Educating Simon (9 page)

“Why don't you eat with us?”

He laughed. “This is my job, Simon. And I get paid to eat while I work; pretty good deal.”

I set a dried grill fork on the island. “But we're all friends here. That's what you said.”

He dumped the last of the dishwater and ran the disposal. “It would be pretty awkward, always jumping up from the table for one thing and another. Besides, like I said, this is my job.” Towelling his hands off, leaning a hip against the sink, he said, “What on earth did you do to Miss Persie tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well”—he slapped the towel on a counter and picked up a glass I hadn't noticed, which appeared to contain sauterne—“first of all, she's never late for dinner. Or anything else, for that matter. That was the first clue.” He took a sip. “Would you like a little more of this?”

“Sure.”

“Help yourself. Glasses are there”—and he pointed—“and the wine is in the stone cooler over there. Next, she's upstairs with you. She barely knows you. This just doesn't happen. It takes her a long time to get to know someone well enough to be alone with them.”

“She came into the music room. I was already there, and she came in behind me, silently, and just sat down. Scared the willies out of me.”

He laughed. “That's Persie. Doesn't see the need to announce herself. Still, it's surprising, since you were the only one in there. So you were talking about colours?”

“When I see a letter, it has a colour. The same colour every time. It's called synaesthesia. My father had it like I do, only the colours were different. My Aunt Phillippa once said that when she listens to the third movement of the sixth
Brandenburg,
she sees green lines and pink bubbles.”

Ned had to set his glass down, he was laughing that hard. “Oh, that's amazing! Wouldn't that be great? Let's see, what about something like “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”? That's got colours already. Might be too much of a muchness.”

I considered telling Ned about my conquest in vocabulary during the test today, but before I could begin, BM's voice behind us startled me.

“Simon, how did Persie go from—wherever she started, to Denver?”

BM had sneaked in and sat in the chair I'd vacated. I was irritated that he'd horned in on my conversation with Ned, but I couldn't ignore him.

“I was talking about the spelling portion of the exams today, and I mentioned my synaesthesia. She got it immediately.”

“She . . . she doesn't have it, though.”

I shook my head. “Don't think so. What I mean is, she understood it. Translated it into something important to her. She's deep into this artist.”

“So it would seem. But how did you get her to show you the images ?”

“It was her idea. I'd never heard of Clyfford Still.”

He looked at me a minute, assessing. “She trusts you, somehow.”

“She's a cat.”

“What?”

They were both staring at me like I was bonkers. But I knew I was right. “Cats live by rules they make based on their environment and experiences. If you can tell what a cat's rules are, you can fit into the picture it has of its world, or at least you can convince it to give you a chance. Respect the rules, ask when you don't know what they are, and it works. Once you're in, you might be able to influence a few changes.”

Ned wanted to know, “How do you ask a cat what the rules are?”

“You just assume there's a rule for everything, and you tread carefully. If the cat starts to react badly, back off and see if you can figure out what would fit into its world better. Just wait and observe.”

“Well, I'll be.” BM shook his head. “Simon, if you find yourself casting about for a career choice, you could consider working with autistic individuals. You'd be fantastic.” He chuckled. “That must be why she asked you about
your
name. You did something to fit into her world picture, so you became part of it.” He pointed at me. “And I'm putting you on official notice. If and when we go to that museum in Denver, you are coming with us.”

Actually, I wouldn't mind seeing the museum. I really liked the images I saw of Still's works. But going with BM and Persie would not be my first choice. I told myself this trip was beyond unlikely, so I didn't have to reply. Instead I drained the end of my sauterne. I held the glass out. “Will I wash this, Ned?”

“Nah. Give it here.”

“I'm going upstairs, then. See you tomorrow.” And I headed out before BM could interrogate me any more about his daughter's metamorphosis.

Upstairs, after making up my colour chart for Persie, I curled into the reading chair with the course catalogue from St. Bony. About time to decide on a course from the arts and humanities category. Going through the options, my eye fell on one that surprised and intrigued me. Beginning Schenkerian Analysis. Perfect.

