Chapter 6
Adam
There are times in life when you are drunker than you believe. Times when you sit in the back of a taxi and boldly declare, ‘I honestly don’t feel pissed at all’, and the driver looks at you in the rear-view mirror like he’ll be praying for you later that evening. These are the times when you wake up the next morning with a headache the size of your own shame and an unrelenting queasiness that follows you all the way to a greasy fry up and beyond.
This is not one of those times.
I am cycling to work and my head is clear. I had All Bran for breakfast, which may be a crime against tastebuds and joy, but is a pretty solid indicator of a non-hungover appetite. I remember the details of last night clearly and can reflect upon them with normal hindsight, not gut-clenching shame.
You’re drunk.
That’s what Katie said, isn’t it? She pushed away from me because I was drunk. I told her I wasn’t drunk, and I really wasn’t.
I cast my mind back to the way she kissed me on the cheek as she went to bed. The way you’d kiss a distant uncle at a Christmas party. I clench the handlebars of my bike uneasily. She has never been this distant with me, not even when I let Fergus crash in our spare room after a night out and he vomited all over our new Laura Ashley bedding.
I pull up outside Okie’s house and chain my bike to the fence surrounding his front garden. I put my thoughts about last night into a box for later, and ring the doorbell.
Mr Adeyemi answers the door wearing a crisp suit and a sage-green tie. ‘Adam.’ He holds his hand out and smiles.
‘How are you?’ I ask as I step inside and take off my shoes.
‘I’m well. How are you?’
‘I’m good, thank you.’ I start to make my way towards the dining room, but I stop and turn around. ‘I thought I might... broach the subject, today. If you think it’s a good time.’
He nods. ‘Today’s a good day. Maybe he’ll tell you what he wants.’
‘I hope so.’
Mr Adeyemi gestures with his hand, and I enter the dining room. Okie, my top-performing student, is sitting at the table, his week’s work laid out in front of him. As I close the door behind me, he keeps his eyes trained on the sheets of paper, each laid out precisely one centimetre away from the next.
‘Good morning, Okie.’
‘Hmm.’ Okie looks up and fixes his gaze somewhere over my right shoulder. ‘The lines weren’t even this time.’
I move around the table and look down at the worksheets. He points to one in the middle. He’s right; the lines I type for him to fill in his answers aren’t consistent — one has an extra underscore.
‘I’m sorry about that. Thank you for pointing it out. I’ll make sure I amend it.’ I pull a chair out and sit down. ‘Shall we go through your answers?’
He nods and presents me with his workbook, where he has done his calculations before recording his final answers on the sheets. Everything is ordered immaculately and easy to follow, as usual. And, as usual, there isn’t an error in sight.
‘This all looks great, Okie.’ I give him his book back and he places it on the table. ‘I think you’ve got the logarithms sussed.’
Okie has everything sussed, that’s the problem: I’m attempting to tutor someone who knows it all already. Okie’s autism means that he struggles in classroom settings, and is far beyond the level expected from his age group. He attends the local SEN school when he can, but the large groups, lack of resources and unchallenging learning material mean that he gains very little but stress, unmanageable outbursts and setbacks. Noticing Okie’s passions, and at a loss with what to do, his father has employed private tutors to coach him in Maths, Physics and Chemistry. He works fourteen-hour nights, seven days a week to pay for it.
‘I wonder if maybe we could have a chat today, Okie.’ I tread carefully, more than aware that one wrong step could set our rapport back weeks. ‘About your future and what you’d like to do.’
Okie stares at the table.
‘You’ll be sixteen in a couple of weeks; I wondered if you’d considered the kind of career you’d like to have,’ I continue.
‘A chemical engineer,’ he says, bluntly. I lean forward, glad to have something to work with.
‘That sounds brilliant.’ I nod. ‘Do you know what you need to do to become a chemical engineer?’
‘A Levels.’
‘Yeah, exactly.’ I weigh up my next statement in my mind carefully before I ask it. ‘And then university.’
Okie stiffens, and begins tapping his fingers against the table. It’s a sign, and I quickly try to dial things back. ‘But that’s something we can talk about another time.’
His tapping intensifies, and I resist the urge to place my hand on his shoulder; my idea of comfort-offering would be painful for him.
‘How about we start with something small? Shall we start doing some past papers and think about booking you in for your A Levels?’
Okie doesn’t respond, and his tapping continues.
‘Maybe we could devise a plan together? Something that you’d be happy with?’
He nods and takes his hands off the table, clenching them in his lap.
I pull out a piece of paper and hand it to him. ‘So, as we talk, do you want to write things down in a way that makes sense to you? I’ll say what steps we need to take, and you can create a timeline? We can pay special attention to the parts you’re specifically worried about.’
