Dear Mr. Knightley (20 page)
Dear Mr. Knightley,
You’re the first—second—to hear the news: Johnson loved my article. He was stunned. I’m stunned. You have no idea what this means, Mr. Knightley. Maybe you do.
He called my cell this afternoon and demanded I come to his office. I dropped my tuna fish sandwich and left Debbie and Ashley at Jimmy John’s, worried for my survival.
He stood as I entered and pointed to the chair across from him. “Sit down and tell me about your feature.” He sat and bounced back and forth in his office chair, tapping the armrest with his fingers.
“It’s my story, in my voice. It’s a beginning if I have any hope of writing or staying here.”
“Hope of writing? This is it, Moore. I see you. And even though you say it’s your story, you’ve approached it with astounding objectivity and subtlety—very impressive. Where’s it been hiding?”
I sat there a minute.
How to explain?
“Sometimes it was too hard to be me. Eventually I forgot how.” I looked toward the window to calm my breathing. “I literally broke over Christmas. My appendix burst, and I don’t think it was a coincidence. And I was sure you were going to kick me out, so I went back to Grace House. I thought I’d move back in and find work, but Kyle got me talking, and . . . this is what came out of us.”
“I added a lot of pressure, didn’t I?” His voice was quiet and concerned.
“You were right. I’ve been picking subjects that couldn’t touch me or ones that I could hide behind—until this. Kyle started us, and then we couldn’t stop. We needed to get it out.”
“Tell me about Kyle. Tell me about everything.” He bounced forward and leaned over the desk—getting closer to the story.
And that’s what I gave him. My story. I told him everything. It was another one of those cathartic afternoons: I talked, he asked questions, he pulled out a ham sandwich to share, and three hours later he stretched and said, “You’re going to be fine, Moore. This is good work. I’m sending it to the
Trib
.”
“Really?”
“It’s that good. What’d you think? You can’t use this simply for a grade. I told you, Moore, we make careers here. The
Tribune
awards a couple internships each summer—not errand-boy jobs, but the real deal, writing and investigating. This may be strong enough to land you a spot.”
He noticed my fallen expression. “What is it? Your mouth turned down.”
“Sir, as I said, I’ve hidden my past for a while now. And there’s Kyle to consider. He may not want this published.”
“Tell you what, talk to Kyle. While I like my writers to stand behind their work, pseudonyms might be appropriate here.”
“Thank you.”
“E-mail me the piece with the names changed tonight, and I’ll send it in.”
“Thank you. I’m completely honored.” I stood to leave.
“Don’t be. You deserve it, Moore. And if you get that
internship, it’ll push you harder than I do. You’re green, but I suspect you need challenge to keep you going.” He reached out to shake my hand. “Well done, Moore. I’m proud of you.”
I grasped his hand in a daze and turned to leave.
“And, Moore?” Johnson’s tone told me that I wasn’t out of the woods yet.
“Yes, sir?”
“This is outstanding, but it’s only a quarter of my assessment for a concentration in feature writing. I don’t grade on potential. Unless you want to switch specialties, all your work must come up to scratch.”
“It will.” There was nothing more to say, so I bounced out on little puffs of joy. I know the last comment was a downer, but it was also very hopeful. Johnson is proud of me and, I think, believes my work can improve. He wouldn’t send me as a possible candidate to the
Tribune
otherwise. So I’m not going to talk myself out of being pleased and extremely relieved.
As I sat on a bench to call Kyle, I got scared.
Published? I’ll be exposed to the world. Am I ready for that?
Kyle wouldn’t hear of pseudonyms. “We use our own names or nothing. We did this to be free. Fake names ain’t free.”
“Kyle, you can’t stop me.” I felt backed into a corner.
He didn’t answer for an eternity. “I can’t.” He took a deep breath. I could hear it shudder over the line. “Sam, I’m fifteen next summer; guys I know have babies or they’re dyin’ on the streets. I’m past being a kid and I got choices to make. To be the kinda man I see in Coach, the kind Father John talks about . . . I won’t hide anymore, Sam. Don’t make me ashamed of my life. Do what you want, but I got no part in it.” He hung up.
I sat stunned. I’ve replayed his words in my mind, Mr.
Knightley, and I’m so ashamed. I thought only of me, and I made Kyle feel like
less
. I can’t have it both ways, can I? It’s that moment. We go forward or we’re done, trapped forever. I will never hold Kyle back.
I e-mailed a note to Dr. Johnson:
Thank you so much for this opportunity. Please submit the article with no changes and use our real names.
I sent it an hour ago and I still feel shaky. There are so many people I need to warn—so much to say. What if the
Tribune
actually prints it? I’m going running . . .
Sincerely,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
School is moving along well. My favorite class is actually statistics. It’s a nice mental break for me—crunching numbers is far easier than figuring out how to reveal yourself in print while still “maintaining objectivity and perspective.” It’s a fine line I haven’t learned to walk, but I’m getting better help now. Johnson is more constructive in his criticism, like he believes I’m worth his time. It’s a good feeling and makes me work harder. Debbie noticed it and congratulated me on getting out of the doghouse.
