Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

  “The thing is,” he opened, and then paused. “Hell, I’m just going to say it. I think I was wrong. That is, I was right before, and then I was wrong.”

  “About?”

  “About being gay.” I’m sure I gaped at him. “You don’t agree?”

  “Oh, it’s not that. I’ve never believed you were straight.” Shaking off the astonishment, I asked, “What caused the turnaround?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  Oh, my God. Options flew through my brain, lightning fast. His timing couldn’t be worse, of course. Before Luther, Michael might have had a chance. But now? He seemed a child to me now. A sweet, gorgeous child, but still . . . And my heart was once again so full of getting home that I couldn’t imagine starting something like what I thought he’d want this to be. I was sure Michael would throw at least some of his heart into it; I would not.

  I said, “What did you want my opinion about?”

  “Whether I still have a chance. With you. I think I might have, once.”

  Christ! Feast or famine! “Oh, Michael . . .” My voice must have given away my regret.

  “I waited too long, didn’t I?”

  I wanted to tell him that wasn’t it, but the fact was that maybe he had. He’d waited until I’d had time to experience Luther, to see Michael for the sweet but unsophisticated person he is, to find my heart again and let it lead me home.

  He turned his head to look at the floor. “Nonna told me not to be an idiot. That if I wanted you, I’d have to let you know. But now we’ll never be that love knot Nonna showed me.”

  “Michael, you need to understand. I’m not staying in Boston. I’m expecting at least two offers from Oxford, and that’s where I’ll be just as soon as I’ve graduated St. Boniface.”

  He looked up at me. “Okay, but until then—”

  “Until then I don’t know what else might happen. Who else might not be able to stop thinking about me, or me about him. And I don’t think you’d be comfortable with that.” I paused, watching his face grow rigid, seeing that my assessment was correct; he wouldn’t want to allow me the autonomy I would insist upon. “Michael, I think you’re terrific, and gorgeous, and talented, and sweet—”

  “And there’s no hope for us, is there?”

  Softly, sadly, I told him, “No.”

  He nodded. He nearly whispered, “I’ve never kissed another guy. I want to kiss you. Will you let me do that before you walk away?”

  I stood, taking his hand and pulling him up, and as he leaned towards me, I closed my eyes and let his scent of sun-warmed wool wash over me. The kiss was bittersweet, poignant. Then there was another, less sweet, and another, and there would have been more than kisses if I hadn’t pulled away. I wouldn’t do that to him.

  I touched his face lightly. “Addio, Michael.” I picked up my jacket and left.

  Boston, Friday, 21 December

  Two weeks. It’s been two whole weeks since my last journal entry. I’m not sure whether exams at St. Boniface seem more horrendous than they ever did at Swithin because this is my last year before uni, or because it’s a more rigorous programme. I’m unbelievably glad I got extensions on those papers that I’ll need to work on over the Christmas holiday.

  I had an acceptance letter this morning from Princeton. It’s good news, of course, though my hope is that I’ll be in England again in a matter of months. I truly feel that’s where I belong.

  Arria is a pet in every way she can be. Everyone loves her, although she seems not to be terribly fond of the housecleaners and hides from them whenever they appear. She’s a sweet cat, and on some level she knows how good she has it now. Persie is lots of fun to watch as she approaches cat stewardship so earnestly. I have to say, she can offer a cat the one thing it values most after food and comfortable shelter: consistency. They’re great together.

  I called Kay every day after her suicide attempt, until I’d seen her again and was convinced she was out of the woods. Her mother was as good as her word, and Kay’s been very nicely dressed in gender-appropriate clothing each time I’ve seen her. Her hair is getting longer, and yesterday she informed me she’d been to a “real” stylist. The cut looked great on her.

  Her mom hired a replacement for Colleen, a formidable woman in her fifties who wants to be called Mrs. Fife. She’s not the friendliest person, but she treats Kay well and seems to accept Kay’s situation completely, which makes her just fine in my book.

  Last week when I went to work with Kay, she was far from her usual bouncy self, and she was doing so badly at spelling that I finally asked her what was wrong.

  “I might have to change schools.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The other kids are being really awful. They’re teasing me, and they won’t call me by my right name. Even Andrew won’t talk to me anymore.”

  “Your teacher doesn’t protect you?”

  “No one can protect me, Simon. No one! There’s even a problem over which bathroom I can use. They told me to use the boys’, but when I try the boys push me and tear my clothes.”

  I could see tears welling up in her eyes. “What if you use the girls’ room?”

  “I tried. But the other girls screamed, and I got in trouble and had to stay after school. They made Mommy come and get me.”

  “But—doesn’t the girls’ room have booths? No one actually sees anything, do they?”

  “It doesn’t matter. They still won’t let me in.”

  Honestly, this seemed to me like much ado about nothing. What on earth were they afraid Kay would do in the girls’ room, break down the door of an occupied booth? And then what?

  “Mommy’s trying to get them to designate one of the restrooms for transgender kids, but no one else there is like me. I don’t think they’ll do it. And it won’t help anything else.”

  Visions of the boys taunting Kay on the playground, and of the girls forming a militant cadre to keep her out, jostled for attention in my brain.