After being awakened by the cleaning crew, who evidently start on the top floor and work their way down, I spent most of the day scoping out the house and watching for an e-mail from St. Bony to tell me what classes I have. One thing I was looking for was BM's office, and eventually I figured out where it is. There's a door off to the side of the front entrance with a small nameplate: B
RIAN
M
ORGAN
, AIA. Must be some architectural credential. There was a buzzer to the side, which led me to believe that the door would be locked. I didn't know whether BM was in his inner sanctum. Back in the house, I located the office's interior access door behind the front stairs, very inconspicuous. It was closed.

Finally, around half three, that e-mail arrived. And I hit the ceiling.

Carrying the printout I stormed about the house, looking for someone who might be able to fix things, until I located Mum on a chaise longue out on the brick patio, reading. Ned looked at me oddly as I stormed through the kitchen. I didn't dare say anything to him.

I slapped the paper down on the table beside Mum, next to a glass of something I didn't recognise. She marked her place in her book with a finger and looked up at me. “Something upset you, Simon?”

“This is unacceptable.” I pointed to the paper.

“Why don't you summarise for me?”

I crossed my arms. “There are at least two things on the schedule they've given me that can't stand,” I opened. “For one thing, they've given me a history class that's intended for their
junior
year, not senior. It's History of the Americas. Second, they've sent a list of arts and humanities classes that I'm to choose from, and the one I want the most isn't on it.”

“What is it you want to take?”

“Schenkerian Analysis.”

“I see.” Her voice sounded rather tongue-in-cheek. “Do they say why it's not on the list?”

“It says these are the elective classes in which there are still openings.”

“Well, I feel I must point out that if you had made your selection early in the summer—”

“Yes, Mother, I realise that. But the problem is happening now. We need to do something.”

She looked at me for a few seconds. “I think what
we
need to do is that
you
need to select something from the list of classes with openings.”

My teeth ground together, and I nearly bit a hole in the side of my tongue. “Are you telling me you won't do anything? You won't help me?”

“Simon, I don't know what you expect me to do.”

“You could talk to your husband. He's the one with strings at the school, yes?”

She sat up and swung her legs so her feet were on the bricks. Her voice was quiet, but there was finality in it. “Brian pulled an enormous number of strings to get you into this school. If you have no idea how much weight he threw around, it's because no one told you. That's not your fault. So I'm telling you now: There are no more strings. You've put yourself in this position, Simon. Don't expect someone else to get you out of it.”

I stood there like a stunned fish, mouth opening and closing.

“I think the best thing you can do now is to assess the electives on that list and choose the one most geared towards Oxford's admission requirements. Would you like me to help you?”

Through gritted teeth I said, “No, thank you.” I stormed back through the kitchen and up to my room. I don't swear often, but when it's called for, for example at times like this one, I do: I felt so fucking helpless! I had been forced to uproot my life, make this poor exchange—London for Boston, Swithin for St. Boniface—and now I can't even get into the classes that will get me home again!

I threw the paper on my desk and nearly fell into the chair. If anything would catch Oxford's attention, it's Schenkerian Analysis. It's unusual and very advanced. It requires the student to be intelligent, independent, analytical, and musical all at once. It was nearly yelling at me,
This is the perfect course
. And I can't take it.

I was just contemplating picking up my pillow and screaming into it when I heard an unfamiliar sound. Someone was calling my name. But who was it, and where were they? Then I realised it was coming from the intercom beside the dumbwaiter. It wasn't Mum. Maybe it was BM, and he'd decided to help me. I dashed into the hall and pressed the Speak button. “Yes?”

“Simon, it's Ned. Do you have a few minutes for me?”

I had no idea what he meant. “I have all the time in the world.” I knew my voice sounded angry, but I couldn't help it.

“May I come up? I'm sending gifts.”

