Dear Mr. Knightley (21 page)

He was proud of me about our names in the article and we’re good now. He’s doing great and still at Grace House. Coach Ridley put together a winter running plan for him, and he’s going to tackle the track team next month. His e-mails are full of Ridley, which is nice because I know from his tone that Ridley is good for him. Father John confirms that the coach is a solid man. Kyle needs that. And Kyle has a new girlfriend. Not sure if he needs that. I’m kidding. She sounds cute.

Alex sounds good too. He texted me yesterday.

Alex: Happy Valentine’s Day. Hallmark holiday, but still fun. Plans?

Me: Dinner with boyfriend then back to work. :)

Alex: Poor boyfriend. Have more fun.

Me: Come visit and I will. Muirs miss you.

Alex: Soon. Gotta go.

I can’t believe I wrote that. It sounded flirty. I meant to express a simple truth, but was so embarrassed when I read it over. Yet it’s true; I get electric whenever I receive a text and I
hang on every word the Muirs relay from him. I hope I haven’t crossed some line—one I don’t even know exists. But it was Valentine’s Day, and everyone gets to be flirty on Valentine’s Day, right? Besides, that silly text was the best fun of the day. Dinner with Josh wasn’t so rewarding . . .

It started well. Josh took me to Spago, which is very romantic. I had asked to go to Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder. After Hannah’s engagement story, I imagine it to be dark, cozy, and perfect. But Josh says the lines are always too long and he doesn’t trust a host who claims he can remember your face rather than write down your name. So, no go there.

But Spago was lovely; I’m not complaining. Josh pulled out all the stops: he held my hand, opened the car door for me, took my coat . . . everything. I felt cherished, adored, and beautiful. But, as is my way, I put my foot in it during dessert and the evening banked south.

Over a wonderful crème caramel, Josh started talking about the future and seemed to include me in his plans, so I felt it was time for honesty. I owed him that.

I pulled my article out of my bag and asked him to read it.

He pushed it aside. “Sam, I want to be with you tonight, not read your classwork.”

“It’s more than that. Read it, please?”

He sighed and flattened the pages on the table. As he read, I told him that the
Tribune
would be publishing it in a couple weeks. His eyes widened with excitement. Then his expression changed. He stopped after the first two pages and pushed it back.

“This is pretty disturbing, Sam. What were you thinking? Where’d you get all this?”

“That’s me, Josh. I’m this girl. Kyle and I wrote this over Christmas break while you were in Cincinnati.”

“This is what you were doing? I thought you were resting.”

“I was. I was healing in many ways.”

“Who’s Kyle? Did he stay with you in your apartment?”

“Kyle’s fourteen. He’s a foster kid who lives at Grace House Settlement Home. I went there after the hospital. It’s where I lived from about age fifteen until I came to Medill. Kyle and I worked on this for over a week, and then I went to the Muirs’ house. I told you that.”

“You told me about the Muirs. You never mentioned this.” He took back the paper and read more. “This is you . . . ,” he mumbled.

I sat silent. The article told him everything, and that was easier than talking. And this way, his eyes were looking down, focused on the pages. There are first moments when the eyes tell one’s real emotions, before the brain reminds them to bank and hide. Finally he looked up.

“Everyone reads the
Trib
, Sam. All Chicago will read this—all your friends, my friends, my co-workers. You should’ve given me a heads-up.”

I stared at him.

“Don’t give me that, Sam. You hand me this paper and expect me to be happy for you. I need time to digest this. And, by the way, Valentine’s Day was supposed to be fun.”

“I wanted to tell you the truth.”

“You did that.” He shook his head. We stared at each other. It was hard, but I refused to be the first to look away. He shifted his eyes and relented—a touch. “This my copy?”

I nodded, completely deflated.

“Sam, listen.” Josh reached over and lifted my chin. “I’m sorry. You’ve really caught me off guard. I’ll take this and read it again. Let’s enjoy tonight, okay?”

