Educating Simon Read online

  So I’m reluctant to take my mother’s new husband seriously. But I guess avoiding his name altogether is not going to work. He wants me to call him by his first name, but I can’t bring myself to do that. I address him as Mr. Morgan. When I don’t merely call him “him.”

  His name is Brian Morgan. BM. (Heh. I think that’s how I’ll refer to him.) And he has a daughter I’ve never met. Her name—I hope you’re sitting down—is Persephone. I mean, really. Persephone? Not sure whether I’m more tempted to call her Percy, which is a favourite name for small dogs in England, or Phony. Evidently they do call her Percy, only with a different spelling: Persie. I think she’s nine. Or maybe eleven. BM showed me her picture. Very proud, he was. Don’t know why. She looks odd. Dark hair like his, below shoulder length, but even though it’s a posed photograph, she’s not smiling, and she’s not quite looking at the camera. She almost looks like there’s no one home, if you know what I mean. And I’ll be unable to avoid her if (notice the subjunctive) I end up moving over there.

  Mum met BM last January, only seven months ago. How’s that for a whirlwind courtship? She was leaving one of her museum committee meetings on a cold and rainy afternoon, typical for London in January, the raw air making it feel colder than it actually was. Mum is nothing if not dignified, and hailing a cab is one of her least favourite things to do, so she has an account with London Black Cabs, and they give her priority when she calls them. The committee meeting was at the Tate Modern, not in the most accessible area of the city, and she had a car scheduled to pick her up. The taxi was late because of the weather and the afternoon traffic, so she was trying to stay out of the rain whilst she waited. There were two men waiting as well, men she didn’t know.

  A London Black Cab pulled up with a sign saying FITZROY-HUNT, our last name, displayed in the passenger rear-door window, and according to the story that Mum and BM (who was one of the two men) tell, she popped her brolly, said, “At last!” and headed towards it.

  The other man dashed ahead of her and opened the door, and at first she thought he was being a true gentleman and opening it for her. But no, he threw a satchel into the backseat, got in, and shut the door behind him.

  It’s unlikely that the driver would ever have driven off; my family’s account with the company is long-standing. Still, here was this cad of an interloper in the car, and Mum standing in the rain, staring in disbelief at the taxi from several feet away. The way she tells it, BM went flying past her, yanked the door open, and ordered the man out. A tug-of-war ensued on the door whilst the driver, turned around to face the back, yelled at the cad. Finally BM let go, ran around the car, opened the other passenger door, and took the satchel out. With the illicit passenger shouting at him, BM stood in front of the taxi, unfastened some of the satchel’s pockets, and was starting to dump things onto the rainy pavement when the fellow gave up and got out. By now the driver was also out of the car, so the cad must have felt outnumbered. He collected his belongings and fled.

  BM, dripping wet, held the door open gallantly (per Mum) as she climbed in. She offered to drop him off wherever he needed to go. And on the way to his hotel, they arranged to have dinner the following night.

  The rest is history. I’ll just give you the outline. He’s a bit of a genealogy buff, and he’d indulged in a trip to Wales to research his lineage; his paternal grandparents had immigrated to the US when his father was five. He had included a few days in London before his return home, and he loves modern art, so he went to the Tate Modern on his first day in the city.

  I didn’t meet him on that trip. Mum told me about the incident with the taxi, and I knew she had met him for dinner, but I didn’t know for a long time about the late-night phone calls and the letters and the e-mails and so on and so on. He came back to London once or twice over the next four months, and there was even one trip Mum took to Boston, and I did begin to worry. But I never believed it would come to this.

  It was 1 June, I remember specifically, when the full extent of my mother’s betrayal was made known to me. She sat me down, showed me photographs of Persie and of BM’s house in Boston, which she assures me has a piano even better than ours, and informed me (she probably thought she was much gentler than that, but it could never have been gentle enough) that they would be married in two weeks, and that she and I would move there in late August.

  I was supposed to go to the wedding. It wasn’t a church affair, just a short ceremony at the British Humanist Association. But I locked myself in my room and refused to come out. Childish, perhaps, but necessary. Not only did the whole thing seem outrageously precipitous, and not only was she forsaking my father’s last name for this man’s, but also it meant forcing me to cut my own life completely off and relocate to a small, provincial city I don’t know and don’t want to know.

  Oh, my God, we had so many conversations about this. Did I say conversations? Arguments. Battles, more like. I remember one in particular.

  Mum seemed to think she could spin things. “I do understand that this seems like the end of the world to you. But it’s not. It’s the beginning of a new one.”

  “I have one word for you, Mother. Oxford.”

  “Oh, Simon, you don’t have any worries there. You know that you’re brilliant, your school career has been outstanding, and my father was at Magdalen College, so even though he’s deceased you have a connection.”

  “What if I don’t want to be at Magdalen?”

  “That’s fine. Your application will be reviewed by other colleges as well, and any one or any five of them might offer you a place.” She shook her head. “Simon, you will have the world at your feet.”

  “All I want is London and Oxford. To hell with the rest of the world.”

