Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

  I’ve been so wrapped up in this situation with Luther, and so short on time generally, that I realise I’ve overlooked recording the fallout from the practice bee on 1 November. When I’d met with Kay on 8 November, she’d confirmed what I had suspected about her anxiety during the bee, that it was Dean and the other transgender people he’d brought with him who had thrown her off her game. She’s scared to death about coming out, and her friends and even her mother were there; how could she explain who Dean was if anyone asked? I’d got Dean’s phone number before I left Longwood Towers, and I’d called him that evening to ask that he not come to the next bee. He was a little put out, but I know he understood. I’m concerned that he’s pushing Kay too hard. Not that there’s anything I can do about that.

  Neither Dean nor the others showed up for the second bee, and Toby did much better. Top of the heap, in fact. And his mother was there again, which made him very happy; this time she saw him victorious. It calmed some of my own fears, too. Because if he did really badly in March, he wouldn’t go to the nationals. How much of the blame would fall on me?

  I should hear from Oxford any day about my interviews—how many, which colleges, what dates. I’m all at sixes and sevens with anxiety, waiting to hear. Thank the universe for Graeme. He loves me, he pleasures me, and with him it’s hallelujah every time.

  Boston, Monday, 19 November

  I’ve been sitting here staring at this screen for nearly twenty minutes. The reason I don’t know where to begin is that I’ve wasted all my hyperbolic language, all my melodrama, all my tragedy on things that were anything but tragic, compared to today. I’ve run out of ways to say “life sucks and then you die.”

  I got a notice today. In the post. It was waiting for me when I got home from school, a true demon lying in wait to ambush me.

  I can hardly bring myself to write this.

  Oxford wait-listed me. No interview.

  Of course, everyone in the house knew it had arrived before I even got home. And I’m sure they all expected it to say the same thing I expected it to say. That is, what I had finally convinced myself it would say. I stood in the kitchen, holding the letter, reading, with Mum and Ned looking on and ready to cheer. I read silently, and I don’t think they could have said what it was that made my arms go stiff. So I had the grace of a few seconds to arrange my face, to prepare myself to say what I had to say aloud.

  “Well, this is too bad,” I told them, fighting to make my voice sound normal. “I’m on the waiting list.” I stood there, immobilised, looking at the letter, knowing if I looked at anyone I would break down. I started to take a deep breath but quickly realised how much that would reveal that I didn’t want to reveal about my true state of mind.

  Mum made some motion towards me, but I shook my head ever so slightly and she froze. Desperate to keep my hands from shaking, I refolded the letter, forced it back into its envelope, and stuffed it into my school bag on the floor. As I hefted the bag I said, “Guess it’s a good thing I applied to a few other schools.”

  “Simon?” Mum called. I stopped but didn’t turn. “I’m so very sorry.”

  I could have said, “It’s okay.” I could have said, “It’s not your fault.” I could have said, “I think Princeton will be great for me.” But I didn’t believe any of it. And I couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t a brutal opposite of all of those things. So I just left her standing there.

  And now I’m upstairs, too intensely stunned even to swear. Too stunned for anger at Oxford, at Mum, at Brian, at anyone. There’s some kind of odd static electricity running through me. It’s not energising. It’s making it almost impossible for me to move. Typing is the only activity I can manage. I don’t remember climbing the stairs.

  I also don’t remember going into the bathroom, retrieving my black leather emergency kit with the razor blades, and setting that beside me on the desk. Even if I decide to use one of them, I wouldn’t do it here, so why did I fetch it?

  Evidently I didn’t go down for dinner. I was sitting here, staring at the screen again, still, whatever, when Ned knocked. I hadn’t heard the dumbwaiter, but he’d sent my dinner up in it. He carried up a folding tray, and he set things up on it for me.

  “Turn the chair, kid. I’m not leaving till you’ve had some dinner.”

  I turned my face in his direction, but I couldn’t raise my eyes high enough to see his face. Couldn’t muster the energy. He took hold of the chair from behind and positioned me at the tray. Then he sat in the reading chair, facing me.

