Dear Mr. Knightley (7 page)
“A pizza place? For a proposal?”
“I know it doesn’t sound romantic, but it is. The booths have high backs and the lighting is dim. You’re alone in a crowded room.”
“Did he ask you while you waited?”
“No. When we sat down, he reached for my hand and said the night was perfect. I couldn’t quite figure that out. He was
so distracted, and his palms were sweaty. I started freaking out and kept asking, ‘What’s wrong? What are you not telling me?’
“I was sure he was moving or dumping me, but he kept stroking my hand and saying, ‘Everything is perfect.’ But it wasn’t, and by the end of dinner I was a wreck.”
“And?” She was getting long-winded. I needed the proposal.
“After we left, we walked a few blocks to a park and sat on a bench. We searched for stars. Then he got down on one knee in front of me.” She paused, and I leaned forward. “And he took my hand and asked me to marry him.”
“That’s it?” I sat back. “You’re worse than Austen. You might as well say that his sentiments had ‘undergone so material a change’ or that ‘his affections and wishes’ were unchanged. Anything is better than nothing! She never tells you what’s actually said either.”
Hannah flushed red. “Don’t do that.”
At first I thought the red was embarrassment, but her tone hinted at anger.
“What?”
“Compare my proposal from my real fiancé to one of your books. This is my life and I’m inviting you into it. Don’t belittle it by quoting fiction.”
“ ‘I wish you all imaginable happiness,’ Hannah.” I was mad, and I threw that out just to spite her.
“Forget it, Sam. I don’t know who you’re quoting, but I can tell you are. I thought you’d enjoy my story and I wanted to share it with you, but you aren’t even here. I don’t know why I bother. I’ve got work to do.” She stood up and walked to the office.
She was right, of course. When she told me about the
dinner, I got carried away. I didn’t want restaurant details; I wanted emotional details—for me. I desperately wanted some guy’s hands to be sweaty because he couldn’t live another moment without knowing if I’d marry him. And I lashed out at her because I was jealous. If I couldn’t have the reality, I wanted the story. But it was her story and her proposal.
Maybe I shouldn’t go see that movie again . . .
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m officially learning to be a reporter, so I will report. Here are my classes: Audience Insight, Urban Issues Reporting, Long-Form Nonfiction Narrative, and Magazine Writing. I have the same professor for Urban Issues and Long Form, Dr. Russell Johnson. You may have heard of him. He’s won multiple Pulitzers and was a big civil rights guy. He actually marched on Selma with Dr. King when he was thirteen. From what I gather, Johnson
is
Journalism. Capital
J
.
Everyone is in awe. I had both Johnson classes today, and all the students were talking about what an honor it is to work with Johnson, how much Johnson will teach us, what doors a recommendation from Johnson can open, and how impressing Johnson should be the sum of all effort. As if that wasn’t intimidating enough, today the man himself loomed over me and bellowed like a drill sergeant. I almost wet my pants. No kidding. He frightened me that much.
But I hope to use it to my advantage: desperation and terror usually bring out my best work, and I already have three assignments. I’ll ace these and have it made. Johnson will respect my work, and the rest will be a breeze. At least I can count on that—school always works. Nothing else comes together quite so well. In fact, nothing else works at all. I ran into a girl from my Audience class at Norris, the student center, during lunch. She was with a big group and waved at me
to join them. So I took a deep breath and dived in—my first friends on my first day.
“We’re just finishing lunch. Grab something and join us.”
I quickly bought a sandwich and sat next to her. Her name is Debbie and she went to Duke. I didn’t feel so cool with my honors from Roosevelt, so I didn’t say much. But I was joining in. It was when Debbie asked about my family that I took the nosedive. I unsuccessfully tried to divert the conversation, but she asked again. I panicked.
“Let’s not get personal so quickly.” I actually said that.
“Oh . . .” Her jaw dropped and she looked around at the others.
I couldn’t stop there. No, I had to say more. I started out as Edmond Dantes and, when I noticed all their weird looks, morphed into a lighter, kinder Jane Bennet. Everyone likes Jane Bennet. Not today. It was humiliating.
After a few minutes Debbie stood up. “I need to head to the bookstore. I’ll see you all later.” She looked equal parts ticked and confused.
And within three minutes everyone else left the table. I sat alone and finished my sandwich.
I’d be glad to share more of my first day, but those are the highlights. All pretty awful, except the school part. If I can get some good work in, Johnson and Debbie won’t bother me so much.
Writing apace,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m sorry it’s been more than a month . . . I’ve been busy. I think you and Father John were wrong about this. The program is too tough. Dr. Johnson handed another of my articles back today and basically called me an idiot. I didn’t tell you my first efforts crashed and burned because I thought I could save myself. And this article was better. I was sure of it.
Johnson disagreed. He criticized my topic, my approach, my research, and my tone. I’m “formulaic, pedantic, and prosaic.” How can anyone be that bad? I thought I’d specialize in feature writing. I can’t now. He’s the guru of that, and there’s no getting past him. Johnson
is
Journalism.
In fact, I was so certain of success that I pre-registered for his winter class, Journalism Methods: News Writing. I’m dead, and I’m not the only one. One guy already left. He said that Johnson is too powerful and that a bad recommendation can kill a career. He called the
Austin Statesman
and got his old job back. He’s headed home to Texas and a good salary with benefits . . . What’ll happen to me?
