Dear Mr. Knightley (23 page)
Still no summer internship. Most of my class is placed, but I’m still here—still writing, still clawing at the ledge, and still applying for jobs . . .
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’ve decided to drop out of school and trek with the Yucanube tribe of Guana Lampusata through the mountain pass of Indrogolia.
Josh is most supportive. We plan to be married in a Hitakutiku ceremony during the first full moon of the spring vernal equinox. Thank you so much for your support.
With deep and abiding joy,
Saman-tha
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I doubt my April Fool’s letter tricked you even for a moment. I thought about striking closer to home, just:
I’m marrying Josh and he wants me to drop out of school.
But when I typed that out, it didn’t feel funny.
But I do have news to report that’s not a joke. I confirmed it, twice. Ms. Ellis from the
Tribune
called this morning.
“Sam, Susan Ellis here. I want to offer you the summer internship. Are you still available?”
“Yes.” I played it so cool. “What happened?”
“Our candidate accepted another post. I have the spot and I admire tenacity, Sam, and good writing. The six treatments you sent were fantastic. I will run them as a series beginning next month.”
“Really?”
Very articulate.
“Really. I may be wrong about you, Sam. I thought you needed more experience, but you may simply need a launch pad. Internship starts June 15. I need your answer by tomorrow.”
“I’ll take it, and I’m telling you now. This isn’t a joke?”
“No.”
“Seriously, you’re offering me an internship? At the
Chicago Tribune
?”
“Yes, Sam. I’ll send you paperwork as proof,” she laughed. “Glad you’re on board. I think you’ll enjoy it here.”
Can you believe it? I’m so excited, but still not articulate. I hope she’s right about that whole launch pad thing. What if I
don’t have the talent? No, I can’t think that way . . . I’m going to the
Trib
!
I called Josh. “Honey, I knew you could do it.” He made me feel loved and successful. We’re going out tomorrow to celebrate. The
Tribune
!
I also called Kyle.
“I started all this!” he yelled. I could feel his pride. He deserves the credit, and I’m the first to admit it.
“You did, Kyle. And I can never thank you enough.”
“Ditto.”
“What’d I do?”
“You stayed, Sam. You never left.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.”
We both got teary so, naturally, we hung up. Kyle’s doing well now—inside and out. He’s calmer, not predatory and angry. He’s also kinder. I think when you’re fighting for your life, kindness becomes a luxury you can’t afford. Seeing it in Kyle lets me know he feels safe.
And speaking of Kyle, I’ve got a secret. You cannot tell anyone. No one. It’s so fragile that the telling might shatter it: Coach Ridley and his wife are taking foster parenting classes for Kyle.
They’re in their late fifties, with two grown kids and a couple grandkids—great for Kyle, but not so great for approval from DCFS. So Coach Ridley made me promise not to tell him. As if I would. Kyle couldn’t stand another “almost.” Placements are rare at his age, and if this fails I say he’s at Grace House for good. I don’t want that for him. It’s so lonely. That’s what no one shares: the deep sense of aloneness that pervades a settlement home versus a family, any family.
So I’m keeping my mouth shut and my fingers crossed. I’ve found wishing and wanting something too badly makes it disappear. The
Tribune
better not disappear. If it sticks, I’ll rethink my theory. If Coach Ridley fosters Kyle, I’ll throw it out completely.
Back to work,
Sam
Dear George,
Do you think we should be on a first-name basis? Consider it . . .
I’ve got three more weeks of school and then the
Tribune
. I still can’t think about it without getting giddy. I submitted my paperwork and no one has called to take it away. Life is beginning to feel real and hopeful and exciting. That’s very new for me.
Now that I think and act and speak as Sam, I sometimes miss my alter egos. Occasionally I page through my books to read their more memorable lines, and then I return them to the shelf and let them be. But they’re allowed to come out with Alex, and that’s fun, because I’m not hiding—I’m showing off! The other day we had a battle via texting, and I lost.
Alex: Heard you got an internship at the Trib. You’ll have more pub credits than me soon.
Me: I will do my best, but doing one’s best does not always answer.
Alex: Nice try, Jane Eyre. You shall meet with many stumbling blocks, no doubt. But you’ll persevere. :)
Me: Stumped.
Alex: Victory!
Me: Teazing, teazing man!
Alex: Gotta go, Lizzy. Bye, Sam.
It took me three hours of poring over my books before I found it in Gaskell’s
North and South
. Is that too geeky to admit?
Me: North and South. Got you!
Alex: I’ll say. It’s 3 am. Go to sleep!
Me: So sorry. Go back to bed. Delete message . . . Off to die.
