cutting, even mean. But it’s also probably true. Still, the look on his face made me add, “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve got a lot to do, and I’ve already had to waste three hours on something stupid I didn’t want to do.” He shrugged and looked down the street at nothing. So I asked, “How long were you waiting here?”
“Half an hour, maybe.”
Which made me wonder how long he would have waited. I did a quick calculation: Would I have time to read to his grandmother and still get everything done for school by tomorrow night?
I would not. “Look, Michael, I’m really sorry. With this chunk that just got cut out of my day, I simply don’t have time. I’m really sorry.” I stopped before I repeated myself again.
He looked at me with an expression that said he wasn’t quite ready to forgive me. “They’re moving her to Spaulding Rehab Monday.”
“Is that very far away?”
He shook his head. “It’s actually about the same distance from her house as Mass General, just in a slightly different direction.”
“So you’ll still be able to visit her, then. That’s good.” He looked down at his feet, shuffled them, and I said, “I really have to get inside now and work. Ring me? Let me know how your grandmother is doing?”
“Sure. Bye.” And he and that flowered bag turned and walked away. Something in me wanted to call out, to tell him that of course I could read to his nonna, that I wanted to try again for a rooftop repast. Something else in me said, “Don’t be a fool.”
I got the draft of my project off to Dr. Metcalf by one a.m. this morning. With so little sleep, I was late getting downstairs for Sunday breakfast, though that shouldn’t matter the way “late” mattered for dinner. However, when I got to the kitchen, Mum and Brian were sitting across from each other, and beside Brian was Persie. I stopped dead in my tracks, and Persie looked up at me, which must have cost her. I was sure she was about to yell “Late” at me, but she smiled. It was a deliberate, forced smile, but it was a smile. I suppose she was practising for when she began her water torture, scheduled for tomorrow’s dinner. Also, she hasn’t had time to establish rules about breakfast yet, so I hadn’t broken any of them. I decided against saying anything to indicate surprise at her presence, though I did smile back.
I took the chair across from Persie. It wasn’t my usual kitchen seat, but I knew Persie wouldn’t have had time to lay down the law on that, either. Then I saw that the cook in Mum had evidently been inspired by my apples, and as soon as I saw the dish I said, “I’ll have some apple crumble, please.”
Persie’s head snapped towards me. “Apple crisp!” she shouted. “Crisp! Crisp! Crisp!”
Brian opened his mouth to say something, but before anything else could happen I stood very suddenly and glared down at Persie. Like the last time I’d done this, it surprised her enough to make her miss a beat in her litany, but she started again.
I slammed my hand down on the table and yelled, “Stop!” Everyone jumped, including Persie. And she stopped shouting. She stared at the table.
“I am English,” I said to her, my tone soft but intense. “That might not matter to you, but it matters to me. And in England, we say ‘crumble.’ I’m not in England now, but I am going back, and I will say ‘crumble.’ That’s my rule.” I almost added, “Do you understand?” or the perennial, “Is that clear?” But I hate having those phrases thrown at me. They’re dismissive and don’t impart a sincere wish to be understood. So I added, “Do you have any questions about that?”
She looked towards me and quietly said, “No.”
I sat down again. “Now, please, will someone pass the apple crumble, and the cream? Thank you.”
Persie scowled as I spooned crumble into a bowl and poured cream over it. I set the creamer down and looked at her. In a flat monotone, I said, “Sky blue, bright red, lilac, pale yellow, bright blue, cream, lilac.” I watched her face for maybe five seconds, and then she took a deep breath, which is what I’d coloured her to do. I enjoyed the rest of my breakfast in peace. So did everyone else. And the crumble was at least as good as I had expected.
Dr. Metcalf had already responded, via e-mail, about my assignment by the time I got up to my room.
Excellent work, Simon. Very well researched, nicely written. You’re off to a great start. So please don’t take my suggestion as criticism. You know that Oxford wants candidates who make them sit up and take notice. While this paper is very good, it needs to stand out more. Do you think you could come up with a sharper angle, a fresh perspective, or perhaps extrapolate about the progress of acceptance in society and support your position? Let me know if you’d like to discuss.
I threw my jacket on and went to sit on the roof. Traffic sounds, echoing off the buildings around me, provided white noise to my jumbled thoughts. Will everything be like this? Will everything I do, every effort I make, be almost good enough? Because if this is going to be the case, then I can forget about Oxford again. There’s no tolerance for “almost” there.
