Dear Mr. Knightley (8 page)
“Excuse m—” I protested, but that’s all I got out as Coach Ridley glanced at me and winked. He winked! I almost laughed as I caught on. The coach was trapping Kyle. It was a dare. And Kyle was eating it up.
“I can run you through some drills with the team, and you can help her shorten that stride. It’ll improve her times.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. I’ll see you right here after last period tomorrow.” He turned back to me. “And what’s your name?”
“Samantha Moore.”
“Well, Miss Moore. You’ll have a better stride by next week. And the track is open to the public for meets. You can come watch Kyle.” Coach Ridley walked away without another word or look back.
Kyle and I turned and walked back to Grace House. I think we were both stunned, probably for different reasons.
“So you’re on the cross-country team?” I tried to sound casual. This is good for him. It’d be good for any teenage boy.
“Yeah.”
“Are you excited?”
“Dunno.”
“You don’t know? Why’d you join?”
“You need help.”
I shot him a glance, trying to find sarcasm. There wasn’t any. I laughed. “Well, Kyle, I’ll take all the help I can get.” That’s irony for you, if nothing else.
It’s been almost two weeks now, and Kyle looks lighter. I don’t mean his weight—he was already a lanky kid. I mean his eyes. They aren’t as cruel, and his mouth isn’t compressed so tight. Promising changes, Mr. Knightley.
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I turned in another article to Johnson today. It was better. He takes only a couple days to review our work, so I’ll know soon enough. I can do this, Mr. Knightley. I hope I didn’t worry you last week. I want to assure you that the work is not beyond me. Please don’t feel you’ve wasted your time or your foundation’s money.
For a change I should tell you about one of my successes: I think I made a friend. If not, I’m a project . . .
Last Tuesday, I saw Debbie at Norris. She hasn’t talked to me all quarter, but I smiled and threw out a hello before I lost my courage. There was some truth to Hannah’s criticisms, even if she “never had the smallest idea of them being ever felt in such a way.” I know, I’m quoting. But Lizzy expresses things so well. My point is that I’ve taken Hannah’s words to heart and I have been trying to pay attention to people and reach out to them.
So anyway, Debbie looked surprised, and the girl next to her immediately called out to me. “Hey, come join us. I’ve seen you in here before. Are you in Medill’s program?” She looked between Debbie and me. Debbie nodded with that
stop-talking
look in her eyes. I was so humiliated. I wanted to run, but I forced myself to stand.
The girl smiled at me. “So how do you like it? Debbie says it’s impossible.”
“I hate the contrast between my ideas and my work. In
each article I imagine something which I’m powerless to realize.” I cringed.
“That was impressive. Sit down.”
I sat, even more nervous. “What was impressive?”
“The way you paraphrased that line from
Jane Eyre
and used it for your own context. I like that.”
“You got that?” I was stunned, then caught myself and looked at Debbie, hoping she could understand. Taking a deep breath, I dived in. “I quote when I’m nervous.”
“It’s brilliant. You should get your master’s in English literature like me. You’d have a blast. I’m Ashley, by the way.”
Yes, I should
. Don’t you agree, Mr. Knightley?
I stayed and enjoyed myself. Ashley is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. She’s one of those girls. The kind you see in movies, but you don’t believe exist in real life. An Emma. She wears a diamond watch and has blond hair that lies precisely and tosses effortlessly. She has blue eyes and perfect skin. And she’s so manicured and polished and perfectly casual that you want to either pinch her to make sure she’s real or punch her because you wish she wasn’t.
And she says outrageous things. Don’t you agree that spending $900 on a pair of shoes is crazy? I looked up the designer, Jimmy Choo, and found that she was serious. One can actually spend $900 or more on a pair of shoes! I had no idea that shoes could cost nearly as much as a car. After that comment I wanted to dislike her—but she’s nice.
Nevertheless I tried to dismiss her. I decided she was superficially amusing and refreshingly knowledgeable about literature, but she had no substance. After all, how much did Emma and Harriet Smith really have in common? Did Ashley
regard me as her Harriet? Her poor pet project pursued out of a warped noblesse oblige? Or, worse, boredom?
