Dear Mr. Knightley (10 page)

I called to Mrs. Conley, and she came up and started going through everything with me, as if I had the power to complain.

“Father John wanted you to have everything you need, so the apartment now has wireless, and I got you digital cable with DVR. I don’t know if you watch much TV, but I figured that was good. There are fresh sheets on the bed and towels and spare sheets in the bathroom closet. The washer and dryer are stacked in the kitchen pantry.” She walked around the living room pointing to different doors and areas.

“And your foundation sent a computer and printer. They’re on the bookshelf over there. The printer is wireless. I’ve been begging David for one of those, so you’ll have to tell me if it works. Is there anything I forgot?”

Dazed, I stumbled on the only detail that stuck. “Did you say computer?”

“It’s this laptop.” She pulled down a sleek laptop from the bookshelf. “Are you sure I haven’t forgotten anything?”

“I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable.” My brain felt fuzzy.

I think I seemed eerily calm and uninterested. Really it was shock. I wanted to know more, so I probed a little.

“Who arranged all this?” I asked.

“Well, Father John contacted us first, but then a Ms. Temper handled the details. Does she manage your foundation?”

“They gave me a grant and they pay the rent, but I don’t know them. Do you know anything about them?”

“No, but we’ve known Father John for years. How do you know him?”

This is why you don’t probe, Mr. Knightley. The turn-around can bite you.

“I’ve known him for years too,” I answered vaguely. Fearing more questions, I floundered for a distraction. Through the window I saw a swing set in the yard. “Do you have kids?”

Mrs. Conley smiled. “Four, and they’re dying to meet you. Parker is oldest at fifteen. Then comes Henry. He’s thirteen. Isabella’s almost twelve, and James is four. They’ll be home later and will probably run straight this way. This is very exciting for them. Do you have siblings?”

“I’m an only child, but I’ve been around kids my whole life. Please tell them they are welcome to visit.”

She glanced at me again. I was screwing up. I felt a little like Catherine Morland arriving at Northanger Abbey, though this splendid apartment is anything but gothic.

Mrs. Conley took my pause in stride. I must have appeared
to be struggling, because she tilted her head to one side and said, “I’ll leave you to settle in. You know, Sam, please don’t feel pressured to spend time with the kids or with us. You’re simply renting this apartment. You have no obligations.” She turned back at the door. “These UPS boxes arrived this morning.”

“For me?”

“Yes. Enjoy settling in.” She carefully shut the door and walked down the steps.

Of course, the first thing I did was tear open the boxes. Thank you. I know you read my letters now—I remember complaining about my wardrobe. That was more of a life-direction-desire moment, not a please-fix-purchase-need-now moment. And you are fixing so much. Thank you for moving me up here. And thank you for this gift.

I don’t know who actually chose all these things; perhaps your assistant, Ms. Temper? It’s hard to imagine “Mr. Knightley” poring over a J. Crew catalog! But if you’ll indulge me further, I’m going to be a girl for a moment and really gush. I love the jeans. Two pairs plus the brown pair was extravagant. It’s not like I have no clothing. I also love the white blouse. It’s so crisp and pristine that it looks almost blue in the light. I’ve never seen anything that bright. And the black one? I love black. You can take jeans and a black top anywhere. For me, it’s usually jeans and a black T-shirt, but I still feel sleeker. It’s a girl thing.

The sweaters are gorgeous too. Cashmere. Lovely stuff—so soft. I could go on . . . The skirt, the boots, the belt, the flats, and the coat . . . Everything’s magnificent.

I’m completely overwhelmed and I thank you. It was incredibly generous of you. I also appreciated your note:
A true voyager is outfitted for every journey
. You pegged it.

But I have even more questions now. How is it that everything fits? Do you know me? Do I know you or Ms. Temper? Have you seen me?

Lately I feel watched, stalked. Rationally, I know it’s not true. But since the Great Beat-down, I feel exposed and fragile. They never found the guy, but that hardly matters. Even if they had, I would still walk around wary. Because now I know—I know what can happen. So I look over my shoulder . . . and into my letters. You don’t deserve such distrust. Father John trusts you, and I trust him. But there it is. I hope you won’t take my insecurity as an insult.

