Page 17 of Dear Mr. Knightley

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