There were strange noises coming from the dumbwaiter. When it got to my level I saw that Ned had sent up a tray with tea butter biscuits, a pitcher of that stuff Mum had been drinking, and a wet sponge. I took the tray out to the roof garden and headed down to open the door to my level for Ned.

He used the sponge to wipe down the chairs and the table and then settled in like it was his own house. I sat also, not sure what he wanted, and not inclined to ask.

“You're planning on Oxford, I gather. That's ambitious.” I shrugged, not sure where he was going, or how he even knew this. He smiled at me and, as though he'd read my thoughts, he said, “It's the perennial servant-master relationship. We hear everything that goes on in the house. In this case, I believe you need to talk about this impasse, and I think you're comfortable talking to me. Am I wrong? Say the word, and I'll take my dollies and tea set and go home.”

I couldn't help smiling back. “I doubt anyone here thinks of you as a servant.”

“Good thing. I'd disabuse them in rather unpleasant ways. Listen, Simon, am I right that you feel let down by the school and by your mother?”

“That about sums it up.”

“May I see the list?”

Another shrug, and I fetched it. Ned had poured our glasses full of something pale-tea-coloured with lemon slices and ice cubes. And it dawned on me that it was iced tea. I saw it occasionally in London, but really it's for tourists. I'd never had it. I handed him the list.

“Thanks. Try the iced tea.” And he started reading. Feeling obstinate, I took a biscuit instead. Without looking up, Ned said, “Your mom says that's your favourite cookie.”

Tricked. He'd tricked me into accepting a biscuit from Mum by telling me to go for the iced tea. I nearly spit it out, but it was too good. Plus, he'd silently reminded me I wasn't supposed to use the word “biscuit” when Persie would want that particular baked confection to be called a “cookie.” I set that imperative aside.

I waited a full two minutes before I took a sip of the tea. Unfortunately, I liked it.

“This class on twentieth-century literature looks interesting. Did you know Thomas Mann was gay?” he asked without looking at me.

“Yes. Why do you mention it?”

He gave me an arch look. “As I said, we hear everything. And I'm gay, so don't try to hide anything from me.” He set the list down. “What major are you aiming for at Oxford?”

I considered pursuing the question of who had been talking in Ned's hearing about my sexual orientation, but I wasn't sure I cared. “We don't have ‘majors' in the UK. I'm considering Oxford's Psychology, Philosophy, and Linguistics course of study.”

“What languages have you studied? Other than English, of course.”

“Italian. Latin. A little German.”

He shook his head. “Too predictable. And too easy, for you.” He picked up the list and pointed. “If I wanted to impress a place like Oxford, I'd go for this. Beginning Chinese.”

I blinked. This idea hadn't occurred to me. “Why that?”

“Why? Well, for one thing, because all the world is facing east now and will be for a while to come. And even if that weren't true, learning a language that doesn't look or sound anything like the one in which you've already proven yourself is a massive undertaking. It's almost got an ‘Abandon All Hope' banner over it. In fact, it sort of does, except that it adds, ‘unless you're really, really smart.' ” He handed me the list. “You, Simon Fitzroy-Hunt, are really smart. And if you don't do something that stands out, you might be seen as having done only what you need to do. You won't be seen as having stretched yourself.” He shrugged. “It doesn't have to be Chinese. But it needs to be something that will catch their attention in a good way.”

“Schenkerian Analysis would have done that.”

“Maybe, maybe. You know Oxford better than I do. But consider this: If the course is full now, it might be offered again next semester. Get your name in now.”

“It's a two-semester course.”

“Better yet! Someone's bound to drop out, either during first semester or between semesters. Are you good enough at it to start behind the other students and keep up? Maybe you could get Persie to help you get a head start.” He popped a biscuit into his mouth. “Just a thought.”

“Persie is
twelve
.”

“Eleven, actually. What's your point?” I didn't speak, so he said, “She knows this stuff better than you do. Admit it.” He grinned at me, expecting an answer this time.