I can’t think, thank, or write any more now. I’m somewhere I never imagined. I’m also tired, and I haven’t handled all this or Mrs. Conley well. I probably offended her. I was too remote.

I need to do better here, Mr. Knightley—moving up here requires more commitment. I was invested in Medill before, but I kept one foot in my old world. Now there is no Grace House Escape Hatch. It’s slipping away, and I’m packed with equal parts of gratitude, unworthiness, and fear. Topped with a fierce determination to succeed. With deep breaths, I can do this.

And to think, I almost let that small-handed mean man steal this from me.

Thank you for giving it back,
Sam

P.S. I’ve been sitting in my living room organizing my books. It’s so quiet and dark, but I don’t feel lonely. I feel safe. How
could I not? All my friends are here. You should see them lined up. I almost broke my back hauling them here, but now they are all arranged: Austen, Dickens, Webster, Gaskell, the Brontë sisters, Christie, Powell, Perry, Peters, Cooper . . . They’re safe and sound and standing proud. I hung my Georgia O’Keeffe lily poster above my bed and pinned my photographs on the bulletin board near the kitchen. It looks like the home I never dared imagine.

As I was making dinner, the Conley children knocked on the door. I’ve never met kids like them. No wariness. No anger. No reserve that I can tell—all curiosity and unbounded enthusiasm.

Little James ran in first. “Have you jumped on the bed? It bounces really high.”

“Jamie, get off her bed! I’m sorry. He knows better.” That was eleven-year-old Isabella. “Do you like it here? I sometimes dream I live up here and that I can’t hear all of them.” She motioned to her three brothers.

Parker grabbed her in a hug and knuckle-rubbed her head. She feigned anger, but a giggle gave her away.

Then they showered me with helpful hints: stick my trash in the bins on the other side of the garage; their mom makes them clean the bathroom weekly, but she probably won’t check on me; the DVR cuts one hour of television down to forty-two minutes once you skip commercials.

They stayed for about forty-five minutes, until Mrs. Conley called them for dinner and homework. I like them. Just thinking about them makes me smile. I hope they liked me too.

One a.m.

I can’t sleep. Georgia O’Keeffe is keeping me awake.

Ashley came over last night to return a book I lent her and to see my new digs.

She walked in and
ooohhh
-ed and
aaahhh
-ed perfectly. Then she noticed the O’Keeffe poster. “That’s nice, but you should hang something real there. A watercolor or an oil. You need more substance for the room’s focal point. The lilies are a bit cliché, don’t you think?”

Then she flopped on the couch and pulled out her phone and started playing on it. I stood there stunned. First about the poster comment, then because she sat texting or whatever for a full five minutes.

“What are you doing?” I finally asked.

“Updating my wall.”

“Why?”

“Sam, I’ve got over a thousand friends on Facebook. Do you know how much maintaining that takes? There’s an art to doing it well. Not that you’d care.” She waved her hand airily at me.

“ ‘There’s a meanness in all the arts. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.’ ”

“Nicely done.”

I knew she’d recognize Mr. Darcy.

She looked up and shrugged. “Don’t be so sensitive. I wasn’t being mean. I simply meant you should put more thought into the space above your bed.”

“You were being a snob.”

“Forget it. I thought we could have a conversation.”

“A conversation? As far as I can tell, you came to my
apartment, insulted me, and are playing on your phone. What are you even doing here?” I was mad. I had thought we were friends, had hoped we were friends, but now I felt taken in—by an Emma.

Ashley tossed her phone across the couch. “You’ve got this wall around you. Figuratively speaking. Or is it literal?” Ashley tried to laugh, but tears came out instead. She quickly swiped them and glanced at me.

Did she hope I wouldn’t notice? She dropped her gaze and mumbled, “What does it matter?” Then the tears started to fall—really plop down her cheeks.

I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to be all Elinor Dashwood—and Ashley did seem a bit Marianne-ish. Another part of me just wanted to kick her out. I was still angry, but I stayed quiet. I sat on the couch next to her.

Ashley blubbered on. “It’s like you’re the only one who’s clever and the only one who’s been hurt. I don’t even know who hurt you. I don’t know anything about you. You don’t let me in. Like when that guy hit you? Where’d you go?” She paused and then, thankfully, continued without waiting for a reply. “You don’t act like a friend, Sam. I could use a friend. A real one.”