  Her tone told me she was beginning to get annoyed. “Aren’t you at all intrigued by the adventure this represents? The opportunity ? America, Simon. Think of it.”

  “My life is here! My school, my friends . . .”

  Mum’s face took on an odd expression. “Simon, how many times have you told me you don’t have any real friends? Certainly you’re not close to anyone I know about.”

  I couldn’t really argue that point. I’m not a friendly person, and although I don’t really have enemies, I’m not exactly chummy with anyone, either. I once actually overheard some twit at school refer to me as a “nobby no-mates.” Most of my socialising, such as it’s been, has been with adults. My parents’ friends. I lose patience with people my age; they seem so childish. But I came close—so close—to saying something to Mum about Graeme.

  Instead, I said, “What about music? You know I’ve been studying with Dr. Ingerman for ten years! If you interrupt that now, I’ll never know how far I could have gone.”

  “With piano? Simon, dear, you’re very talented. But you know quite well you don’t have what it takes to play professionally, to become a concert pianist. We’ll find you an excellent teacher in Boston; don’t worry about that. You should continue; you’re very good. But it doesn’t have to be here.”

  I didn’t want to admit that she was right, or that I didn’t even want to be a concert pianist, but neither did I want to give that point up so quickly. In trying to come up with a stronger argument, I must have hesitated too long, and she jumped back into the university topic.

  “You know, you could consider taking a gap year before starting at university, and spend it studying whatever you want in Boston or New York. Simon, don’t underestimate what these opportunities could add to your scholastic résumé, wherever you end up studying.”

  Before I could come up with a way to find fault with that argument, Mum threw another stone at my defences. “You should also keep in mind that once you’re in the US, you might even want to consider universities there. Harvard, Princeton, Yale, Brown—or you could consider schools in California. Your whole world will open up, Simon. And Oxford is still here.”

  “I told you! I don’t want the whole world! I want only my parts of it! My parts, Mother! Not yo
urs!” This seemed like the only argument I had: just my stubborn hold on the land of my birth, and that hard line, as wide as an ocean, between what she wanted and what I wouldn’t let go of. I turned my back on her and headed upstairs towards my room.

  Behind me, Mum said, “Don’t forget to make sure your room is presentable. There’s another showing this afternoon.”

  I slammed my door. Adding insult to injury, total strangers had begun tramping through the house, criticising and judging, any one of them potentially purchasing my home and yanking it out from under me, and for this treatment I had to keep making my room “presentable.”

  If everything I’ve told you isn’t enough to convince you how terrible this move is, let me remind you: My boyfriend is here in London.

  Graeme Godfrey. Gorgeous Graeme. That’s what I call him, and to be equally alliterative, and equally admiring, he calls me Sexy Simon. Reddish fuchsia (him), blood red (me). The two together are a rich, heady combination, magnificently exciting when swirled together like marbled paper.

  Or like the red in my bathwater.

  In that second story line, I picture Graeme visiting me in hospital. He comes in whilst I’m asleep, and I wake up to see him in a chair beside my bed, his blond curls all I can see of his head as he buries his face in the sheets and weeps quietly. I reach out a hand heavy with bandages and stroke those curls, and he sits up quickly.

  “Simon! Oh my God, how could you do this? How could you almost leave me like this?”

  My head falls back onto the pillow. My voice weary with the weight of the world, I reply, “I have to leave you one way or another. I just wanted to choose the method myself.”

  He kisses the ends of my fingers and then stands so he can kiss my mouth.

  And I vow that kiss will stay with me always, whatever “always” turns out to be. After I get home, every time I see him, he takes me greedily, like he’s afraid every time together will be our last.

  And even though that hospital scene didn’t really happen, I’m keenly aware that every time I see him will be closer and closer to being our last.

  Entry Seven

  I’ve done everything I can think of to arrange a different reality, to stop this thing moving forwards. Mostly all I’ve been able to do is drag my feet, and I’ve done that as much as possible. For example, the school they’ve decided I’ll attend in Boston—which Mum has tried to assure me has a reputation equal to that of Swithin for Oxford prep—sent a whole packet of material, from colourful, glossy brochures to lists of things like dress codes and class schedules. I looked at them long enough to see what they were and dropped them on the floor, where Mum saw them.

  “Simon, have you decided on the electives you’d like to request for your first semester? It’s rather a long list. Lots of interesting subjects.”

  “I’ll get to it.”

  “Will we sit down together and go over it?”

  “We will not. I said, I’ll get to it.”

  Another procrastination I indulged in to make it clear to my mother that this move couldn’t happen was to refuse to help pack. So at first I refused to participate in the decision tree that happened with every item she pointed to or picked up. It goes like this:

  Is this something we should keep or not?

  If we keep it, does it go into storage for us to consider later, or do we pack it for the move?

  If we don’t keep it, is it something we should throw away or give away?

  If give away, to whom? Which person or organisation? When and how do we arrange it?

  Obviously, her goal has been to pack as few things for the move as possible and then assess how important the stored stuff is, for a potential follow-up move. Pretty quickly she figured out that she could force me to cooperate by starting on my stuff. Like yesterday morning.

