Dear Mr. Knightley (15 page)
But post movie I feel differently about Scrooge. I watched the transformation play across the screen, and I saw his longing for love and community earlier in the story than I’d noticed in the book. From the beginning, I now suspect his isolation hurt him deeply. I watched as he painfully built each wall in his life and, even more dramatically, how he tore them down. It was both wonderful and unsettling.
Afterward the professor offered to drive me home, but Mrs. Muir invited me to spend the night.
“It’s so late to go home, dear. Why don’t you stay? There are clean sheets on the guest room bed and fresh toiletries in the bathroom.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Not at all. I want to try a new French toast recipe tomorrow, and Robert is hardly helpful. He says everything tastes good.”
“Everything does,” the professor protested.
“Stay, and then I’ll know the truth.” Mrs. Muir smiled at me.
“Samantha will be just as polite as I am, my dear. She won’t be objective at all . . . No, wait! She corrected my Shakespeare. Maybe she will give you an honest opinion. Let’s keep her.”
The professor laughed as I felt the color rise to my face.
He caught my arm. “Samantha, I value your little blunder, as you might regard it, and hope you take my teasing lightly.”
I simply nodded. Mrs. Muir took that as a yes to stay and led me to the guest room. My mind remained muddled as I brushed my teeth and turned out the lights. Then panic hit—the nightmares.
What was I thinking? What if I wake up my hosts?
I lay there for hours listening to the house settle and the clock tick. The room smelled like starch and lavender, and eventually I fell asleep. No dreams.
And that is how I know what one should eat and what one should do on Thanksgiving Day. The whole day played out like every movie and story I’ve ever seen or read.
But now school’s back in session and I’ve been researching, writing, and editing all day. I’m going bowling with the Conleys this evening, so that should be a good break. Josh is joining us—that was like pulling teeth.
“I don’t want to bowl, Sam. Come down here. We’ll go to dinner.”
“I’ve already accepted. Besides, I’d like them to meet you. They see your car in their driveway, they should know who drives it.”
“So if they meet me, and know it’s my car, you won’t kick me out so early?”
I thought about this and couldn’t see the link. “I guess.”
“Okay, bowling it is. I’ll be there by six.”
Maybe his point was that no one likes an unknown car in their driveway, but one accepts, even welcomes, the car of a friend. I still don’t get it. At least he’s coming. I think Isabella will like him. Every time we watch a movie, she asks if I think the actor is cute. And Josh is cute.
So I have a break coming in two hours—which is good because my head is about to explode. I’m sure most of my classmates are resting before the storm of exams in a couple weeks, but work presses me. I’m still at the bottom, Mr. Knightley. The
Evanston Review
rejected my last submission, by the way—so much for Johnson’s advice about getting encouragement from smaller papers. I can’t even get published there. I hate the bottom.
Back to work,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Do we ever get a break? Can’t we thrive? Why work to make our lot in life better if we keep getting beat down?
Kyle called Coach Ridley a couple days ago and asked him to take him to Grace House. Ridley did. Within hours Mr. Hoffman demanded Father John release Kyle and pressed kidnapping charges against the coach. Kidnapping? Can you believe it?
It won’t stick. Kyle started talking. Mr. Hoffman did hit Kyle. Father John called the police, and they took Kyle to DCFS. He recounted all kinds of abuse, to him and to the Hoffmans’ son, Brian. It sounded so awful that the police sought former kids placed with the Hoffmans to confirm. Four corroborated Kyle’s testimony.
The stories make you want to cry: standing in the corner for hours; beatings around the lower abdomen and butt, where marks wouldn’t be seen; getting chained to the kitchen table or to the bed at night. Horrid stuff. And things that wouldn’t leave visible marks once Kyle put on clothes. They were careful, which is even more disgusting. Kyle did actually give himself the bruises on his neck that Coach Ridley saw a few weeks ago, by falling out of a hiding place. That’s why he wouldn’t talk then. He was afraid no one would believe him.
So Kyle’s back at Grace House. He thinks he failed. I went down and had dinner with him tonight. I had plans with Josh, but canceled them. I lied and said I had a seminar.
“I forgot,” I told him. “It’s a makeup from when Professor Feinberg was sick last month.”
“All right. We’ll be at Twin Anchors on Sedgwick. Just come after. I’ll text you if we move on.”
“It’ll be late. I don’t want to take the ‘L’ at night.”
“Then take a cab. You take a cab home all the time when you come down.” He paused.
I know my fears frustrate him, but some are legitimate. Aren’t they?
“Forget it, Sam. I’ll call you tomorrow, and maybe you can come down this weekend. Downtown isn’t that far, you know?”
“I know.” I started to feel small and defensive. “I’m sorry, Josh. Listen, I gotta go. Have fun tonight.”
“Fine.” He then relented a little. “Work hard, okay? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
And that was it.