I could too, Ashley.

“You don’t take me seriously,” she said. “No one does. My parents don’t. Will doesn’t.” She rolled against the pillows and swiped the back of her hand across her nose.

“Will?”

“Never mind. He’s just a silly boy. He’s not the point. Can’t we be friends, Sam? Real friends?”

The moment felt like my tae kwon do conversation with
Hannah. I don’t mean to make people feel distant and unseen, but I do. And I do want friends—that’s new for me. They never mattered before. Life was a job. But now I think friendships make it more worthwhile. What’s the cost of real friendship?

Ashley sucked in a deep breath. “I have a wall too, Sam. The clothes, the shoes, the hair products. I’m not proud of it, but it’s a good, strong wall.” More tears dripped from her nose. “And tonight my mother placed another brick in it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mother sent me a blouse. I texted a picture of me in it to thank her, and here’s what I got in reply.” Ashley picked up her phone and read the text. “‘Clearly you need an appointment at Sania’s. Go there straight from the airport Wednesday.’”

Ashley looked up. “I can’t even go home for Thanksgiving without a cleanup.”

“Who’s Sania?”

“It’s a brow bar on 56th and 5th.” Ashley sniffed.

I laughed. “A brow bar?”

She frowned at me, so I rushed on. “No, that’s what you don’t get, Ashley. I’m serious. What’s a brow bar?”

“Eyebrows. Shaping, waxing, threading. Not that you need it.” She squinted at me. “You just need tweezing.”

And there she hit it: my biggest insecurity. Eyebrows like Oscar the Grouch. I reached up to cover them. She pushed my hand away.

“They’re pretty, Sam. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“They’re horrible.”

“Get me tweezers.”

“What?”

“Just do it. It’ll give me something to do. And trust me, I
know how to do this. Maybe it’s all I’m good for.” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand again and sat up.

Speechless, I started for the bathroom to grab both tweezers and Kleenex, questioning my sanity. First I let Coach Ridley insult my stride to help Kyle, and now . . . Was I really going to let Ashley yank out my eyebrows to boost her self-esteem? Was she helping me? Or was I helping her? Then I had to concede, Kyle is doing better and I’m running faster. We both won.

So I got the tweezers. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t nervous. “What do you plan to do with these?”

“Sit at the table.”

I sat in front of her. Ashley reached up and plucked a hair between my eyes.

“Ouch! You can’t do that!” I jerked my head away.

“Stop it and sit still.”

“Watch the scar, it’s super tender.”

“I won’t go near it. Sit still or I’ll miss and land right on it.”

I froze. I didn’t even breathe. Clearly she needed this. Maybe I did too.

“I’m sorry I criticized your room, Sam. I was angry. I know you hide, but at least you do it somewhere intellectual. Most people don’t think I have a real thought in my brain.”

“Of course you do. You’re smart, Ashley. You’re just amazingly pretty too, and that can be intimidating—ouch.” I tried not to cry out each time, but it hurt.

“Really?”

“Sure. You’re the classic kind of pretty: petite, blond, blue-eyed. And you have that great accent. It’s intimidating. And I think you know it.”

“Sometimes.” She had the grace to smile.

“Then you can’t blame me for throwing out a few quotes here and there. Sometimes I use them to hide and sometimes just to even the score.”

“Even the score? But you’re so smart.”

“And tall and gangly and clueless. Like the other day—you were laughing about rhinoplasties. I thought you were talking about some kind of rhinoceros.”

“Rhinoplasty means my mother hauled me and my big nose to a plastic surgeon when I was sixteen to make it into a cute little button.” She tapped her nose in staccato with the last three words.

“She did?”

“Yeah.” She pulled extra hard on the tweezers.

“Ouch! Maybe we shouldn’t talk about your mother.”

She grimaced. “Probably not the best topic right now . . . I’m almost done. You look like Anne Hathaway, you know.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true, whether you believe it or not. So tuck it away and pull it out when you need it.” Her voice drifted. “You know the best compliment I ever got?”

“Hmmm?”

“I was in seventh grade and a friend was over. We were flipping through magazines, yapping about something, and she turned to me and said, ‘Ashley, you always make me feel so good about myself.’” Ashley paused, tasting the compliment in her mind. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Very nice.”

We were silent for a few moments.