Alex: No dying. Would miss you this summer. Sleep well.
Thankfully, humiliating myself with Alex is not the only way to engage my books. I found another: Isabella and I are reading
Emma
together. We reached Box Hill yesterday and Emma insulted Miss Bates. We almost cried. I was thrilled Isabella felt the emotion of it: Emma’s confusion and embarrassment, retaliation, then remorse. It was awful.
Austen’s descriptions of human nature are spot-on. Isabella and I both recognize them in our friends. Like the Box Hill participants, my fellow journalists size each other up, cut each other down, and make alliances/friendships where they benefit us most. It’s pretty brutal right now. Isabella told me about the girls in her class gossiping and backstabbing each other for attention—from the teachers, from the boys, from everyone. It sounded just as bad.
She also said something about Josh I couldn’t place. We were sprawled on my couch chatting when she commented on my necklace.
“Thank you. Josh gave it to me.” I fingered the necklace.
“I figured that. It’s pretty.”
“Why’d you think it was from him?”
“Josh likes the way things look. Like Mr. Elton.”
We moved on, but her comment struck me. Mr. Elton is a mercenary fop. He only wants Emma, rejects Harriet, and then marries Augusta Hawkins for money and appearances. There’s no substance behind Mr. Elton. But that’s a side of
human nature we can’t deny. We want our coveted place in the sun. I keep tripping over Isabella’s comment. Maybe she doesn’t understand Mr. Elton? Or Josh? She’s only twelve.
But speaking of
Emma
and coveted places: Ashley got her spot in New York at Sotheby’s Wine Auction House. She doesn’t want work in English literature. Never did. She just came to NU to get away from her mother. I’m glad she’s pursuing what she actually likes—maybe she’s tired of hiding too. She loves talking about wine.
We’ve gotten closer the past couple months. Though she appears to be an Emma, she’s vulnerable too. She fears life is passing her by, fears she doesn’t measure up, fears she isn’t worthy. Not that she says all this, but she lets the chinks in her armor show more now.
Yesterday we saw one of Ashley’s friends and a woman coming toward us. Ashley paled, turned around, and took a different path. I followed.
“What just happened?” I asked.
“I can’t see him. He’s been dating her for a month now.”
“Will? You two are friends.”
“Yes. No. I mean, I love him, Sam. I have since I was eighteen.”
I stopped walking, stunned. “You mentioned him that night. The night you killed my eyebrows. You said he was a silly boy. You love him?”
“That’s what makes him silly.” She wasn’t laughing. “He’s one of Constance’s college friends. He hung around my senior year. He worked at JP Morgan and used to come to dinner and stuff. He’s never noticed me.”
“You never told me this. How is it you’re both here?”
“I knew he was coming to Kellogg. English lit got me out of New York, so why not here?”
“Seriously?”
“I know. Please don’t tell, Sam. It’s so pathetic. Please?”
“I’ll never say a word. I promise. But, Ash, have you told him?”
“Of course not! You don’t tell a guy that he’s wrong about you, that you’re not some flighty debutante who giggles all the time, that you’re real and that you work hard. He’s supposed to notice. Will’s never noticed. No one notices.”
“I’m sorry, Ashley.”
We walked in silence. I’m sure she was pondering Will. I pondered myself, Josh, my friends, my life . . .
Changing, being real and becoming who you want to be, is hard work. Right now, I’d love a good chat with Jane Eyre. She never lost herself. Not once.
I may need to find her,
just for a moment,
Sam
P.S. I’ll leave it because I wrote it, but you’re not a “George.” It feels awkward. I’ll stick with “Mr. Knightley.” Don’t you agree?
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Johnson gave me a C! Everyone’s shocked that a C pleases me, but it does. It really does. And that was only part of my great day . . . Today was my first at the
Tribune
and it was terrifyingly extraordinary. I took the Metra early and savored every step from the Loop out to Michigan Ave. I grabbed a latté and felt very chic. But let’s be honest . . . I grinned like an idiot.
When I arrived, the lobby was full of interns anxiously awaiting our orientation program. College kids get the jobs in the mail room, copy service, and the newsroom. Only two writing spots are reserved for grad students. The other writer’s name is Mike and he’s from Columbia’s program. He doesn’t say much, but he seems nice. And shy. And cute. Clark Kent?
Orientation culminated in photos and a swanky little badge that I get to clip on my waist each day and flash to the security guard. We then ate lunch in the small café at the bottom of the building, where Mike and I sat with some college girls who flirted shamelessly with him. The poor guy is going to have his hands full. He didn’t mind it, but he didn’t engage them either. He seemed fairly serious about his sandwich.
