Then Hannah blew when I told her about it tonight. Another mistake. See why I don’t talk? But she doesn’t get it. I’m a twenty-three-year-old woman who has never been with a guy, never really even kissed a guy, and clearly can’t speak to one. Who could understand that? My idea of romance comes from Jane Austen—and I was scandalized when Darcy and Lizzy kissed at the end of that BBC movie.
So you see, I’m not trying to be clueless. I simply am. Hannah said I need to get out of my head more, but if that is what happens, why should I? If I hurt people, shouldn’t I stay in there permanently?
“How could you do that? He hung around for two years studying with you, asking you out and calling you. And then this past year, the e-mails, the texts—he’s put himself out there constantly for you. What were you thinking?” She was yelling, and Hannah never yells.
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know? Sam, you’ve got to start living in the real world.”
“My life hasn’t exactly been sheltered, Hannah.”
“Yes, it has. You’ve been knocked around, but you were sheltered all right. You lived in your books.”
“That’s not true. ‘There are just a lot of different sides to me. If there was just one, it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn’t be half so interesting.’”
“Are you serious?” Hannah stared at me. “Sam, you gave me the book, and that’s what you inscribed in the cover.”
“Stop pushing me!” I cried. I didn’t remember having given her Anne of Green Gables.
To her credit, Hannah backed off.
“What color are Dan’s eyes?” she asked so softly that I almost missed it.
I stared at her. I couldn’t see the point of her question, and I certainly didn’t know the answer.
“Oh, Sam. You never even saw him.” She sounded disappointed. I remembered the tone from when she told me about her tae kwon do. It formed a connection between Hannah and Dan—an uncomfortable one.
I did then what I always do when I feel pulled outside myself. I ran. Literally. I grabbed my shoes and left Hannah sitting in my cottage. Kyle was outside Buckhorn as I dashed out, so I invited him to come along. We knocked out five miles. He didn’t talk. Maybe he’ll never talk. But perhaps that’s for the best. I’d only let him down.
After that, I was calm enough to call Dan and apologize—a new and highly uncomfortable habit for me. I tried three times, but he never picked up. I left a message, but I don’t expect him to call me back. I blew it. Someone was right in front of me, liked me, and I lost him. I’d like another chance. I’d like more chances with so many people. Do I get more chances?
Well, Mr. Knightley, here ends my chance with you. It’s time to mail this. I’m glad you don’t have a real name and this isn’t a real friendship, because I would just mess it up. Clearly my comfort zone doesn’t stretch far, because I’ve enjoyed these letters more than anything, and I will never know you or the color of your eyes.
Farewell, friend . . .
Sam
AUGUST 29
Dear Mr. Knightley,
It’s been over two months, and I know you never expected to hear from me again. I never expected to write. But Medill’s admissions director called—I got in!
Someone backed out and I was next on the wait list. I asked her to hold my spot while I checked on my grant, and she gave me two days. Father John is probably calling your foundation right now, so this will be redundant soon—but I felt it worth a letter regardless.
I want to go to Medill, Mr. Knightley. And if given this chance, I promise I won’t fail.
Sincerely,
Samantha Moore
SEPTEMBER 3
Dear Ms. Moore,
As I am sure Father John has told you—the grant is yours. Mr. Knightley instructed me to wire your tuition directly to Northwestern University. You are enrolled. Medill will contact you directly with all further details.
Sincerely,
Laura Temper
Personal Assistant to
G. Knightley
SEPTEMBER 7
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Thank you. Thank you. Online registration begins tomorrow at seven a.m. Wish me luck. I don’t know how hard it is to get classes. It took me a few semesters to get some at Roosevelt, and I only have four quarters at Medill. Did you know it’s a fifteen-month program? I decided to specialize in long feature and magazine writing, so those courses are first on my list. I’ll keep you posted.