Fresh perspective. Sharper angle. As I sat there, staring at but not seeing the sky, the buildings around me, my mind went to my paper. Extrapolate, he’d said. Where is society headed, in terms of accepting something other than normative when it comes to sex? Kay’s situation came to mind.
I tried to come up with some point in time when I’d encountered a serious conflict because of being gay. Obviously, I can’t ignore the legal inequalities. Even in Boston, where I could marry a man and have it legally recognised, that recognition would be in Massachusetts and a handful of other states only. And that’s just one inequality; there are lots more.
There were
some idiots at Swithin who had called me names because I was obviously not interested in girls, but they were a decided minority. Ridicule on account of my “ginger” hair had been much more of a problem. Of course, I wasn’t out at Swithin; things might have been worse if I had been. Even so, no one would have told me I couldn’t use the boys’ loo. I’ll bet Kay can’t use the girls’.
I suppose it’s likely that in most schools, even in Boston, I would be given grief by other students, maybe even serious grief, if I were out in any obvious way. Certainly I haven’t gone out of my way to announce it to anyone at St. Bony, other than to Maddy, partly because it’s just not their business, but partly because I’m not quite sure what would happen. But Mum hasn’t been difficult about it, and Brian has been as good as his word. Michael’s grandmother thinks we’re a couple and grins about it. X isn’t welcoming, but they seem to enjoy making enemies of everyone, so I’m not sure how much weight to give that.
But as for Kay? What will she face?
I practically ran back to my computer to fire off a response to Dr. Metcalf. Got your advice re my extended essay, and I need to talk to you about something that might be a good angle. When can you meet?
Almost immediately I got back, Is a phone convo now an option? He included a number.
He answered on the second ring. I told him, “I have to confide in you about something. Two somethings, really. The first is about me. I’m gay.”
No more than two seconds went by. “Are you planning to draw on personal experience in your essay?” His tone was neutral, like it was really just a question, nothing between the words.
“Not necessarily. I just wanted you to have that context. The second thing is about someone else.” I told him about Kay, the straight girl. I described her intensity, her absolute certainty, and her goal of appearing on stage as her true self. And I described her situation with her parents. This time when I paused, Dr. Metcalf was silent for several seconds.
“I have to tell you, Simon, I had no idea. I would never have put you into this position. I wish you had told me sooner. This goes far beyond the project’s scope, and you shouldn’t have had to deal with something this personal in nature. How do you feel about continuing to work with Toby? Um, Kay?”
“She told me in confidence. And I’m in it now. She trusts me, and I’m almost the only one who knows. I think the only other person is a trans man named Dean whom she met in a support group chat room, who’s advising her about hormone therapy. But I didn’t bring this up to get out of working with her. I’ve been thinking about the difficulties I’ve faced, being gay, which have been almost nothing compared to what Kay will have to go through. I’d like to change the essay’s focus. I’ll build on the historical material I’ve already got, but the subject of the essay isn’t sexual orientation, or sexual identity. It’s the difficulty that society has adjusting to anything that veers from the sexual norm. And Kay’s issues veer more extremely than mine. So I wouldn’t downplay attitudes towards homosexuality, but I would point out the even more extreme reactions to other nonconforming ways of being.”
“I see.” He was quiet for a bit, but I could tell he was thinking. Then he said, “You’ve certainly landed on an issue of current interest, Simon. I have to say, I knew you could do it. I have to warn you, though. My own understanding of your topic is very limited. I’ll need to do some research of my own. That’s not a problem. It just means I’ll need to come up to speed, or I won’t be able to provide any guidance other than in generalities.”
“So, is it all right? I need your approval, correct?”
“You do. And you have it. I would ask, though, that you submit your drafts a little more frequently than the schedule requires, just so you don’t get too far ahead of me. Or, rather, so that I don’t end up too far behind you.”
Just before we rang off, Dr. Metcalf asked me again if I was certain I wanted to continue working with Kay. It didn’t escape me that our positions have reversed; at first, I was the one looking for the out, and he had told me, “not without good reason.” Now, he was practically trying to talk me out of it. I told him I’d keep on, at least for now.
“Simon, I do need to ask a potentially awkward question. You indicated that Kay is straight. Even though you’re gay, might she be developing an attachment to you that could become awkward?”
I laughed. “No. In fact, she’s already informed me she ‘doesn’t feel that way about me.’ ”
“Very well. But if you feel the situation is changing, let me know immediately.”
I felt as though a burden had been lifted. It had been getting awkward not saying anything to him about Kay, and confidence or no, perhaps I should have mentioned it sooner.
It’s also a relief to have him know about me. And he didn’t bat an eye.
