Dear Mr. Knightley (4 page)
Dear Ms. Moore,
Mr. Knightley requests that you continue your letters until you hear definitively from the Medill program. Wait-listed at the nation’s best journalism school constitutes an accomplishment rather than a defeat. Should you gain admittance, it would be unfortunate for you to have violated the terms of this grant prematurely.
Sincerely,
Laura Temper
Personal Assistant to
G. Knightley
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Thank you for such optimistic thinking. I will continue to write, for now. I still haven’t heard from Starbucks, but I got turned down at Macy’s and two legal firms. Desperation claws and chokes a bit more now. On to another topic, any topic . . .
A new kid named Kyle moved into Buckhorn Cottage last week. I hate him. That’s not true; he makes me hate myself—and that’s worse. Kyle’s only thirteen, but he intimidates me. I’m five foot ten, so that’s not easy to do. But Kyle’s already about five eight, and his features aren’t small, cute, and kid-like. He’s got a strong nose, his hair is shaved close to his head, and his eyes are the hardest I’ve ever seen. It took him thirty seconds to pick out the weak and timid boys, and he has spent every moment since torturing each of them. Until yesterday . . .
Hannah dropped by Buckhorn as I was tutoring some boys in math. She noticed Kyle twisting nine-year-old Jaden’s arm in the living room and told him to stop. Kyle shoved Jaden against the wall and came after her. He grabbed her shoulder and swung a punch, and I thought she was going to die.
But teeny-tiny Hannah swung her forearm out to block his punch. He threw another and she blocked it again, slicing her arm in a high arc above her head. Kyle swung again, lunging simultaneously. Hannah blocked his strike with another sweep of her arm as she stepped to the side.
Kyle righted himself and stared at her through narrowed
eyes. The moment lengthened, then he backed away, clearly stunned.
“We done now, Kyle?”
He nodded slowly.
“Wise choice.” Hannah lowered her arms and sighed. “Don’t bully the boys, Kyle, or I’ll make sure you get moved outta here.”
Kyle stared at her. We all stared.
“Yes, ma’am.” Kyle ducked his head and walked away.
Hannah turned to me, completely relaxed. “Sam, I just finished a wonderful book. I’ll bring it by after I’m finished in the office. Will you be in your cottage?”
“Umm . . . Hannah? How did you do that?”
“It’s not hard. That’s first-degree black belt stuff. I’ll show you later.” And she breezed out. I didn’t teach long division coherently after that.
I practically tackled Hannah when she stopped by last night. I’m never eager to chat, but I’ve known Hannah for years, and everything I knew or assumed had been completely flipped. No pun intended.
“Where’d you learn that? Why’d you never tell me? That was unbelievable!”
“Yeah, I can’t believe Kyle walked away like that. He even found me in the office to apologize.” Hannah flopped on my couch. “I think I’m going to like that kid.”
“No one could like that kid.”
Hannah hesitated. “I do, Sam.”
“Anyway, tell me how you did it.” I knew she thought me harsh, so I pushed her past thinking about Kyle.
“You want me to show you?”
For the next ten minutes I pretended to punch her and she
blocked every attempt. Ramp up the power and speed, and I can imagine Kyle’s surprise.
“Is that karate?”
“Tae kwon do.”
“What’s the difference?”
How can it matter?
“Karate is from Japan. Tae kwon do, Korea.”
“How did I not know this about you?”
“That I’m Korean?” Hannah smiled. Then she considered me for a moment. She finally said, “You know, Sam, there’s a lot you don’t see because you don’t choose to. I’ve studied martial arts since I was nine. It’s a big part of who I am. But I doubt Jane Austen would find it ladylike.”
“You’re probably right, but knock-offs like
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies
make Lizzy Bennet an amazing fighter. I just read one that had demure Anne Elliot from
Persuasion
throwing punches.”
Hannah sighed and looked away. Did I say something wrong? She left soon after that. Did I miss something? Those questions kept me up half the night. And the whole conversation irritated me because I suspected she was right: I only see what I want to see.
And then today, I added something else to my pool of self-reflection: I only do what I want to do—even if it costs others dearly.
It all started this morning when I stopped at Buckhorn to return some corrected math work sheets. Kyle was rude, as always, and I got ticked that Hannah got respect and I didn’t. Call it jealousy. So when Father John called me later today and asked me to find Kyle, who had missed his anger management session this afternoon, I was already on the offensive.
I started my search at the high school track a few blocks away, where I’d occasionally seen Kyle when I was there running laps myself. Sure enough, he was there. It struck me that racing him might earn me some respect.
“What do you want? You—” He sneered as I approached, and started pacing like a caged tiger, circling me. He acted tough, but a familiar glimmer of vulnerability gave him away.
“Hey! Don’t say it!” I reached for tough.
“Say what?”
“You were about to call me something nasty. At Grace House you can’t swear without getting detention, but I bet you’ve got an amazing arsenal. Don’t say something you’ll regret.”
“I don’t regret nothin’.”
“You might.”
He thrust his chin up and glared at me. This boy knows how to hate.
“I know. I don’t like you either, but we’re both runners. Maybe we have more in common than we realize.”
“We ain’t friends, you—”
“I said nothing about friends.” I looked at the track. “I bet I can whip your butt.” Now I had his attention.
“You can’t beat me. A skinny white girl like—”
“You scared?” I cut him off with a challenge because that’s how you trap a boy, in case you’re interested. You dare him. I looked down at his legs. They aren’t kid legs. At thirteen, Kyle’s legs have enough muscle definition that I questioned my great idea. Yet I refused to back down.