Then I conceded that Ashley didn’t have plans to “improve” me. No reading lists, drawing exercises, or music practice . . . She reached out to make me feel comfortable, declared my literary knowledge “impressive,” and included me with all her friends—and there are a ton of them. This girl is rarely alone.
Then last night I learned something new. Ashley called, frantic for Debbie and me to join her for dinner. Her parents are in town and she said her mom was “sucking the life out of her.” When Debbie couldn’t make it, I almost backed out, but I was too intrigued. I met Ashley and her parents at Davis Street Fish Market after my evening seminar.
Initially I found Mrs. Walker highly entertaining. She’s a cross between Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Caroline Bingley. The first brings very strong opinions to the table, while the second adds a bit of insecurity, afraid those opinions aren’t well received.
Within the first five minutes Mrs. Walker criticized Ashley’s hair (roots showing), her skin (sallow), her boots (scuffed), and her lack of communication (doesn’t call home enough—wonder why?). Ashley gave polite, distant replies, but her eyes revealed that each dart hit its mark. The pain and loneliness they conveyed surprised me. While Ashley appears to have everything, something she desperately wants is missing. I know that look.
Then Mrs. Walker turned on me. I quickly yanked out a slightly dusty but diplomatic Jane Bennet and fielded her questions: “Yes, I’m from Chicago. There are lovely homes by the lake. Journalism is very challenging. Yes, feature writing does seem a bit more prestigious than daily news—”
On and on and on. Ashley finally saved me. “No, Mother, Sam doesn’t need the name of your personal shopper. Yes, I’m sure one can make a good living as a writer. Mother, don’t ask about her love life. Daddy, have you been to an auction lately?”
The last one wasn’t an innocent question, but it was effective. The interrogation stopped. Mrs. Walker’s face instantly dropped and her eyes flashed vulnerability and hurt.
A lot of things happen below the surface, don’t you think? A jab, a deflection, a hit, then pain—all hidden beneath exquisite manners and an aura of sophistication. There’s a little of Edmond Dantes in all of us, I guess.
Mrs. Walker’s face closed as she watched her husband and daughter delve into the fall wine auctions. No one else existed for Ashley and her dad. Mrs. Walker slouched in her chair and said it all with a small sigh and a dip of her chin that I alone noticed.
Soon our dinner arrived and I could no longer focus on Ashley’s family drama. A large sea creature was deposited in front of me, and I had no clue what to do with it. I’ve seen ads for Red Lobster, so when Mr. Walker demanded I try one, I agreed. Lobsters look good on TV: all white, red, and buttery. Not this thing. It had a shell, two claws, and a spiky tail, and was delivered with a pair of pliers.
I’ve struggled with table etiquette lately, and this was way out of my league. No one ever taught me the purpose and propriety behind all the forks, knives, and spoons. And now I was supposed to know how to wield pliers? The waiter tied a plastic bib around my neck, and I almost jumped from my seat.
Ashley and her dad grabbed the lobster with one hand, the pliers with the other, and started cracking the shell. It broke
off and they dug out the meat inside with a tiny fork. Holding my pliers likewise, I watched as they’d stab a piece, dip it in butter, and eat it. How hard could this be? So I started in.
The pliers immediately slipped from my hand and the shell cut me. I sat for five minutes with my finger clutched in my napkin to stop the bleeding. That’s when I realized that Mrs. Walker hadn’t moved a muscle.
“Stanley, call over a boy to help me.”
“You can do this yourself, dear. This isn’t the club.” Mr. Walker sounded exasperated.
“Mother, you can’t be serious?” Ashley sounded horrified.
“I am. Call over a boy.” Lady Catherine was going to make her presence felt again.
“You could try to crack it, dear.” Mr. Walker gave it one more try.
“Do not discuss it further, Stanley. I will not play with my food. Call someone over this instant.”