  “So if you went to another school, how would that help?”

  “At least they wouldn’t ever have known me as Toby. I could use the girls’ room, and no one would know.”

  “Have you talked with Dean or anyone from one of the support groups?”

  “Mommy’s talking to people.”

  “What’s the status of the hormone-treatment route?”

  She brightened visibly. “Mommy set up an appointment for January ninth. I can’t wait!”

  “And they’ll be able to tell you when you might start, and what the process will look like? How long it will take, that sort of thing?”

  “Well, first they make you talk to a psychologist. I’ve been reading about it. They want to make sure you know what you want before they start the treatments. And they start with reversible things first. It’s going to take a while.”

  What was going through my mind, and what I didn’t dare say aloud, was to wonder how the hell this could happen to someone. How could nature have gotten it so screwed up? Why should anyone have to go through this just to be who they are?

  I know that my own biology supports my sexual orientation. I can’t force a natural sexual response to women any more than straight guys can force themselves to be attracted to me. Doesn’t mean I couldn’t have sex with a girl if I wanted to, but it would be completely unnatural for me.

  Once again, I tried imagining myself trapped in a female body and just couldn’t get there. The thought of not having a cock and balls, the idea of a hole where there shouldn’t be one, the feeling of having breasts where my chest is flat—it made me shudder. My mind refused to let me go there, even in my imagination. What must this profound disconnect be like for Kay?

  It made me want to throttle anyone who would ridicule her, who would make this horrible, horrible situation even worse. And all I could do was pray that this process would be complete enough for Kay in time for her to take physical ed for girls when she got a little older, where she’d likely have to deal wi
th open changing rooms and gang showers. Though I had no idea what the surgical options were like. Whether she’d lose her male equipment that soon.

  Before I left, we exchanged Christmas gifts. She gave me a book on Scottish fold cats, beautifully photographed. I gave her something that sent her positively over the moon: a single strand of black pearls. She shrieked; she cried; she bounced; she nearly swooned. I think the pearls were a hit.

  Maddy and I had a great time at the holiday dinner. She wore a simple, elegant, steel-blue gown that was perfection on her, and I’d bought her a huge white orchid wrist corsage. Her hair was piled on her head in an apparently casual style that I know was fussed over by someone who knew what they were about; it looked amazing. We danced a lot, and maybe it was because she was having a great time and just being genuinely herself, but a couple of other guys asked her to dance as well. Watching her during one of these dances, I considered what I might do starting in January to be at least a little more friendly, to at least a few of the other students. But then girls started asking me to dance. The only times I’ve danced with anyone were during enforced lessons at school, so this was a new experience for me.

  And then something truly astonishing happened. Daren Bateman, a boy I’d noticed and admired from a distance, asked me to dance. It had never occurred to me he was anything but straight as a lance—which is why I haven’t mentioned him. I refuse to fall for another Graeme.

  Daren took my hand and led me onto the dance floor. I think my face must have been flushed the whole time, and we did get a few surprised looks, but no one gave us any grief. The first dance was a fast rhythm. The second was slow, and he held me close.

  Maddy was a dear about it. She could have been cheesed off, and not unreasonably, but I’m sure it helped that one of the boys who had asked her to dance is someone she would love to see more of.

  As I saw her home, she said, “Did you know Daren was gay?”

  “He might be bisexual. But no; didn’t have a clue.”

  “He might ask you out. Or I suppose you could ask him!”

  “Perhaps.” I changed the subject, and she took the hint. All in all, it was a great evening. And but for Maddy, I would have overlooked it.

  Luther called this past Monday night. It was an interesting conversation, which opened with an apology to me. “You were right, Simon. It was tacky of me to set up two dates the same day. Not even day and night. The same day. Thanks for calling me on it.”

  “You’re welcome, I guess. Has Stephanie forgiven you?”

  He sighed. “No. Pity, too; we had some good times together. And I’m not talking about sex. Which brings me to the other reason for my call. Would you let me take you to a holiday party?”

  My brain froze. But he waited until I said, “What kind of a holiday party?”

  “It would be a little like the one where I met you, only not as elegant. Someone at school is having one in his apartment. I promise to be on my best behaviour.”

  “So harking back to your earlier comment, this would be a good time but no sex?”

  He let a couple of beats go by. “It can be whatever you want it to be. I’m not expecting sex. If you want it, you feisty redhead, it’s yours. I’m happy just having you go to the party with me.”

  “I guess you can’t be much more reasonable than that.”

  “You inspire me to be reasonable. Open to suggestion, but reasonable.”

  I tried to stop grinning so he wouldn’t hear that in my tone. “When is this sexless party?”

  He laughed. “This Saturday. It’s not a dinner party, though there will be finger food.”

  “No Veuve, though, probably.”

  “No. Though I am bringing wine so I don’t have to drink beer.”

  “Ah. That kind of party.”

  “Yes, but good people. You’ll come?”

  I decided to give him another chance. There’s a lot to be said for honesty.