  I think he’d made some kind of chicken dish. There was a sauce. Maybe risotto, something with rice and mushrooms. No wine, I remember that. Maybe he figured it would only make matters worse.

  “When you didn’t appear for dinner, Miss Persie threw the worst tantrum I’ve seen since the day she nearly reamed Maxine with that notebook. Your mom’s fit to be tied, ranting and forcibly stopping herself from saying unmentionable words. I think Brian’s afraid to say much of anything, but there’s a set to his jaw I’ve seen before. They’re going to take some action, Simon. I don’t know what. At the very least, they’ll do whatever it takes to get an explanation.”

  I tried to nod, but nothing happened. At that moment, I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything.

  He stood, picked up the fork from the tray, and pointed the handle towards me. “Do I have to feed you?”

  I managed to grasp the fork. I wasn’t trying to be a problem. I wasn’t trying to look pathetic. It’s just that I couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t do anything. Somehow I stabbed a green bean and nibbled at one end of it.

  Ned was still standing there when my phone rang from inside my school bag. I made no move to get it, so he did. He read the display. “It says Metcalf.”

  Suddenly I could move, but not towards the phone. In about three strides I got as far away from Ned as I could within the room, the window seat overlooking the roof. I pulled my feet up to my ass and hugged my knees hard.

  I heard Ned say, “Simon’s phone.” In typical talk-listen pattern, he said, “He’s here, but he’s not feeling up to conversation. Can I give him a message? . . . Ned Salazar. I’m a friend. A close friend . . . Yes . . . What time tomorrow will you know something?”

  There was more silence, then Ned looked at me and said to the phone, “She said that? . . . All right, I’ll make sure he knows. Is there anything else I can tell him?” Evidently there wasn’t. Ned rang off and came to sit beside me.

  “He thinks something important fell through some crack or other. He’s convinced this shouldn’t have happened.”

  My words barely squeaked out. “How did he know?”

  “Your mother has been raising Cain. Both Metcalf—is it Doctor? —and the headmistress are now involved. They’ve told your mom that their report about you was beyond glowing, and there’s sure as hell nothing wrong with your grades. I guess they’ve sent enough kids to Oxford in the past to know how this goes, and they don’t think this has gone as it should. Dr. Metcalf will phone you tomorrow after they’ve had a chance to speak with someone at Oxford, and your mom has already told him she’ll go in with you to meet with Metcalf and Healy, both.”

  Suddenly there were tears. My head fell forwards onto my knees, and I sobbed. I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. If I could have spoken I might have said aloud the words that were screaming inside my head: “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry.”

  Ned threw an arm around my shoulders and pulled me to him. At some point I couldn’t hold onto my knees any longer. I fell against Ned and let him hold me until the sobbing quieted down.

  When I could speak, I said, “I don’t even know what I want anymore. Nothing has gone right. Nothing has gone as it should have gone. Nothing is what it’s supposed to be.”

  “So if you get a big, fat apology from Oxford, will you go?”

  I almost laughed. “Even if they’ve committed the most egregious error, they won’t apologise. They’ll just say, ‘Ah, yes. Mea
nt to offer you a spot. Terrible mix-up, what?’ ”

  He chuckled. I didn’t. He got up, found a box of tissues and held it out towards me. “Want me to heat up your dinner?”

  Blowing my nose, I shook my head. Ned laid a hand on my shoulder and more or less led me back to my chair. He handed me the fork again. I took it and made as good an effort as I could to eat. I got about halfway through everything and just couldn’t manage any more. I set the fork down and looked at Ned.

  “I don’t know that I’d go now in any case.”

  “I don’t blame you. But let’s find out what the problem is before you make a decision.” He lifted the tray out of the way.