Boston, Sunday, 7 October
This is the third entry in a row on a Sunday with no entries since the Sunday before. School has gotten insanely busy. Reports, exams, papers have been due in almost everything, including my core IB courses (the famous extended essay, Theory of Knowledge, and of course Creativity, Action, Service, for which I’m coaching Kay). Thank the gods I remembered to keep track of all the word lists I’ve created; I had to include them in a report.
The City course has been as time-consuming as promised, sending me traipsing all over Boston for one thing or another.
Haven’t heard from Michael. Guess he doesn’t need any more guidance about English art, or maybe it was for just one paper and he’s completed it by now. I’m surprised and relieved to find that I really don’t care.
I have new respect for Persie. She followed my suggestion to the letter and each evening gave Brian a smile as sweet as she knows how to make it, with a gentle request to let her visit a museum “tomorrow.” More impressive was that she didn’t lose patience, even though it was Thursday evening before Brian capitulated. Of course, by Tuesday evening, the second request, he knew what was going on, and maybe he thought she’d give up. I think she would have gone on for years, or until he’d said “Not tomorrow, not ever.” I think he nearly said that on Tuesday, because there was a long pause after she asked, her face a rigid mask of deliberate sweetness all the while. I think he considered a categorical denial, but he didn’t go there.
So on Friday, Persie and Mum, accompanied by Maxine, went to the Boston Public Library. Persie had been a little difficult about the fact that I had to go to school rather than with them.
Mum told me that when they got home, Persie went right upstairs to take a nap, no doubt completely knackered. I heard them come home whilst I was upstairs in my room, deep into research about AS for my Theory of Knowledge course. Mum also said Persie had done better than had been expected, though there were a few moments—especially in the more spacious areas, like that huge, echoing staircase—where she had panicked a little.
Over dinner that evening, Persie was wide awake again. She didn’t open the conversation, but when I asked her how the trip had gone, she started talking and didn’t stop, except occasionally to calculate her food category portions. She didn’t mention any difficulties. In his usual back-and-forth with courses, Ned looked at me several times and smiled.
The only unpleasant moment was when Persie said something about going again Monday, and Brian said, “I think one visit a week is enough, Persie. Why don’t the three of you work out the best day of the week to go, and stick to that, eh?”
“No! Monday!”
I slapped my hand on the table just loudly enough to get her attention and gave her a heavy stare. She lowered her head in a pout, but she stopped protesting. I guess this impressed Brian, because he came upstairs later that evening. He sat in the reading chair, and I turned my desk chair only enough to see him; I had a lot of work to do and didn’t want him staying any longer than necessary.
“I want to talk to you about Persie,” he opened. “This repeated request for museum visits, and that odd smiling ploy . . . Was this your idea?” This time, his ton
e was not accusatory.
“Yes. That night when she asked for my help, she said that art, and museums, were very important to her, and that you’d said she couldn’t go. It came up again another time, and I suggested that perhaps if she asked nicely, you might change your mind.”
“That’s it? That’s all you said to do? Ask nicely?”
“Well . . .” I’d wanted to limit what I said about the extent of my involvement, which I expected he would see as interference. But he wasn’t letting me get away with it. “I might have suggested she smile. And I said it might be better to ask only for a specific day.”
He crossed his arms, nodded, and sucked his cheeks in a little. “I thought so. An insurrection, eh?”
He didn’t seem angry, so I added, “I suppose I was also curious to see what she’d do with the suggestion. She doesn’t smile often, and from what you’ve said, she wouldn’t be likely to think of doing it just to get what she wants. So now,” I added, thinking of how I might use this information in my TOK paper, “it will be intriguing to see if she does it for anything else.”
He sat there, looking at me. It seemed as though he was thinking rather than outright staring, but I felt the need to say, “Was there something else?”
“Yes. Tonight was the third time you’ve slapped the table, and she’s calmed down. What can you tell me about that?”
[Shakespearean aside: I’ve been doing some research into the Oxford admissions process, and one thing I’ve seen is that during the interviews, which take place in December (if one is invited), applicants are often asked questions that do not have correct or incorrect answers. The questions are intended to make the applicants reveal how they form responses, not just the depth of their knowledge. I’ve seen comments online from past applicants about their experiences during these interviews, and one post really stuck in my mind: “Even if you don’t think you know how to answer a question, the best thing to do is to keep talking until you land on what you’d like them to take as your answer. And that might still be ‘I don’t know.’ They actually want to hear you talk through your thought process.”
Educating Simon Page 25