We made inane chatter and ate our dessert. He was mildly affectionate the rest of the evening, but distracted. I felt like he was going through the motions of being a boyfriend without feeling them.

He didn’t ask me to stay. He waited while I hailed a cab, and when it arrived he put his hands on both sides of my face and kissed me, long and slow. Kisses have meanings, I have learned: some are light and playful, others search, and others promise . . . This one? I pondered it and came to no decision—decidedly undetermined.

I feel the same way,

Sam

MARCH 5

Dear Mr. Knightley,

The
Tribune
interview was ten days ago. I didn’t write you because I didn’t know what to say. I do now; but I’ll keep this in order.

I met with Susan Ellis and Kevin McDermott downtown at the Tribune Tower. It was very exciting, which never works in my favor. I got nervous. I didn’t fall on my face, but I certainly didn’t blow them away. It was a mediocre interview—because, let’s face it, I’m mediocre. And while I worked hard not to retreat into well-worn fictional friends, making myself appear stellar was beyond my reach.

A few days after the interview, my article came out. The timing was good for me; this way, I entered the interview with a shot at a good first impression. The other way around? Game over.

I’m enclosing a copy for you. Can you believe the layout? No one told me it’d be a four-page spread, complete with pictures, bold type, inserts, the works. I almost regret sending them some of the photos. I assumed they wanted them for context, not content.

Kyle called, and I burst into tears when I heard his voice.

“We did it, Sam. We’re in print! Did you see my picture? We look great.”

“We sure do, Kyle.” And as soon as we hung up, there was a knock on my door. Mrs. Conley stood there with the paper in her hand.

“Sam, is this you?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Conley. I wanted to tell you. I hope you don’t think I’m a bad influence—” I couldn’t breathe.

“Stop, Sam. This doesn’t matter to us. Though it does explain a few things.” She smiled.

“It does?”

“My children fascinated you. The way you watched them, watched all of us. I felt like we were in a petri dish. And the way you talked.”

“Yeah, you probably met a lot of sides of me.”

“I only wish you’d told us. I’m sorry if we made you uncomfortable.”

“Please don’t say that.” My issues are not her responsibility.

My cell rang and startled us both. She quickly added, “I don’t want to keep you, but I want you to tell the kids. I won’t show them the article. How about dinner this week?”

“I’d like that.”

“Good. I’ll cook that lasagna you love. Thursday night?”

“It’s great. Thanks, Mrs. Conley.” She quickly hugged me and left, and I dashed to my phone.

“What’s this?” Debbie screamed.

“Are you mad?”

“It’s amazing, Sam.” She let out a low whistle. “Girl, you can write.”

“That’s all you can say?”

“You haven’t been very open with your friends. Is that what you want me to say?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re okay, Sam.” Debbie paused. “Coffee later? My treat, if you talk.”

“Sure. Grab Ashley so I won’t have to tell it all twice.”

“Ashley’s in New York all week for the Sotheby’s interview. Tell her over spring break. I can’t wait.”

“Sure. Let me make some calls and I’ll meet you in an hour.”

Then I called Josh. I opened with “The article came out today.” No hello. We’ve gone to dinner a couple times since Valentine’s Day, but there’s a distance now. I suspected he was deciding if I was worth his effort. And frankly, it ticked me off. Now I don’t know what to think.

“Yeah, Sam, I’ve seen it. In fact, Logan and Steve already called. You’re the talk of the town, sweetheart.”

“I am?” His endearment surprised me.

“They thought you were smart and pretty before, but now you’ve got grit. You know, guys find that very appealing.”

“They do?”

“Of course we do.” He dropped his voice just above a whisper. It felt intimate and flirtatious.

“I thought all this upset you.” I tried not to sound accusatory, but I could hear the tension, the hurt in my voice.

“Sam, let’s forget all that. You took me by surprise, and I’ve been slammed at work. Have you seen the new IKEA ads? That’s my group. It’s been crazy. You know I support you?”