  On an impulse, I opened the folder on my computer where I keep Tink’s pictures. I said, “This was my cat.” The fact that I had to use the past tense made my eyes tear up all over again, and my breath caught several times as I moved through the photos. Ned made a few appropriate comments, and when I’d gone through them all he pulled me to my feet and into a tight hug.

  My voice breaking, I said, “Even if I go home I can’t have her back. She’s Margaret’s cat now.”

  He rocked me gently and said, “I know, sweetie. I know.”

  There was a knock at the door. Ned went to answer it as I told him, “I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

  It was Mum. She told Ned, “I just want to make sure he’s all right.”

  And suddenly, there was the anger. But I didn’t shout. My voice was icy. “I’m not all right. I don’t know how I’ll ever be all right again. It’s all gone, now—truly, all gone. And you can stop pretending that you care what happens to me. I know you didn’t want me.”

  “Didn’t want you! Oh, Simon, what on earth makes you say that?”

  “You told me yourself. You said you hadn’t wanted children, and you certainly didn’t have any after me.”

  “No. Oh, no, that’s not the way it was, at all! I wanted children very much.”

  “That’s not what you said when you told me about Clive. I was an accident.”

  “Simon, you were no accident! I had two miscarriages before you, and another one after. I didn’t plan to have children before I met your father. And that was because of Clive.” She stepped farther into the room, towards me. “Simon, darling, how long have you been thinking these things?”

  “I—I never knew. About the miscarriages.”

  “One doesn’t like to talk about them. They’re horribly painful, and I felt I’d failed your father. Simon, you were wanted. Desperately wanted. You still are.”

  It’s difficult to articulate what I felt at that moment. Approaching it like fine wine, there were notes of shock and then disbelief in the nose; the body was dense with complex layers of grief, pain, and something that was almost but not quite joy; and the finish was numbness and confusion and an unidentifiable sense of loss.

  I spun around to face the opposite wall, not wanting her to see what was happening on my face, determined not to reveal specific emotions until I’d had time to process this news. I felt rather than heard her approach me. “Don’t,” I said to forestall the embrace I knew she would offer. “Leave me alone. Go away.”

  Her voice was soft, even tender. “I will go. But first I want you to know that I’ll do everything in my power to correct this wait-list situation. There’s been an error, Simon. It’s the only explanation. I haven’t talked to you about this, because I know you haven’t forgiven me and mostly avoid talking to me, but I’ve met several times with Dr. Metcalf and twice with Dr. Healy. All along, all through your time at St. Boniface, they’ve been extremely impressed with you. They’ve seen the effort you’ve made, and they’ve seen the results. They’ve seen your creativity, your resourcefulness. And they were horrified when I called them with this news. Horrified, Simon. We’re all throwing our full weight behind this. You deserve Oxford, if you want it.”

  Without another word, she turned and left.

  Ned squeezed my arm. “Anything I can get you? A glass of wine?”

  I took a couple of shuddering breaths. “I’d like some brandy.”

  “No shortage of that in this house. Shall I bring some up?”

  A picture of myself sitting up here alone, drinking brandy, seemed too depressing. Maybe it was also that I felt Oxford had betrayed me, and possibly my home was here, now. Whatever the reason, I told Ned, “I’ll go down. Aren’t you here rather late? Shouldn’t you be home with Manuel?”

  He smiled. “I’m leaving shortly. Manuel knows what’s going on, and he understands why I wanted to stay for a bit. He wants to meet you, by the way. We’ll have to arrange it sometime soon. I’ll put your drink order in downstairs.” He paused in the doorway, the folded tray under his arm. “You’re gonna be fine, kid. I know it seems ugly right now, but you’ll end up wherever you want to end up. Promise.”

  I did go downstairs for a glass of brandy. Brian and I sat in the music room and listened to Gregorian chant.

  Boston, Tuesday, 20 November

  We had the meeting this morning at eleven o’clock. Mum and I walked together down Marlborough, very much as we had for my placement exams so many weeks ago. We didn’t talk; I don’t think either of us would have known what to say.