When handing back my assignment, Johnson asked me to stay after the seminar today. Each of my classmates silently ducked out with grimaces and sympathetic glances—even Debbie, who hasn’t talked to me since that disastrous lunch. I sat there feeling sick as Johnson crossed the room and sat on the edge of my table.
“Find your voice, Moore, or you’re going to have a rough
go here.” He leaned back and watched me. For a man with an amazing amount of energy and size, he can sit remarkably still.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve seen seven exercises from you and four full articles. We move fast here, Moore, and your work isn’t cutting it. You’re a good writer and I sense real potential, but your topics and approach are sterile. Is this all you’ve got?”
“I—I need to find more interesting topics?”
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Moore. That’s not the problem; another reporter could make your topics leap from the page. I see no risk in your writing. You need to stretch so that your soul touches each topic. If you fail to connect, you fail the reader.”
“I put myself in these articles.”
Johnson plucked the paper from my desk and looked it over. “You say here, ‘The judge yielded without conviction, which was no compliment to the case’s importance.’ That voice is stilted, withdrawn, and I can’t tell what you mean. Is that you? Because if it is, you stepped away from the subject and created an insurmountable barrier for your reader. You destroyed its relevance. Why?”
“I didn’t mean to.” I sat there, confused and exposed. “I was trying to be objective.” Also, I had loosely borrowed some Austen verbiage to help me out.
Oops
.
“Objective and contrived are two different things.” He handed the paper back. “Figure it out, Moore.” He dismissed me with a nod and went back to his computer. Discussion over.
What am I to do? If he were wrong, I could dismiss the criticism. But he’s right. I chose topics I thought interesting, but ones that wouldn’t expose me. Then I hid further because
the articles will be judged, graded. I don’t know how to be “me” in this kind of writing.
In literature analysis I hid behind the subject, and it made my papers come alive. I had a voice that mirrored, if not emboldened, the subject. When I write to you, I’m safe in your anonymity and your silence. For all I know, you may not even read these letters.
But Johnson? I need to impress him. I need a grade from him. And I need a voice—fast. My characters have always provided that, both in writing and in life—as Darcy said of Lizzy, I too “find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not
my
own.” But now I need to produce something objective, something original. Is there nothing that’s mine alone?
And to top it off, the nightmares are back. I used to get them as a kid, but they’ve been gone for a couple years. Not anymore—Dr. Johnson and nightmares. Doesn’t this sound fun?
Each nightmare begins with bright daylight and gray walls. There’s nothing scary as I feel myself falling deeper, but then I start to resist. Fear comes before action. My heart pounds, even before my father enters the scene. He’s always larger than life and oddly red. Yelling begins, but I can’t hear it. I can only feel the fear and the heat it creates. After that the dreams change: Mom enters some, my father dominates others, or occasionally the Putmans (my sixth or seventh foster family) drive at me. Whoever comes brings a black/red fear with them.
As a small child, Jane Eyre gets locked in her dead uncle’s red bedroom for punishment. She grows terrified by the walls, the voices, and his ghost. She bangs on the door, gasping and terrified, as his spirit comes after her, and then passes out. My
walls press like Jane’s, and I suffocate. That’s when I wake up gagging and choking.
Roommates used to shake me awake, but no one’s in the cottage now. Morgan moved out last month. So I stay in the nightmares longer and wake drenched in sweat and exhausted.
School and the nightmares are related, Mr. Knightley—even I know that. If I can figure out Johnson, I’m sure the nightmares will go away. But how? I can’t try any harder. If I don’t solve this, Johnson will fail me. Then where do I go?
Sincerely,
Sam
P.S. The Chicago Marathon was last Sunday. Kyle and I still run almost daily, but I couldn’t get enough long runs in to be ready for a marathon. But on a bright note, Kyle joined the cross-country team. You’ll never believe how it happened . . .
We were running laps a couple weeks ago when a large man approached—late fifties, super fit, with gray sideburns and kind, wrinkly eyes.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you a student here?”
“No.”
“Do you work here?”
“No.” Forget the kind eyes. I grew wary.
“Do you have permission to be on this track?”
“Do I need permission?” I inched toward antagonistic.
“Yes. They aren’t my rules and I’m not enforcing them to bust your chops, but we’ve got a lot of police around here, and if they catch you without permission, they can arrest you.”
“Arrest me? For running?”
“It’s the drugs, the gangs, and the crime. They can arrest you.” He tried to soften it with a smile. Then he stared hard at Kyle. “You’re Kyle Baines, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
I got nervous. This man hadn’t told us anything about himself, but he knew a lot about us. I started to open my mouth, but he was still talking to Kyle.
“I’m Coach Ridley. I’ve been talking to Father John about you. He says you’re a strong runner. You should join our team.”
“I thought—” I started, but Coach Ridley subtly shook his head at me. If I hadn’t been so surprised, I might have gotten mad.
He focused on Kyle. “Your friend here can’t come back to the track; I don’t want her to get in trouble. But her stride’s too long. Think you could help her with that?”
Kyle, who hadn’t looked the man in the eyes during any portion of this, locked eyes on Coach Ridley. I couldn’t believe it. He was listening. But I was listening too, and I felt my face flush with anger.
My stride is not too long!
I remembered the day when I ran Kyle into the ground. I don’t like losing. And I don’t like criticism.