“I didn’t know how you felt about me.”
Did I get all this wrong?

“It’s time to celebrate. Why don’t you come down for dinner tonight, and I’ll plan something special?”

I couldn’t because I had a final article due and an analysis for statistics, but that was okay. I didn’t want to go. Josh’s new attitude felt suspect, but as I said, maybe I’d misread things. Either way, I should be thrilled the storm passed.

Then this afternoon Susan Ellis called. I know, Mr. Knightley, does the drama ever stop? My heart jumped to my throat when I saw her number on my caller ID.

She wasted no time on preliminaries. “Sam, your article was first-rate, and we’ve received a tremendous response from it. While we’d like to see anything more you’ve got, Kevin and I have selected another candidate for the internship.”

“May I ask why?”

“Your work is solid and has potential, but you need a track record. Get a larger body of work and you’ll be ready. A smaller paper will give you the support you need.”

“I understand.” But I didn’t. I wanted to cry. “I have six short-subject treatments about aspects of the foster care system, child rights, and youth in America that I’ve submitted to some smaller papers. Could I send them to you?”

She paused, then said politely, “Send me everything. I do think you’ve got the makings of a fine journalist.”

“Thank you, Ms. Ellis. I’ll e-mail them. And thanks for the opportunity. I enjoyed meeting you.”

“Good luck to you, Sam. I’ll let you know what I think of your new submissions. Good-bye.”

It was a long shot, but I started to believe. Nothing comes easy, does it? After I hung up the phone, I quickly applied to the
Highland Park Press
, the E
vanston Review
and the
Lincoln Park Sentinel
—all good papers. I have to stay in Chicago because I agreed to house-sit for the Muirs this summer while they’re abroad; I’ll leave the clamoring for internships at the
Miami Herald
, the
Los Angeles Times,
The
New York Review
, and tons of other great jobs to my classmates.

I’m glad for the house-sitting excuse because, quite frankly,
I don’t think I could handle all those rejection letters. We’re constantly told that we’re the best at Medill and that the top tier is where “the best” work. But I’m not part of that elite. I’m the girl hanging by my fingernails off the back ledge.

After wallowing a bit, I donned my big-girl pants and headed north for dinner with the Muirs. Whining isn’t an option around the professor. He would say, “Why does this surprise you? Get out there and do what she says—build a body of work and impress the socks off her after graduation.” He’d make it sound so easy—much better to avoid the pep talk by faking equanimity.

The Muirs—and, surprise, Alex Powell—were the perfect company. Alex is in town doing advance work for his next book, set in Chicago. He’s even moving here for the summer. I felt sorry for him—he clearly expected to spend time with the Muirs and was visibly shocked to find they’ll be gone.

“I told you all this, son. You didn’t listen.” The professor laughed.

“I thought you said you were considering it. You never said you bought tickets and were leaving for two whole months.” Alex sounded frantic.

The professor smiled and softened his voice. “I’m sorry if I didn’t make it clear. I know you’re disappointed, but I need to finish this research, Alex. Paris and a few stops in Spain are the final pieces, and I can put
The Lost Generation
to rest.”

“But this summer?”

“This summer. I don’t know how many years I’ve got left, and this is the last book I need to get out.”

Alex dropped his head. “You’re right; I wasn’t listening . . . but don’t say it’s your last.”

“Just my last book, son. Not my last summer with you. Bring Cole back next year and we’ll have a grand time.”

The room quieted. I wanted to give Alex some connection to them, so I offered up my house-sitting job. I hoped it would make him feel more secure. And it would save him from renting a place.

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. I don’t want some man who doesn’t know wood polish from toilet cleaner living here. He’ll kill my plants, and the late charges on all the bills will drive Robert crazy.”

“Mrs. Muir, I’m sure Alex is more capable than that.”

“No mother would choose a son to watch her house over a daughter, Sam. You stay here.” She pulled her lips in, embarrassed.