  “That’s fine, Simon. If you don’t want to help, then I’ll just make all the decisions myself. Now, what about this music collection, hmmm? Seems to me we don’t need all these CDs. How many different versions do we really need of the Goldberg Variations ? And surely not all of Mozart’s piano sonatas need to come with us.”

  I know what you’re thinking. Bach? Mozart? And here’s my answer : Yes. I have some contemporary stuff, too; don’t worry about that. KT Tunstall sees into my soul; the Indigo Girls prove they know what I’m going through with “Share the Moon”; and One Direction are great fun for a lark. But I love the classics, and whilst there are a few sonatas I think Mozart must have written in his sleep, I have at least one recording of most of the important ones. And having Daniel Barenboim’s piano rendering of the Goldbergs as well as Trevor Pinnock’s harpsichord is not the redundancy it might seem like to some.

  My mother knows this. I really shouldn’t have let her push my buttons like that, but my tolerance for irritants was never great, and this move, this project of packing, has shrunk it further. Lately I snap at everything and everyone. Sometimes it feels good. Mostly it doesn’t.

  Finally I told Mum, “Stop it. Go away.”

  BM, meanwhile, keeps swooping in from the States. I hate it when he’s here even more than when he’s not. It’s August now, so they’ve been married for a couple of months, and he stays with her in her room. My father’s room. My father’s bed.

  How can she do that?!?

  I really do try not to think about it. Where was I? Oh, yes. Packing. And BM. He’s here now for a few days, as it happens. And he came into my room not long after Mum left me alone with my music collection.

  With a quick glance around he said, “I know this isn’t any fun. I could help, if you’d like. Be glad to.” And he stood there, waiting, a dorky look on his face that caused me to notice yet again how much too big his forehead is. The first time I saw him, I thought it was just that his hairline is receding, which it is; his dull brown hair is fading with age and pulling away from his face—a face that almost asks to be pulled away from, in my opinion. But it’s also that his forehead is just too big. At least he’s not doing a comb-over. That would be the limit; I’d sneak into my father’s room at night and chop those hideous strings off.

  I gave BM a look that said, You must be mental. What I said was, “That would not be a good idea, no.” And I turned away so I could silence the scream that wanted to escape.

  He went back to the packing job Mum was leading in the room next to mine, and I heard him say, “Em?” (I hate that he calls her that! Her name is Emma, and he should use it.) “Don’t you think we should tread a little carefully with Simon? Tough love might not be the best approach.”

  The packing noises stopped, and I heard an exasperated sigh. “I know him; you don’t. Coddle Simon at all, and he’ll walk all over you. He’ll lose respect for you.”

  Like I ever had any respect for BM.

  I could almost hear him shrug. “Okay. If that’s what you think is right. I just wish there were something that would get me at least a foothold on his good side.”

  “I am sorry, Brian. I’m really sorry it has to be like this. We’re uprooting him completely, and he’s just going to hate both of us until he doesn’t hate us anymore. Can’t be helped.”

  “Has he chosen his electives for St. Boniface?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been after him about it.”

  “Well . . . has he said anything about the school?”

  “Not to me, no.” She didn’t sound like she was enjoying this interrogation. The packing noises picked up again.

  “It might help if he understood how good the school is. Have you explained that they’re an IB school? That they have International Baccalaureate standing and their college prep is up to Oxford’s standards? I know he expects to go there. Many St. Boniface students—”

  “Brian, can we just get on with what we’re doing? I promise you, I’ve sung the praises of his new school more than sufficiently. Simon has had every opportunity, and then some, to help himself. If he doesn’t do what he needs to do, he’ll have dug his own grave.”

  Little
does she know. . . .

  Whatever St. Boniface has to offer, Swithin is famous for its preparation. They send massive numbers of students to Oxford and Cambridge. I’ll bet St. Bony can’t make that claim. Gritting my teeth, breathing hard through my nose, I turned my attention back to my piles, and after an hour or so I’d made some progress, at least in terms of decisions. Hadn’t actually packed anything yet. Mum and BM had moved downstairs.

  I sensed rather than heard someone in my bedroom doorway, and when I turned I saw Graeme. (He’s very good at finding me without my even knowing he’s in the house. It helps, I suppose, that I gave him a copy of my key.) One hand was on the doorframe over his head, and he looked at me as though a truly intense gaze might keep me here. He stepped in and silently closed the door behind him.

  I was in his arms so fast, and he was in mine, and we stood there like that, willing time to stop. It didn’t, of course. I reached behind him and turned the lock.

  We lay on my bed for a while, mostly kissing, touching, sighing. Before too long, though, his hand found its way to my waistband, then to my dick, and he teased and tugged and stroked until I came, really quietly, almost peacefully. He kissed me again, and I buried my face against his shoulder until I drifted off.

  I’ll never forget the first time he kissed me. It was at a birthday party last year for this girl at school. It was at her family’s country house. One of the activities was a treasure hunt in a privet maze that had been on the property for generations. There were little favours hidden in the hedges, and whoever found the most would get some prize. What it was, I’ve forgotten; I got my prize.