I should also tell you I’m moving back to Grace House. I don’t want to, but I must. I like my little apartment and my sense of freedom, but school will suffer if I work two jobs. I already learned that lesson. This time I will take Hannah’s advice immediately and move back to Grace House where I can live for free.
Furthermore (the information doesn’t stop, does it?), I gave my notice at Starbucks today. I thought my boss would balk at my short tenure . . . That’s not true, I worried she’d be thrilled to see me go. I’ve been so scared to mess up that I do it daily.
I’m happy to report that she landed nicely in the middle. She said she was very excited for me, but would miss me. She called me an “asset to the team.” Never been one of those before. It felt good. And I’ll miss working there. Everyone was nice without being nosy. So while the friendships—if you can call them that—weren’t deep, at least they weren’t uncomfortable.
Everything’s falling into place . . . ahhh . . . not everything: I’m safe from becoming too comfortable.
As I left a meeting with Father John today, he asked me to stop by the track and find Kyle.
“Why?”
I want to leave Kyle alone. I haven’t seen him since I moved out in June and thought I’d give him a wide berth once I move back . . . He unsettles me.
“He has an appointment with me, and I suspect he’ll try to skip it. He runs the track after school. Would you pop over and encourage him to return?”
Encourage Kyle? “He won’t listen to me. Send someone else.”
“Give it a try.” Father John’s tone told me this was not a request. He continued, “He’s at that track every day.”
“He’s a good runner. Did he join the cross-country team?”
“No. The coach and I discussed it, but Kyle won’t talk about it. Won’t talk to anyone. He just runs the track after school.” Father John dropped his voice. “I’m worried, Sam.”
“This is not about some appointment. You’re up to something. What do you want from me?”
“I want you to talk to him. You’ve been there, kiddo. And running was your escape. You weren’t so different at fourteen.”
“I’ve tried.”
Father John lifted his eyebrows.
I sighed. “I did. I tried in June. Just let me leave him alone.”
“Don’t be that person, Sam—the one who leaves. I’m asking you to try again. As a favor to me, if not for Kyle.”
Was he pushing this for Kyle or for me? I’m always the first to leave, figuratively if not literally.
“Fine.” I walked out of Father John’s office feeling part put out and part called out.
Kyle was easy to spot. The football team was in the center of the field, but he was the only kid circling the track. I watched him for a few minutes. His face was shuttered. There was no joy, no freedom, in his run.
“Hey,” I called. “I’m not wearing running shoes. Will you walk with me a minute?”
“Why?”
“Father John sent me to find you. He’s worried about you.”
“That old—”
“Don’t denigrate him.”
“Huh?”
“You can hate me, hate anybody, but show Father John respect. He cares about us. Might be the only one who does. And if you are anything like me—which he seems to think you are—he’ll get you out of more scrapes and give you more love than you’ll ever repay. Remember that.”
Kyle said nothing, but he walked with me. As we walked, I r
ealized I didn’t want to leave Kyle alone. Suddenly, faced with him, I wanted to reach out. I can’t explain it, but the connection is real—even if it’s only one-sided.
“I’m moving back to Grace House,” I told him. “Do you want to run more?”
“No.” He kept by my side. Not ahead or behind.
“I’m not leaving, Kyle. I’m moving back for another year and a half.”
“So?” He still didn’t leave.
“I’ll ask you to run every day then. Eventually I hope you’ll say yes.” I stopped and stared at him. His eyes were shiny, unsure. He seemed so small at that moment. Granted, his shoulders are getting broad and his feet are huge, but he’s fourteen and that’s still young.
“Tomorrow I get off at the library at five. I’ll meet you here and we’ll do some speed work.”
“We ain’t friends.”
“Believe whatever you want. Just be here.” I turned and walked away. “And don’t miss your appointment with Father John,” I called over my shoulder.
Kyle’s probably right, Mr. Knightley. We ain’t friends, but I don’t think he hates me, and that’s something.