  St. Boniface closed for Christmas break yesterday, and this afternoon Persie and Maxine took me to the Boston Public Library, the fulfilment of Persie’s birthday present to me. She had identified several favourite art pieces, some paintings and some sculptures. The library has become her favourite place for an outing, because it has so many places where she can hunker down and hide for a bit if the need arises.

  Back to work, now; those papers will not write themselves.

  Boston, Tuesday, 1 January

  This entry is going to be all about Luther, I think. Because he’s back in the picture for me, in a big way. The parameters haven’t changed; still no commitment, no expectations, no exclusivity required. But the content . . .

  The holiday party on Saturday, 22 December was pretty much as he had described it. I met him at a pizza place, we had a couple of slices, and then we walked to the flat where the party was taking place. It was quite a mixed crowd, nowhere near as gay-slanted as the one in the South End had been. But then, Luther is bisexual. I had decided against eyeliner and was glad of it; that kind of expression would have made me feel awkward here, where only the girls wore makeup. I wore the same clothes I’d worn to Luther’s flat, except for my jacket, which was the shearling this time. Not only is it warmer, but also it seemed more appropriate for this crowd.

  I got a lot of attention, partially because of my accent, but even more because of being with Luther; he seemed quite a favourite. I’d expected he’d drift about a bit and I’d be left to fend for myself part of the time, but he stayed with me almost every minute. There was some marijuana, and Luther smoked, but I didn’t. The wine he’d brought was drinkable; nothing special. The real reason to be there was the crowd—full of fun, lots of witty exchanges, the occasional discussion of anything from the state of performance dance to Nietzsche’s concept of the eternal recurrence of the universe to the best local rock band. I can’t say that there seemed to be anything especially holiday-oriented about the party, though there was a decorated evergreen in one corner, and someone had provided a disgusting (to me, anyway) version of wassail.

  Luther waited with me whilst I hailed a taxi to get home, standing so close to me that I could feel his body’s warmth. We kissed a few times, never passionately, and this had the effect I think he wanted: It made me want him.

  At home, after Graeme helped relieve me of the tension Luther had inspired, I sat in my window seat, lights off, gazing into the Boston night and thinking of Luther. He’s honest, as Ned had told me. He’s intelligent, thoughtful, and sexy as hell. If I wanted to have someone in my life to a limited extent, someone I could part from in a few months with some sadness but no regret, someone who would forever occupy a special place in my memory without any bitterness or any sense of “if only,” I probably couldn’t do any better than Luther. The question is whether I want that or not. And then there’s the question of sex.

  Assuming we take things as far as they could go, does it matter to me that my first experiences will be with someone I like very much but don’t love? Someone who likes but doesn’t love me? Is the imbalance of his experience over my naïveté a good thing, or would I prefer to learn things with a partner who’s my sexual peer?

  And who would wear the condom?

  I suppose it’s a given that he would, the first time. After that? I’m not so sure.

  After that party, I kept myself very busy getting through the assignments I’d been allowed to postpone, trying to deny to myself that I was starting to feel really anxious again about Oxford. Would I get even one offer?

  Although I certainly thought about Luther from time to time, I didn’t moon over him or wonder, “Will he call me?” It also didn’t really occur to me to call him. So it was a pleasant surprise, nothing more, when he called on Thursday last week.

  “You know, Red, you’re allowed to call me sometime, if you like.”

  I laughed. “Trust me, it’s not fear of appearing forward that’s kept me from it. It’s all this bloody schoolwork. I’ve been swamped.”

  “Well, do you
think you could tear yourself away for a real treat?”

  “Such as?”

  “I’ve been invited to a New Year’s Eve dinner dance. I’d been planning to go stag, but I thought since we both had so much fun last weekend I’d see if you were interested. It’s formal; you’d need a tux.”

  “I have a tux, as it happens. Just had it altered for a recent formal event. What colour gown are you wearing? I ask only so I can procure an appropriate corsage.”

  His turn to laugh. “Is that a yes? Please say it is.”

  “Let me just check my schedule.... Well, I do have something earlier in the evening. Maybe I could squeeze in two dates. What time would you—”

  “Ha, ha. I know that’s not your style, remember. I’ll be in the taxi that picks you up at eight on Monday. I’ll have a white carnation for you, to match the one I’ll have. See you then.”

  He rang off without saying anything one way or the other about sex. Would this be a similar arrangement to the one last weekend? Or might there be room in the evening for something more intimate? If we were still at the party for the midnight hoopla, it seemed unlikely I’d have time to go anywhere else and make it home in time; I’m sure I’ll have a curfew. Maybe I could get it stretched a little?

  Pretty sure that Ned was still cleaning up in the kitchen, I headed down the two flights of stairs. Persie was in her rooms, and she and Maxine were playing with Arria, rolling something back and forth on the floor between them. Mum and Brian were watching the telly in the den; perfect.

  I positioned myself at the island and waited for Ned to acknowledge me. “Something you need, wunderkind?”

  “Advice. Or at least opinion.” He put down the bowl he’d been drying and sat on the stool next to mine. “I went to a party last weekend with Luther,” I opened. “He apologised for the double-booking fiasco, took all the blame, so I forgave him. Even though the girl hasn’t. Anyway, this party was all BC students, and he was a perfect gentleman.”