Mr. Walker raised his hand to the waiter and asked him to crack Mrs. Walker’s lobster or take it to the kitchen for someone to handle it. The poor guy looked really confused at first, then shrugged his shoulders and carted it away. I sat there clutching my finger in my lap, wishing I had the courage to send mine away too. Her lobster returned a few minutes later beautifully splayed out on her plate. Mine still stared at me. I was so jealous, but determined, once the bleeding stopped. Two bites and I tackled it in earnest. Lobster is yummy.
During the Great Lobster Fight, I simply listened to the conversation. And after a few bites, I identified with Jane Bennet’s generous side; she never says a cross word about anyone. I even started a conversation with Mrs. Walker.
“Do you enjoy visiting Chicago? Are the museums to your liking? Have you seen the new exhibit at the Institute?”
Ashley tossed me a wry smile. She knew where I’d gone. Part of me felt exposed, but mostly I felt understood.
That’s when I realized how unfair I’ve been about her. Ashley’s not an Emma. Emma would have grabbed her pliers, picked up the dainty fork in her other hand, and widened her eyes at Harriet in a significant manner. Such a look would not only instruct Harriet on what to do, but make Emma’s superiority as clear as Harriet’s cluelessness. The look, furthermore, would not be skilled enough to hide Emma’s delight in the situation and in her role as tutor.
Ashley never did that—any of it. She’s as pretty as Gwyneth Paltrow was in the movie, but she isn’t Emma. Her assurance and confidence have limits, and I saw them tonight. That makes Ashley approachable—maybe real friend material.
It was good, Mr. Knightley. I’m glad to have my First Impressions reversed. Let’s hope I can do the same with Johnson.
Off to revise another
assignment . . .
Sam
P.S. There’s more . . . and avoiding it won’t make it go away: Kyle fostered out, and I miss him.
I’m happy for him, don’t get me wrong. This is no place to grow up. But I’ve gotten used to Kyle and he’s gotten used to me. I don’t think either of us would admit we’re friends,
but we’re something. We rely on each other, I think. I went to Buckhorn on his last morning to give him my duffel bag.
“It’s yours. I don’t want that.” He shoved it back into my hands.
“Come on. It’s better than trash bags.” I started folding his shirts to put them in the duffel, but he kept messing them up. “Stop that. I’m helping you.”
“Don’t do that.” He grabbed another and bunched it up.
I understood. No reminders of help. No reminders of friends lost. I grabbed all the shirts, scrunched them up, and tossed them to him. I thought he’d laugh. He didn’t.
“Who you gonna run with now?” Kyle’s voice broke, and so did my heart. All this meant something to him too.
“Jaden,” I threw out. I couldn’t bear to get emotional.
“Jaden? He can’t run!”
“I’m just kidding. I’ll run alone. No one can replace you, Kyle. But I’m glad you’re going. You’ve got a family now.”
“You give me two months?” Kyle refused to look at me. That alone meant the answer mattered. Books are much easier than this real-life vulnerability.
“Don’t think that way. You could make all the way to eighteen.” I wanted to reassure him and give him that elusive guarantee. “Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman will love you. And I’m always around.”
Kyle stood still and blinked a couple times. He whispered, “Thanks, Sam.”
I pulled him into a hug and he grabbed on tight. It was the first physical contact we’ve had since he shoved my hand away on our second run. It lasted a heartbeat before he pushed me away and swiped his eyes.
“Gotta go, Sam. E-mail me. If they don’t have a computer, I’ll check at school. Every day, you hear?”
“Every day. I promise.”
Every day?
I almost made some quip about that being more than we’ve talked—ever. But I kept silent. You don’t make fun of vulnerability. It’s too rare.
I was reminded again of Hannah’s comments. Maybe all my quips and characters are cowardice—ways to avoid feeling and standing and being me. I didn’t want to withdraw at that moment; I owed Kyle more than that. So I forced a pathetically watery smile and watched as he hoisted the duffel, walked out the door, and met the Hoffmans standing in the courtyard with Father John.
So I have a new friend, Mr. Knightley, and I may have lost one too. They couldn’t be more different, could they?