“And stop discriminating. You think because you’re a boy or because you’re black that you can beat me? You can’t.” I poked my finger into his chest.
The poke may have been overkill. His eyes flashed to the finger, to my face, and then to the track. “Name it.”
“One mile, if you can keep up.” I suspected he was faster than me, but a mile takes more than speed. It takes stamina—my strength. Anything longer, he’d probably refuse.
“Let’s go, you—”
“Save the smack and run.” I tapped the timer button on my watch and took off. I thought I could do a 6:30, but not much faster. I glanced down as we finished the first lap in ninety seconds. That’s a six-minute mile—way too fast for me. But I needed to win, or at least keep up with him. Beating Kyle would get me respect.
As we started the second lap, Kyle surged ahead. I let him go, and within a quarter lap he dropped back. He didn’t pace well, and I slowed a touch, hoping he’d fall in line with me. We finished the second pretty tight and I started to break in the third, keeping a few steps ahead.
As we raced, I realized that this kid runs like I used to. All heart and tension with a complete purging of self—no holds barred. Kyle’s vulnerability was tangible. I guess my additional ten years have taught me pacing and hiding; because as I watched the emotions play across his face, I missed the abandon I used to feel about running. About anything. When was the last time I felt something? Really felt it?
Right there in the third lap, I knew Kyle should win. I could see it in his pulled-back lips, every muscle tensed and pushed forward. This was more than a race. Kyle was running for his life. The same run I made many times. Runs I slogged through alone. No one bolstered me or gave me
encouragement. I could have done that for Kyle. I should have done that for him. But I hate to lose.
In the fourth he started wheezing, and I pulled ahead. At the first corner I pulled away completely and, despite momentary guilt, kicked up the pace and drove the last half lap in a full sprint. I looked down at my watch as I crossed the line: 6:05! It was the fastest mile of my life. It felt amazing, and I thought I’d die. Kyle came in at 6:39, doubled over, and gagged. If there’d been something in his stomach, it’d have been all over my shoes.
I bent next to him, both of us hanging inches over our shoelaces. “You’re my new running partner, Kyle. You got speed, man.” I was so elated I forgot about respect. I thought about friendship. My mistake.
“I ain’t nothin’ to you.” He shoved me aside and left. Without a look back, he sped through a hole in the fence and headed to Grace House.
I tried to muster anger and brush off his rejection, but it didn’t work. Usually it’s a fantastic and safe emotion. But I hurt Kyle, Mr. Knightley, and anger couldn’t fix that. I deliberately wounded a kid. He showed me the real Kyle, and I crushed him. Is this the adult I’ve become?
Sincerely,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I took the ‘L’ to Evanston and wandered around Northwestern University’s campus yesterday. Punishment, I think, but I wanted to see it.
Despite it being summer, people were everywhere. I first roamed through the English building. It’s gothic and very romantic looking. Full of great literature and ideas, I’m sure. The course listings blew me away: English Literary Traditions, Twentieth-Century American Novel, British Fictional Studies, Shakespearean Tragedies . . . We didn’t have offerings like that at Roosevelt. There were only a few in literature at all; plenty in electrical engineering, basic math, and trade, but nothing like this. Hallowed halls of academia and all that, right?
I wandered to Medill next. It’s not as architecturally interesting as the other buildings. More straightforward and practical—newsy, I guess. They posted listings too: Ethics of Journalism, Long-Form Reporting, Advanced Public Affairs Reporting. I think I would’ve focused on magazine and feature writing, halfway between news and a story. I’d have liked that.
And despite Hannah’s claim that I don’t see the world around me, I paid attention yesterday—to everything. And Northwestern is no Roosevelt. There’s a look there I can’t put my finger on. Money? Education? Assurance? The students are a bunch of Emmas. They know they rank in the world, or will someday soon. It’s in their walk, their talk, and their clothes.
Is it ownership? Confidence? I don’t know. But I want it. I don’t know when or how, but I do know it’s my new “normal.”
I also noticed I need to step up my wardrobe. It’s not a huge deal, but first impressions matter, and I wouldn’t fit in there. I didn’t fit in at Ernst & Young either, but I didn’t get it then. I do now. They wear jeans and sweatshirts and T-shirts—all the stuff I do—but you can tell Madewell from Goodwill. And it’s how they wear them too. There’s a casualness about their clothing that belies effort. Then it goes one step further. That detail—a scarf, a necklace, a belt—that one thing that declares you’re unique. You matter. So with any extra money I earn, I’ll work on wardrobe. Because . . . I got the Starbucks job!
I found out this morning and I’m pleased. I really am. Maybe that was what my trip to NU was about yesterday. Even before hearing from Starbucks, I needed to let go of that dream. Visiting campus closed the chapter.
And Father John helped me find a walk-up about six blocks north. The neighborhood is a bit rough, but I can afford the rent and won’t need a car for either the library or Starbucks. I go this afternoon to sign a month-to-month lease. It’ll all be good.
Thanks again, Mr. Knightley,
for everything . . .
Sam
I forgot to mail this yesterday, so I’ll add a bit more . . .
I put my neck out with Kyle this morning. I know I’m leaving, but his hatred bothers me—probably because it’s deserved now. I was so nervous I almost threw up.
“Hey, Kyle. I’m training for the Chicago Marathon this fall and wondered if you’d run with me. I’m heading to the track for a couple miles of warm-up and some speed work. What do you say?”