Sincerely,
Sam
SEPTEMBER 11
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Classes start Monday. I got all my first choices and took the ‘L’ up to Evanston yesterday to pick up course packets and books. It freaked me out. It was one thing to visit the campus as some strange swan-song farewell, but now I have to fit into that place. I want to fit into that place. I got so worked up I practically hyperventilated on the ride back. A man forced a teenager to give me his seat.
While sitting there, I slapped on a thick layer of Edmond Dantes. He’s my go-to guy for any fight. Have you read The Count of Monté Cristo? After being framed for murder and imprisoned for years, Edmond finally escapes, finds a huge treasure, and creates the persona of the Count of Monte Cristo. He then returns home to exact revenge—cleverly, coldly, and systematically destroying each man who ruined his life. And he does it with exquisite manners, impeccable style, and an aura of sophistication. Ruthless.
Charlotte Lucas, on the other hand, could never survive at Medill, and Fanny Price wouldn’t try. Even Jane Eyre would recognize her limitations, and she’s as strong as they come. So I’ve been trying on small doses of Edmond. By the time I reached Grace House yesterday, I felt strong. Then came Kyle . . .
As we left for our run, he seemed silent, almost sullen.
“What’s up, Kyle?”
No answer.
“You know, some conversation will enliven this run.”
He stopped and glared at me. “Who are you?”
“I—”
“Forget it.” He turned away.
“Fine, run away, Kyle. You coward.” Edmond challenges. Edmond never backs down.
“Coward? Me? Why’d you ask me to run? This some charity thing?” Kyle’s voice cracked.
And that took care of Edmond. Kyle’s a kid—a searching kid—and I had attacked him again.
“No. It’s not some charity thing.” I deflated, like a balloon with a slow leak, not a pop. I shriveled and floated down. “I’m sorry, Kyle. Don’t leave. Just run with me a few minutes. Please.”
I think he heard the plea in my voice because he simply turned back and ran. I caught up and neither of us spoke for about thirty minutes. I picked up the tempo until we were running probably 6:50s for the last two miles.
At the end we both hung over our knees. My face felt so hot: sweat, blood, everything pounding in it.
“You okay?” he whispered between gulps of air.
“Yeah.” I stood and looked at him. I decided to go for honesty. Running strips me of my inhibitions. Which is one reason I usually run alone. “I’m sorry, Kyle. It’s not that easy for me. Sometimes I get so scared I sort of . . . hide . . . in my books.”
He stared blankly at me.
“Come on, you must do something . . . to keep from being afraid?” I was surprised to hear myself ask that question—more surprised that I wanted an answer.
“Beat up Jaden ’cause Nolan dissed me. Jaden didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”
I wanted to pounce. Jaden is a small nine-year-old sweetheart. But a voice deep inside told me to shut up. Let Father John correct his defense mechanisms, not me.
“Hiding in books is like beating up Jaden.”
“But you’re all grown up.”
That struck me as funny and I tried to laugh. “Go figure. All grown up and still hiding.” The laughter came out as a pathetic wheeze with a snort at the end. “I guess I don’t know how to stop, Kyle.”
He stared at me again. What was he supposed to say?
“Hey, you want to see a movie tonight?” I can only take so much personal reflection.
“What?”
“Redemption opened last week. I bet your supervisor would let me take you. It’s PG-13. Wait, I heard you just turned fourteen. Wanna go?”
“Yeah!”
So there you go. I took Kyle to the movies. He was pretty good company too. He didn’t talk much, but after all my wallowing this afternoon, I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to enjoy the show and sexy Cole Barker.
Sincerely,
Sam
P.S. Okay, I can’t help myself. I tried to sign off, but I can’t . . .
You’re going to think I’m some silly teenage groupie, but I’ve got to tell you about Redemption and you’ve got to see it. If you haven’t read any of Powell’s books, start with that one.
Then go see the movie. They get Cole Barker perfectly. He is so adorable and handsome and tough, yet vulnerable . . .