Okie takes a pen and holds it over the paper. I go through the process slowly: preparation, past papers, booking in for exams. Taking the tests, what the process will be like, waiting for the results. Applying to university, getting a conditional offer, accepting a place. Transport, living arrangements, options, choices. Throughout, Okie reacts when something breaches his comfort zone: large lectures, public transport, halls of residence. I have him put a star next to these areas, and tell him that I will research what’s available and report what I find back to him each week. Then I ask him to circle our first step, and we break it down and make it our focus.
Precisely an hour after our session begins, and while I’m still talking, Okie methodically starts putting away his things, tucking our plan into the front page of his folder. Mr Adeyemi comes into the room, and Okie slips out, leaving us to talk.
‘Shall we have a coffee?’ Mr Adeyemi asks, and we go through into the kitchen.
I sit at the table. ‘I think that went well.’
He nods, stirring Nescafe into two mugs and splashing in some milk. He places the coffees on the table and pulls out a chair. ‘Chemical engineering?’
‘Yes. He seemed pretty set on it.’
‘He is.’ He stares thoughtfully into his drink. ‘Okie struggles to attend a school designed for people like him. Universities aren’t so accommodating.’
‘No.’ I rub my hand through my beard; I’ve recently started growing it, and it’s equal parts itchy and comforting. ‘I have a proposition, though.’
My Adeyemi looks up. ‘Go on.’
‘You’ve known for a while that I... have my issues with tutoring Okie.’ During our first session, Okie pointed out an error in a question I had set, and subsequently sped through an entire hour’s worth of material in under ten minutes. I told his father to save his money; I could continue sitting with him for two hours each week, and take home my pay check, but it wasn’t right. Okie didn’t need coaching to achieve his potential, he needed a pathway that appreciated it. Mr Adeyemi asked me to stay, aware of his son’s talents. He wanted Okie to engage in something he enjoyed with another human being, and didn’t know where else to turn.
‘I think this is an opportunity for you and Okie to see some kind of reward for the money and effort you’re putting in,’ I continue. ‘I can go through past papers with him for half of our sessions, and the other half we can spend going through the application process and talking things through.’
‘I can’t ask you to do that.’ Mr Adeyemi shakes his head. ‘It’s not your job.’
‘I haven’t done my job properly with Okie since I met him.’ I lean forward, almost pleading. ‘Honestly, if you’re OK with it, I’d love to help. I can research the support and resources available to Okie in the time I’d usually be preparing for lessons.’ I lean back. ‘And anyway, it’s good to be adaptable.’
Mr Adeyemi thinks for a second, blowing hot steam across his coffee cup. He takes a sip, nods, and then smiles. ‘If you’re happy then I’m more than happy.’
‘Great.’ I feel a rush of excitement. ‘I think you should speak to his other tutors and ask them to switch to A Level past papers during his sessions. I’ll sort out booking him in for his exams.’
‘That sounds like a good idea.’ He nods and stands up, but pauses for a second, his hand on the back of his chair. He looks at me. ‘Do you think he can do it?’
I pull on my coat and swing my bag onto my shoulder. ‘I know he can.’
* * *
I’m buzzing all the way to my next lesson, cycling twice as fast as I usually do. Halfway there, I pull over and put my earbuds in. I dial Katie’s number before setting off again.
‘Adam?’ she answers, and I hear the noise of the TV in the background.
‘Guess what!’ I say breathlessly.
‘Hang on, before I forget,’ she cuts in and I clamp my mouth closed. ‘Chloe called, said she’s been trying to get hold of you for ages.’
My stomach drops. ‘Oh, right.’
‘She sounded a bit frantic. You ignoring her?’
‘No, no.’ I ease off the pedals slightly, my mood plummeting.
‘Right.’ She sounds nonplussed, but doesn’t push it. ‘Anyway, what did you want to tell me?’
‘Oh.’ It takes me a second to drag my mind back to the reason for my call. ‘Erm, I’m going to tutor Okie into university.’
‘Who? The one you always feel terrible about?’
‘Yeah, the one whose father works himself to death to pay for tutoring he doesn’t need.’
‘That’s good,’ she says, but I can tell she’s distracted.
‘Yeah.’ My bubble is burst, but I shake my head and press on. ‘We’re going to do past papers, and I’m going to see if I can get in touch with a few different universities to see what support they offer, and—’
‘Oh, Adam, I’ve got to go — the window cleaner’s here,’ Katie says apologetically as the doorbell goes. ‘Sorry, we’ll speak when you get home this evening?’
‘No problem, yeah, of course.’ I say goodbye and ring off, all the excitement I felt a moment ago evaporated. I try to bring it back, but I am suddenly unsettled. I push it down and pedal harder, weaving my way through traffic towards my next student’s house.