Page 11 of Dear Mr. Knightley

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?”

He drank his juice, completely expressionless. His eyes never left mine—not even to blink. The look was so determined and aggressive that I struggled to keep contact.

“At least think about it. You’re good, Kyle—really good. You could run cross-country at school next fall. You’d win a lot of races.”

His stare faltered. If I had blinked, I would have missed the longing. I gulped and spoke again. “Listen, Kyle. I’m sorry about the other day. I hope you’ll come. I’ll be there for about an hour.”

I don’t apologize easily, Mr. Knightley.

I think only Father John has pried a few sorries from me over the years, and he’s Father John.

Even now, I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth.

Kyle should’ve fallen down with shock and gratitude.

Instead, he put his glass in the dishwasher and left the room.

So I went to the track, started to run, and hoped . . . That’s a lie, I fretted. Wow, did I work up a panic.

But I’m leaving Grace House again, and this time it’s permanent.

As Father John said, this is my “watershed.” There’s no turning back.

And unlike when I left with Cara or when Ernst & Young fired me, there’s no safety net.

There’s no more Grace House because there’s no more school.

That chapter has closed. And there are no real friends to catch me either.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot. That race with Kyle shook me—and not simply because of my cruelty.

It shook me because, hanging over our shoes, I suddenly wanted his friendship.

I innately understood him and believed he felt the same.

Friendship from a thirteen-year-old boy?

It still doesn’t make sense. I can’t explain it.

But we’re alike, Kyle and I. And I could use a friend.

Outside my books, the only people I talk to are Hannah and you.

But Hannah and I aren’t true friends. I’m a foster-kid-turned-convenient-acquaintance for her.

And you? You’re a glorified diary. There .

. . my two friends. Thinking about this gave me a new and unsettling sense of isolation.

After two laps, the panic almost brought me to my knees.

Then I saw Kyle. He was watching me from the fence line. As I cleared my face of all expression and approached, he joined my pace wordlessly.

“Thanks for coming, Kyle. This’ll be my third time running Chicago, and I want to do it better.”

“Why you run so far?”

There are always two ways to go here. Normally when asked why I run, I dish out some meaningless lie. To tell the real reason is dangerous. It’s too personal.

“It relaxes me,” I said.

Kyle stopped. “Forget you.” He crossed the inside of the track to get back to the entrance.

I watched him and felt my heart collapse. “Kyle, wait!”

“For crap? I get enough a’ that.” He turned away.

I didn’t think. I yelled.

“I run because it’s the only place I’m me. Until I slog out the miles, I can’t find myself. But if I do it, if I make one mile more, I find myself. My head clears and sometimes, just sometimes, I see that I’m worth something.” I scrubbed tears from my face with the back of my hand.

Kyle had stopped, but he didn’t turn around.

I kept going. “I’m sorry about what I did to you. You scared me, you hated me, and I fought.”

He turned. “Don’t mess with me.”

“I won’t. I promise.” I said it slowly—making the promise to both of us. Without another word or look, he jogged back to the track.

We ran a series of sprints and a cool-down without talking.

Maybe he knew I needed space. Maybe he was winded.

Regardless, I was reeling with what I’d said and done.

Part of me hoped he hadn’t processed how much I’d shared with him, while the other part knew that he understood me perfectly.

Because he’s not dumb. That happens with most foster kids—people underestimate us. They dismiss us—as I had dismissed him.

When we finished I slapped him on the back, expecting that we felt the same. I was wrong.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I . . .”

“We’re running. We ain’t friends.” And he walked away.

So there it is. We’re not friends, but I did my best. And, in this last letter to you, it’s important that you know I tried. I am not an adult who purposely ruins kids’ identities and dreams.

Now . . . I’m off to find out what kind of adult I am. Thanks for everything. At the very least, your grant let me rest in Grace House’s safety for a few months—that helped a lot.

Forgot to mail this again—I’m beginning to think there’s something psychological going on here. Attachment issues?

But I’m bored and there’s no one here now, so I might as well add more.

The morning started fine. After I recovered from yet another dissing from Kyle, I headed to my library job.

Mrs. Grunschovitch, one of my favorite library regulars, was the first through the doors.

She’s a wonderful, crusty old lady who constantly scolds me for not pulling my hair out of my eyes and not eating enough.

Believe me, I eat plenty. I just run more.

Lately she says I need more blush. She says I have beautiful cheekbones.

I never noticed. A foster mom once called me a “long drink of water” and I never think much beyond that.

When I do look in the mirror, the long brown curly hair and bushy eyebrows stop me way before I get to the cheekbones.

Still, it’s nice for someone to say something about me is pretty.

A couple weeks ago, Mrs. G helped me put up the Summer Love display. I pulled out Lisa Kleypas, Nora Roberts, and a few other hot, steamy novelists in an effort to appear modern and hip.

“You can’t put these out.” Mrs. G plucked them from my book pyramid.

“These are summer romances.”

“You need the real lovelies. Tales of true love,” she sighed.

“Which are?”

“I’m disappointed in you, Sam. I thought you’d know. The Scarlet Pimpernel , Romeo and Juliet , Persuasion .”

“ Wuthering Heights ? Jane Eyre ? Pride and Prejudice ?”

“I knew you understood.”

“Some of those didn’t work out so well, Mrs. G. Romeo and Juliet ? Wuthering Heights ? The boss likes it a bit lighter.”

“The endings don’t matter.” She waved her bent finger at me. “The love was true. Put them out.”

How could I refuse? So I grabbed all my favorites, and she grabbed a few of hers.

I also added Outlander , The Food of Love , and Austenland for a nod to modern tales.

I let Mrs. G take home Austenland . She wanted Outlander , but some scenes would leave her blushing for weeks and then I’d get another kind of lecture.