I had to fight the smile that wanted to spread across my face. I sipped more tea to hide it. “Well, she's been working at it.”

“And you haven't. So she's ahead of you. But she doesn't judge. She doesn't gloat. There isn't a drop of arrogance in her blood. Unlike
some
people.” He lifted his glass. “I will say she'd be a very difficult taskmaster. No sympathy. She might not be patient enough with you.”

“I'm not stupid, you know. I know you're baiting me.”

“Sometimes we have to be pushed into doing what we want to do. No man is an island, and we need each other. Right now, you need someone to push you. That might be Persie. It might be me. Or it might be the Beginning Chinese teacher.”

“What makes you think I need pushing?”

“You're stuck.”

“Stuck?”

He set his glass on the tray. “Look, Simon, I know you didn't want to come here. And I understand why not. But you're here. Take advantage of what you can, and use it to put yourself back on the course you would have chosen. And believe me, there's lots here to take advantage of.” He stood. “Call me on the intercom when you're ready to send the tray down.” And he headed for the door.

I called a challenge after him. “You're really too smart for this job. Do you need some pushing?”

His hand on the doorknob, he turned and said, “I've finished my master's degree in food chemistry. Just taking a break to earn some money and figure out where I want to go next.” And he was gone.

Sitting there, watching the light change on the buildings as the sun got lower in the sky, I tried to regain my sulk, but it wouldn't cooperate. Finally I picked up the list again. If there was one thing Ned had said that I should listen to, it was that Oxford will expect me to stand out. Even with the connection through my dead grandfather, there's the question of which fellow I'll be assigned. I'm not saying Oxford would have any unacceptable fellows, but a good match can make all the difference.

Other than Chinese, was there something else I might want to bargain for? Flipping through the course list my eye fell on African Studies, Doing Business in India, Ancient Rome, Environmental Systems and Societies, Information Technology in a Global Society, Public Speaking, and The City: A Living Palimpsest.

Palimpsest. Not a word typically used for anything alive. Scraping off an old manuscript to reuse it doesn't sync up with city life for me. I shook myself and went over the list again.

It's no good! I want that Schenker course.

Think, Simon. You're smart. Think. Who else might be able to help?

I picked up my new iPhone and rang up the main number on St. Bony's Web site. When they answered, I said, “This is Simon Fitzroy-Hunt. I'm enrolled for the first time this year, as a senior, and I have a question about my electives. Is there someone I can speak with?”

“Certainly. Your assigned counsellor . . . hold on, please . . . is Dr. Metcalf. He's in his office at the moment. I'll connect you.”

Perfect. He already knew me a little. I hadn't given any thought to what I would say; bad planning. So when he got on the line I plunged in. “I have my schedule, and there are a couple of things.... Well, first, why is it that I'm registered for the junior year History of the Americas?”

“I have your placement exam in front of me. You show a solid understanding of connections around the globe over time, but if I were to graph your depth of knowledge on a map, the coverage of the Americas in general and the US in particular isn't enough to support your application to schools here in the US. Before you protest,” he added quickly, “I realise that you have your sights set on Oxford, and I know of no reason to worry. However, it's always a good idea to have a few backup schools, and it's also possible you'll change your mind about where you want to go.”

“I'll be submitting my application very soon. I'm not going to change my mind.”

“Then consider it insurance for your backup plan.”

“I don't need—”

“Simon, this is knowledge that will stand you in good stead, whatever your future.”

“Is there no one else I can talk to about this?”

“Certainly. You can speak to anyone all the way up to Dr. Healy if you like. It won't change anything, however.” He paused whilst I ground my teeth some more. “Was there another question?”

“Yes. There is. I had expected to take Schenkerian Analysis, but it's fully subscribed. What do I need to do to get a place in that class?”

“Ah, yes. Not a course we offer frequently. It's currently oversubscribed with a waiting list. We can put you on that, but I must warn you that you'll be around number four or five.”