I like Josh, I really do. He’s a great kisser. Is that too much information? But he is. I love his arms around me. I love his smell. I love that when he walks next to me, I don’t fear steps behind me. But I don’t always feel he understands me, though that’s probably my fault. I haven’t always been honest with him. Like when we went bowling last week. Josh made the effort to come north and meet the Conleys, but I wasn’t honest at the end of the evening.
“Thank you so much for coming.”
“You’re making me leave? It’s only ten. Why meet them if I get kicked out early like always?”
“I’ve got a ton of work tonight. You remember exams.”
Josh relented. “I do.” He kissed me lightly. “No big deal. I’m busy tomorrow, but I’ll text you about this weekend.” And he left.
While I did need to study, I didn’t kick him out because of exams. I’d been watching Isabella study Josh the whole evening. She absorbed everything we said and every romantic gesture he made. Back at Grace House, when Father John told us to set an example for the younger kids, I couldn’t have cared less.
Let them figure it out on their own
. But Isabella matters to me. I want to set a good example for her. And with her bedroom window facing the garage and my apartment, I felt certain she’d be looking for Josh’s car long after her bedtime. Maybe I should have told Josh. Explained that girls have active imaginations . . . I don’t know.
But with that in mind—the importance of honest communication and setting a good example—I took a cab downtown to see Kyle after my last class this afternoon. And, boy, did we start out rough. We’re two peas in a pod, Kyle and I. At first he refused to talk and I couldn’t say anything meaningful. He was as low as I’ve ever seen him—no anger, only sorrow. I wished for a bit of his old fight.
I finally stopped my inane chatter and told him the truth about school and all my other struggles. It helped us both—shared failure is always a comfort. I don’t mean that flippantly. I mean that sharing my dismal grades, poorly written articles, limited friends, horrific nightmares, and even all the details from the Great Beat-down and its aftermath made me relatable to Kyle. We could talk. We were alike.
By dessert Kyle was sharing as well. And it helped. I could see it in his eyes. They started the night tight and predatory, rounded and softened during pizza, and showed flashes of laughter during ice cream. It made me smile.
And so tomorrow we begin a new day. Can we make it
better, Mr. Knightley? Can we make life “normal”? I want that more for Kyle than I want it for myself.
Sincerely,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Kyle and I talked for a long time this afternoon. He’s doing much better. I suspect he’ll be at Grace House permanently now. He said Dr. Wieland wants to up his meds, but agreed to hold off if Kyle promised to make all his counseling sessions. I’m proud of him, Mr. Knightley. If Kyle needs medication, great, but the fact that he’s trying to take ownership for his actions and emotions is good too. And he’s writing again! I get e-mails daily now. They’re more like laundry lists:
Ran 6 × 800s @ 3:20s with 3-minute rests. You can’t beat me now.
Got invite to Coach’s house for Christmas dinner.
Jaden fostered out. Miss him.
Hannah flipped me, ’cause she can. Gettin’ better at falling without breaking my butt. She says she’ll teach me.
Later, Kyle.
Some are chattier. I sent him some of my writing with the hopes he’d be proud of me. I don’t know if he even read them. I want someone to. To read them and say they’ve got merit. Say I have what it takes to be at Medill, to be a journalist.
Look, I’ll be honest here, Mr. Knightley. I’m rattled. I know I’m changing subjects, but this plays in the background of my every waking moment. Graduating college, I had a job and a life picked out. I earned it and it was mine. And I lost
it—all of it. Now I’m on to my second dream. What if I lose that too? There’s no landing pad now. I can’t return to Grace House, and I don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do. And I can’t give up. But how long do I have before Johnson takes this from me? This is the only place in the world I want to be.
I tried explaining all this to Josh last night, but I think it went over his head. He has this enviable and somewhat simple view of how the world works. My striving and angst don’t register with him.
“Sam, why do you get so worked up? Just get it done and move on. How hard can it be?”
“Johnson’s recommendation means a ton, but so does his respect. I want him to believe in me.” I felt like I was pleading simultaneously with both of them.
“Do the job and move on. You’ll graduate next January and never see the man again. Get through the class and get your degree.”
“Of course, you’re right. I should ‘keep my breath to cool my porridge’,” I said archly.
“What?”
“Nothing. It means I need to stop thinking and get the job done.”
“That’s my girl.” Josh sounded pleased, finally.
I ended the conversation feeling totally misunderstood. Maybe it would have been better if I could’ve seen Josh’s face, felt his arms around me. Sometimes I wonder if he even hears me. I haven’t seen him in a week, and we do better with closer contact. I guess I just miss him.
Thanks for listening,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Christmas break has started, and I’m shredded. I’m killing myself fixing articles and working on the January feature, but it’s all crap. I handed in that review of
The Merchant of Venice
, but I couldn’t find an objective yet warm tone for the article. I liked the production, but I couldn’t get perspective. And between work for all my classes and Josh, there was no time to think it through.
Josh wants to go out practically every night and calls for me to meet him downtown with his friends, and then it’s late and hard to get home on the Metra. I feel wasteful paying for so many cabs, but the ‘L’ still scares me. Night still scares me. I can’t decide if I’m exhausted from the late nights or the stress.