  We sat in chairs in Dr. Healy’s office, whilst Dr. Metcalf stood off to the side, leaning against a wall, arms crossed on his chest. It seemed to me at first that he was trying to look casual, but before long I realised that he was trying to keep his fury in check.

  Dr. Healy sat at her desk, hands folded before her. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Simon, universities are not looking merely at grades, no matter how stellar they might be. They do the best they can to get a picture of the entire person. This is especially true of institutions such as Oxford. There are students there who don’t have anywhere near the native intelligence you have, but they’ve proven themselves eager to learn and willing to grow, and they’ve managed to excel at something important that makes them stand out.”

  She shuffled a few papers, but didn’t look at them. “What they told me today is that they examined your Swithin résumé and found it wanting in areas other than academics.”

  Mum started to say something, but Dr. Healy held up her hand.

  “Hear me out, and I’ll answer any questions I can. Then they looked at your St. Boniface grades, which are equally impressive. They also looked at the commentary that Dr. Metcalf and I had provided. There’s your work with Toby that goes well beyond the project scope, which you’ve handled with sensitivity and good judgement. You’ve had success not only at working with your stepsister, but also in having the insight to pull what you learned from those interactions into your work. Early drafts of your papers have demonstrated not only excellent critical thinking, but also creative innovation. But because the Oxford reviewers hadn’t seen anything like that from your work at Swithin, they weren’t sure how much weight to give it.”

  She set the papers down and sat back in her chair. “Dr. Metcalf and I urged them to reconsider. We pointed out the difficulties of moving to an entirely new country, and we stressed how it would seem as though going through this fire has brought out the true metal in you. Quite frankly, we told them it will be their loss if you go anywhere else.”

  She smiled. “Now for the good news. You’re off the waiting list.”

  My brain stopped working just long enough for me to nearly miss what she said after that.

  “And you have interviews beginning this coming Friday at ten a.m. You’ll speak with tutors from four different colleges. That’s more than most students talk to, so it would seem they’ve taken appropriate notice now.” She shuffled papers again. “I wrote them all down.... Here it is. Magdalen, Christ Church, Pembroke, and Trinity. That last one took me by surprise; Trinity is mostly theology, not your PPL course like the other three, but they’ll have a reason. Trinity will talk with you separately; the other three tutors will speak with you at the same interview—unusual, but this is an unusual situation. I’ll e-mail
you the full list. The interview will be in Magdalen because of your grandfather’s connection.”

  “Nothing from New College?” I asked.

  “No. Did you hope to go there? They don’t offer the aspects of your PPL course that you seem to be headed towards.”

  I was ashamed to say I hadn’t even looked. When I’d been there years ago with Dad just to see the place, I’d known nothing about what I might study. I’d just really liked the look of it. So it was where Graeme and I were going to go together in my fantasy. And now, if it didn’t offer the best course for me . . . With yet another shock, I realised this was a whole new me: I wasn’t going to push this. I wasn’t going to insist. I wasn’t going to try and have my way, come hell or high water. I have, indeed, been through some fire. Just remains to be seen what kind of metal I am.

  “No,” I said quietly but firmly. “That’s all right.”

  Dr. Healy continued, “As you know, interviews typically take place in December. They’ve scheduled these interviews for you this week because they’ve already assigned the December interview slots, so you’ll be in there ahead of the other candidates. I told them I would ask if you’re still interested.”

  I sat there, numb and dumbstruck, trying in vain to force my brain into gear.

  “What shall I tell them? Would you be willing and able to travel to Oxford for a Friday morning interview?”

  I could tell that Mum was feeling much the same way I was by this point, which was almost but not quite Tell them to go fuck themselves . In her haughtiest English accent she said, “As it happens, there is a contemporary art exhibit at the Tate I’d like to see, and my husband and I are in the market for a new piece or two, so we could browse the London galleries. I believe we could possibly make that date, if Simon still wants to give them a chance.” She didn’t look at me, just left me space to say whatever I wanted. Which for the moment was nothing.