I haven’t told anyone about the article yet. Even if the
Trib
doesn’t publish it, I need to be honest with my friends. And I need to talk to Josh. He came to my apartment last night. I cooked him dinner before we watched a movie. Afterward I thought I’d tell him, but he seemed interested in other things . . . so I never said a word. Part of me thinks it should affect nothing. Another part knows it changes everything. I called Hannah this morning in a panic.
“You’ll be fine, Sam. I’ve never seen you so free. Don’t step back now.”
“It’s too hard, Hannah. I already feel raw. What if I retreat into my books?”
“You won’t. Besides, how could you ever want to be Fanny Price?”
I laughed. “You’re reading
Mansfield Park
? Fanny’s dull at
times, but she has her uses. She’s very capable of fading into the background, and she’s a perfect moral compass.”
“Are you channeling her lately?”
I was confused. “I’m trying not to project anyone, remember?”
“I don’t mean that. I mean the moral compass thing. Josh?”
“What about him?” I said, although I knew what she meant.
“Intimacy isn’t always about love. You’ve got to talk to him.”
“We’re not sleeping together! I—” I clamped my mouth shut. I never blurt that out, because no one would understand why we aren’t.
“That’s good.”
Now Hannah shocked me. No one else has said that.
“You think so?” I tried to act casual, but I desperately wanted to know her thoughts.
“Absolutely. It complicates everything, changes everything. I believe if you’re not married to the guy, that shouldn’t be happening.”
“That’s not very forward thinking of you, Hannah.” I wanted to push her. I wanted answers.
“Put it in your terms. Take all those Austen and Brontë characters who went astray. They weren’t villains, but they paid a price. Natural consequences for making poor choices. Those consequences still exist today. You’re always saying that’s what makes Austen so good, right? That she portrayed human nature accurately, and that human nature hasn’t changed.”
“Yes?”
“Then look at Lydia Bennet, Maria Bertram, Marianne Dashwood—”
“Marianne?” I never told her about my musings that Josh and I are a modern Colonel Brandon and Marianne.
“Yes, Marianne. She lost her sense of right and wrong. She thought that because loving Willoughby felt good, it had to be right. Later she knew her mistake and she regretted it.”
We didn’t talk much after that. I was too confused. Hannah knew she had dropped a bomb on me.
“Sam, I’m thrilled about the article. Call if you need me. I’m always here.” She paused again. “Sam, I love you. You know that, right?”
My eyes teared. “Thanks, Hannah.” I hung up the phone. Hannah’s known the real me and stood by me for five years. I think she does love me. And although I have only recently come to see her clearly, I trust her. I haven’t given her enough credit.
Now I don’t know what to think, Mr. Knightley. I thought I was backward about this whole intimacy thing, and now I wonder. Every time Josh pushes, I back away. I want to talk to him about it, but I know it’s not a discussion he’ll like, and I don’t know what to say. He still gets silent when I leave dinners to head north. Maybe I’m making this too complicated. Maybe I should address it head on. The new me is supposed to be filled with courage, right?
And I’d better get some because between this and my article . . . there’s a lot of talking to do.
Love,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
The
Tribune
bought my piece. I can’t decide if I should jump for joy or throw up. They will publish it as a Sunday feature next month. There are so many people to talk to now—and there’s a deadline. What have I gotten myself into?
There is one person I won’t have to tell, though, and I thought I’d feel good about that—now I’m not so sure. As I told the Muirs about the article and the internship interview (Susan Ellis, the
Trib
’s Deputy Editor, called to schedule it), Alex came to mind, and my heart jumped to my throat. I don’t want him to know my past. Call me a coward, but in this case I don’t care. He doesn’t need to know. So I extracted a promise from the Muirs not to tell him.
The professor wasn’t pleased. “Why? Do you think he’ll use it against you? Put it in a book?”
“Of course not.” Those thoughts hadn’t even occurred to me.
“Then why the subterfuge?”
Subterfuge?
“He doesn’t need to know. It’s not important to him, and I don’t want any more drama.” I hoped the professor might believe my oh-so-casual approach. He didn’t.
He leaned forward and templed his fingers in front of his chin. He looked remarkably like Father John at that moment, and I fully expected a lecture. But it didn’t come—only a few sentences that carried more power than any of Father John’s speeches.
“I won’t tell, Sam. It’s your past—your story to share. But
remember: it doesn’t define you.” His words hung above us. “Never let something so unworthy define you.”
I got my promise of secrecy, but now it doesn’t feel good.
I’m going running,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Happy Valentine’s Day! I know it was yesterday, but still . . . Happy Valentine’s Day. I thought about the library yesterday. I bet they have a great LOVE display up. I need to visit there soon. Mr. Clayton and Mrs. G and the staff feel so far away. I e-mail occasionally, but that feels empty and impersonal. Everything feels that way—I barely have time to keep in touch with Kyle.