I’ll stop. Please don’t tell anyone I gushed like this. It’s embarrassing how much I loved that movie. I think I’ll sneak out after my shift at the library this afternoon and see it again. Do you ever see a film twice?
Oh . . . how could I forget? See what Cole did to me? Hannah got engaged last night. I saw her when I dropped off some boxes at Independence Cottage this morning. She lifted her left hand, squealed, pulled me to the bench in the courtyard, and gushed the whole story—without drawing a breath.
The ring is gorgeous, Mr. Knightley. A beautiful diamond set in a circle of gold. I held Hannah’s hand up to admire it, then dropped it, a little too forcefully. She shot me a questioning glance, but I think she understood. I felt that little-girl yearning for Prince Charming play across my face. I thought that died long ago. Clearly not—probably Cole’s fault.
She started her story in a dreamy voice. “Matt took me to our favorite restaurant, Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder, last night. There was a two-hour wait, so I told him we should go somewhere else. He was so tense, but he refused to budge. We waited and chatted and drank Chianti. But he kept fidgeting. Finally we got a booth.”
“A pizza place? For a proposal?”
“I know it doesn’t sound romantic, but it is. The booths have high backs and the lighting is dim. You’re alone in a crowded room.”
“Did he ask you while you waited?”
“No. When we sat down, he reached for my hand and said the night was perfect. I couldn’t quite figure that out. He was so distracted, and his palms were sweaty. I started freaking out and kept asking, ‘What’s wrong? What are you not telling me?’
“I was sure he was moving or dumping me, but he kept stroking my hand and saying, ‘Everything is perfect.’ But it wasn’t, and by the end of dinner I was a wreck.”
“And?” She was getting long-winded. I needed the proposal.
“After we left, we walked a few blocks to a park and sat on a bench. We searched for stars. Then he got down on one knee in front of me.” She paused, and I leaned forward. “And he took my hand and asked me to marry him.”
“That’s it?” I sat back. “You’re worse than Austen. You might as well say that his sentiments had ‘undergone so material a change’ or that ‘his affections and wishes’ were unchanged. Anything is better than nothing! She never tells you what’s actually
said either.”
Hannah flushed red. “Don’t do that.”
At first I thought the red was embarrassment, but her tone hinted at anger.
“What?”
“Compare my proposal from my real fiancé to one of your books. This is my life and I’m inviting you into it. Don’t belittle it by quoting fiction.”
“ ‘I wish you all imaginable happiness,’ Hannah.” I was mad, and I threw that out just to spite her.
“Forget it, Sam. I don’t know who you’re quoting, but I can tell you are. I thought you’d enjoy my story and I wanted to share it with you, but you aren’t even here. I don’t know why I bother. I’ve got work to do.” She stood up and walked to the office.
She was right, of course. When she told me about the dinner, I got carried away. I didn’t want restaurant details; I wanted emotional details—for me. I desperately wanted some guy’s hands to be sweaty because he couldn’t live another moment without knowing if I’d marry him. And I lashed out at her because I was jealous. If I couldn’t have the reality, I wanted the story. But it was her story and her proposal.
Maybe I shouldn’t go see that movie again . . .
SEPTEMBER 14
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m officially learning to be a reporter, so I will report. Here are my classes: Audience Insight, Urban Issues Reporting, Long-Form Nonfiction Narrative, and Magazine Writing. I have the same professor for Urban Issues and Long Form, Dr. Russell Johnson. You may have heard of him. He’s won multiple Pulitzers and was a big civil rights guy. He actually marched on Selma with Dr. King when he was thirteen. From what I gather, Johnson is Journalism. Capital J.
Everyone is in awe. I had both Johnson classes today, and all the students were talking about what an honor it is to work with Johnson, how much Johnson will teach us, what doors a recommendation from Johnson can open, and how impressing Johnson should be the sum of all effort. As if that wasn’t intimidating enough, today the man himself loomed over me and bellowed like a drill sergeant. I almost wet my pants. No kidding. He frightened me that much.
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 4
