Page 16 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

Classes start Monday. I got all my first choices and took the ‘L’ up to Evanston yesterday to pick up course packets and books.

It freaked me out. It was one thing to visit the campus as some strange swan-song farewell, but now I have to fit into that place.

I want to fit into that place. I got so worked up I practically hyperventilated on the ride back.

A man forced a teenager to give me his seat.

While sitting there, I slapped on a thick layer of Edmond Dantes.

He’s my go-to guy for any fight. Have you read The Count of Monté Cristo ?

After being framed for murder and imprisoned for years, Edmond finally escapes, finds a huge treasure, and creates the persona of the Count of Monte Cristo.

He then returns home to exact revenge—cleverly, coldly, and systematically destroying each man who ruined his life.

And he does it with exquisite manners, impeccable style, and an aura of sophistication. Ruthless.

Charlotte Lucas, on the other hand, could never survive at Medill, and Fanny Price wouldn’t try.

Even Jane Eyre would recognize her limitations, and she’s as strong as they come.

So I’ve been trying on small doses of Edmond.

By the time I reached Grace House yesterday, I felt strong. Then came Kyle . . .

As we left for our run, he seemed silent, almost sullen.

“What’s up, Kyle?”

No answer.

“You know, some conversation will enliven this run.”

He stopped and glared at me. “Who are you?”

“I—”

“Forget it.” He turned away.

“Fine, run away, Kyle. You coward.” Edmond challenges. Edmond never backs down.

“Coward? Me? Why’d you ask me to run? This some charity thing?” Kyle’s voice cracked.

And that took care of Edmond. Kyle’s a kid—a searching kid—and I had attacked him again.

“No. It’s not some charity thing.” I deflated, like a balloon with a slow leak, not a pop. I shriveled and floated down. “I’m sorry, Kyle. Don’t leave. Just run with me a few minutes. Please.”

I think he heard the plea in my voice because he simply turned back and ran. I caught up and neither of us spoke for about thirty minutes. I picked up the tempo until we were running probably 6:50s for the last two miles.

At the end we both hung over our knees. My face felt so hot: sweat, blood, everything pounding in it.

“You okay?” he whispered between gulps of air.

“Yeah.” I stood and looked at him. I decided to go for honesty. Running strips me of my inhibitions. Which is one reason I usually run alone. “I’m sorry, Kyle. It’s not that easy for me. Sometimes I get so scared I sort of . . . hide . . . in my books.”

He stared blankly at me.

“Come on, you must do something . . . to keep from being afraid?” I was surprised to hear myself ask that question—more surprised that I wanted an answer.

“Beat up Jaden ’cause Nolan dissed me. Jaden didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

I wanted to pounce. Jaden is a small nine-year-old sweetheart. But a voice deep inside told me to shut up. Let Father John correct his defense mechanisms, not me.

“Hiding in books is like beating up Jaden.”

“But you’re all grown up.”

That struck me as funny and I tried to laugh. “Go figure. All grown up and still hiding.” The laughter came out as a pathetic wheeze with a snort at the end. “I guess I don’t know how to stop, Kyle.”

He stared at me again. What was he supposed to say?

“Hey, you want to see a movie tonight?” I can only take so much personal reflection.

“What?”

“ Redemption opened last week. I bet your supervisor would let me take you. It’s PG-13. Wait, I heard you just turned fourteen. Wanna go?”

“Yeah!”

So there you go. I took Kyle to the movies. He was pretty good company too. He didn’t talk much, but after all my wallowing this afternoon, I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to enjoy the show and sexy Cole Barker.

Sincerely,

Sam

P.S. Okay, I can’t help myself. I tried to sign off, but I can’t . . .

You’re going to think I’m some silly teenage groupie, but I’ve got to tell you about Redemption and you’ve got to see it. If you haven’t read any of Powell’s books, start with that one.

Then go see the movie. They get Cole Barker perfectly. He is so adorable and handsome and tough, yet vulnerable . . .

I’ll stop. Please don’t tell anyone I gushed like this. It’s embarrassing how much I loved that movie. I think I’ll sneak out after my shift at the library this afternoon and see it again. Do you ever see a film twice?

Oh . . . how could I forget? See what Cole did to me? Hannah got engaged last night. I saw her when I dropped off some boxes at Independence Cottage this morning. She lifted her left hand, squealed, pulled me to the bench in the courtyard, and gushed the whole story—without drawing a breath.

The ring is gorgeous, Mr. Knightley. A beautiful diamond set in a circle of gold.

I held Hannah’s hand up to admire it, then dropped it, a little too forcefully.

She shot me a questioning glance, but I think she understood.

I felt that little-girl yearning for Prince Charming play across my face.

I thought that died long ago. Clearly not—probably Cole’s fault.

She started her story in a dreamy voice.

“Matt took me to our favorite restaurant, Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder, last night. There was a two-hour wait, so I told him we should go somewhere else. He was so tense, but he refused to budge. We waited and chatted and drank Chianti. But he kept fidgeting. Finally we got a booth.”

“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 . . .