Educating Simon by Robin Reardon Page B

all weekend. “Daddy’s grilling fish. Ned is cooking.” She didn’t look at me.
    â€œMy mum is cooking, too.”
    No response. All right, I would avoid referring to anyone who hasn’t been here long enough to become the norm. That would include me, of course, so I asked something about her.
    â€œDid you do any Schenkerian reductions today?” She hummed three notes. “What’s that?”
    â€œBeethoven, Cello Sonata, Opus 69 in A minor, second movement. Scherzo, allegro molto.”
    I know only so much about Schenker’s method. A whole movement down to three notes? “Why that movement?”
    â€œIt’s fun.”
    â€œWhy Beethoven?”
    â€œI wanted to start with something easy.” Her tone was flat; there was no bragging in it. No expectation of praise or admiration.
    I nodded like I understood. “Are you sure those are the right notes?”
    â€œI have perfect pitch.” And she played the three notes on the keyboard at her side.
    So there was no question in her mind that I would ever challenge her reduction—that is, whether those three notes accurately represent the sonata movement by Schenkerian rules—just the actual tones she had hummed. I might have met my match for arrogance.
    Then she added, “I might try Berg next, though. The Beethoven was too easy.”
    Nope. She has me beat for arrogance. I can’t even listen to Alban Berg’s music. “Let me know how that goes.”
    She looked at me, briefly, without expression, and then away. Remembering what BM had said about her lack of expectations regarding empathy and politeness, I decided to give it a test, hoping she wouldn’t go into one of her tantrums.
    â€œI took placement exams for my school today.” Still no response. No How did that go? I plunged ahead. “Most of it was pretty easy, of course. Though I’m not sure about the history section. It’s . . . well, it’s rather upsetting, actually. I mean, I’m very good at history. But I’m worried about this test, because it was mostly about US history. The proctor said it’s to see how much I know, coming from England.” I paused and got nothing. “Do you know who shot Abraham Lincoln?”
    â€œJohn Wilkes Booth.”
    So she was listening, anyway. I didn’t let on that I hadn’t known. “I did really well on the English section, of course. I had to use the words irenic, nugatory, neologism, sartorial, and ersatz in as few sentences as possible.” I was about to describe how I’d done it, but she got up and wandered over to an end table. She picked up a glass object that looked like a bird of some kind, and sat on the chair beside the table. I had to reposition myself to be able to see her. She didn’t say anything, though, and she showed no signs of exploding. She was looking at the glass bird so intently it was almost like she was meditating on it. But I wanted to talk more about my day, and GG wasn’t here. I didn’t want to talk to Mum or BM, and Ned was busy. So I just kept talking to the un-protesting, unresponsive Persie.
    â€œThen they had fifty uncommon words, some of which were misspelled, and I had to correct those. Iliopsoas gave me pause, but when I considered that the p might be silent, I knew it was Greek and I should leave it alone. And I almost missed an incorrect one, but then I realised it must be Greek too, so I added an r and got it right.”
    Persie was still intent on her bauble. I didn’t know whether it was her silence or my knowing that she didn’t care at all what had happened to me today, but I ended up telling her something I would probably not have told anyone else. Even GG.
    â€œThat Greek word was arrhostia. I thought I was correct in leaving it alone. But the proctor, Dr. Metcalf, came by and said that I’d made one mistake in the whole list, and that if I found it he’d give me