Page 24 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Ashley came over last night to return a book I lent her and to see my new digs.

She walked in and ooohhh -ed and aaahhh -ed perfectly. Then she noticed the O’Keeffe poster. “That’s nice, but you should hang something real there. A watercolor or an oil. You need more substance for the room’s focal point. The lilies are a bit cliché, don’t you think?”

Then she flopped on the couch and pulled out her phone and started playing on it. I stood there stunned. First about the poster comment, then because she sat texting or whatever for a full five minutes.

“What are you doing?” I finally asked.

“Updating my wall.”

“Why?”

“Sam, I’ve got over a thousand friends on Facebook. Do you know how much maintaining that takes? There’s an art to doing it well. Not that you’d care.” She waved her hand airily at me.

“ ‘There’s a meanness in all the arts. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.’ ”

“Nicely done.”

I knew she’d recognize Mr. Darcy.

She looked up and shrugged. “Don’t be so sensitive. I wasn’t being mean. I simply meant you should put more thought into the space above your bed.”

“You were being a snob.”

“Forget it. I thought we could have a conversation.”

“A conversation? As far as I can tell, you came to my apartment, insulted me, and are playing on your phone. What are you even doing here?” I was mad. I had thought we were friends, had hoped we were friends, but now I felt taken in—by an Emma.

Ashley tossed her phone across the couch. “You’ve got this wall around you. Figuratively speaking. Or is it literal?” Ashley tried to laugh, but tears came out instead. She quickly swiped them and glanced at me.

Did she hope I wouldn’t notice? She dropped her gaze and mumbled, “What does it matter?” Then the tears started to fall—really plop down her cheeks.

I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to be all Elinor Dashwood—and Ashley did seem a bit Marianne-ish. Another part of me just wanted to kick her out. I was still angry, but I stayed quiet. I sat on the couch next to her.

Ashley blubbered on. “It’s like you’re the only one who’s clever and the only one who’s been hurt.

I don’t even know who hurt you. I don’t know anything about you.

You don’t let me in. Like when that guy hit you?

Where’d you go?” She paused and then, thankfully, continued without waiting for a reply.

“You don’t act like a friend, Sam. I could use a friend. A real one.”

I could too, Ashley.

“You don’t take me seriously,” she said. “No one does. My parents don’t. Will doesn’t.” She rolled against the pillows and swiped the back of her hand across her nose.

“Will?”

“Never mind. He’s just a silly boy. He’s not the point. Can’t we be friends, Sam? Real friends?”

The moment felt like my tae kwon do conversation with Hannah. I don’t mean to make people feel distant and unseen, but I do. And I do want friends—that’s new for me. They never mattered before. Life was a job. But now I think friendships make it more worthwhile. What’s the cost of real friendship?

Ashley sucked in a deep breath. “I have a wall too, Sam. The clothes, the shoes, the hair products. I’m not proud of it, but it’s a good, strong wall.” More tears dripped from her nose. “And tonight my mother placed another brick in it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mother sent me a blouse. I texted a picture of me in it to thank her, and here’s what I got in reply.” Ashley picked up her phone and read the text. “‘Clearly you need an appointment at Sania’s. Go there straight from the airport Wednesday.’”

Ashley looked up. “I can’t even go home for Thanksgiving without a cleanup.”

“Who’s Sania?”

“It’s a brow bar on 56th and 5th.” Ashley sniffed.

I laughed. “A brow bar?”

She frowned at me, so I rushed on. “No, that’s what you don’t get, Ashley. I’m serious. What’s a brow bar?”

“Eyebrows. Shaping, waxing, threading. Not that you need it.” She squinted at me. “You just need tweezing.”

And there she hit it: my biggest insecurity. Eyebrows like Oscar the Grouch. I reached up to cover them. She pushed my hand away.

“They’re pretty, Sam. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“They’re horrible.”

“Get me tweezers.”

“What?”

“Just do it. It’ll give me something to do. And trust me, I know how to do this. Maybe it’s all I’m good for.” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand again and sat up.

Speechless, I started for the bathroom to grab both tweezers and Kleenex, questioning my sanity.

First I let Coach Ridley insult my stride to help Kyle, and now .

. . Was I really going to let Ashley yank out my eyebrows to boost her self-esteem?

Was she helping me? Or was I helping her?

Then I had to concede, Kyle is doing better and I’m running faster. We both won.

So I got the tweezers. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t nervous. “What do you plan to do with these?”

“Sit at the table.”

I sat in front of her. Ashley reached up and plucked a hair between my eyes.

“Ouch! You can’t do that!” I jerked my head away.

“Stop it and sit still.”

“Watch the scar, it’s super tender.”

“I won’t go near it. Sit still or I’ll miss and land right on it.”

I froze. I didn’t even breathe. Clearly she needed this. Maybe I did too.

“I’m sorry I criticized your room, Sam. I was angry. I know you hide, but at least you do it somewhere intellectual. Most people don’t think I have a real thought in my brain.”

“Of course you do. You’re smart, Ashley. You’re just amazingly pretty too, and that can be intimidating—ouch.” I tried not to cry out each time, but it hurt.

“Really?”

“Sure. You’re the classic kind of pretty: petite, blond, blue-eyed. And you have that great accent. It’s intimidating. And I think you know it.”

“Sometimes.” She had the grace to smile.

“Then you can’t blame me for throwing out a few quotes here and there. Sometimes I use them to hide and sometimes just to even the score.”

“Even the score? But you’re so smart.”

“And tall and gangly and clueless. Like the other day—you were laughing about rhinoplasties. I thought you were talking about some kind of rhinoceros.”

“Rhinoplasty means my mother hauled me and my big nose to a plastic surgeon when I was sixteen to make it into a cute little button.” She tapped her nose in staccato with the last three words.

“She did?”

“Yeah.” She pulled extra hard on the tweezers.

“Ouch! Maybe we shouldn’t talk about your mother.”

She grimaced. “Probably not the best topic right now . . . I’m almost done. You look like Anne Hathaway, you know.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true, whether you believe it or not. So tuck it away and pull it out when you need it.” Her voice drifted. “You know the best compliment I ever got?”

“Hmmm?”

“I was in seventh grade and a friend was over. We were flipping through magazines, yapping about something, and she turned to me and said, ‘Ashley, you always make me feel so good about myself.’” Ashley paused, tasting the compliment in her mind. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Very nice.”

We were silent for a few moments.

“I pull that out sometimes. I’d like to be that person.” Ashley sat back and examined her work. “Go look.”

I went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror, and was shocked.

I’m not saying I was instantly gorgeous.

No Anne Hathaway. But I looked pretty. My eyes looked bigger, browner somehow.

Everything looked neat and refined. I didn’t even feel so tall.

That probably makes no sense to a man, but it felt good—really good.

I returned to the living room with a huge grin on my face. Ashley laughed. “My work here is done.” She grabbed her bag off the couch and headed to the door.

“Thanks, Ash. You can stay, you know? Do you want some popcorn?”

“No, but thanks. I’ve got some work to do.” She looked through the door to my bedroom. “I’m sorry about earlier. None of this was about your poster. I love the O’Keeffe.”

“I get it. And I’m sorry I push back at you sometimes. Just call me out when my quoting is obnoxious.”

“Yeah. And tell me when I go all Park Ave on you, okay? I don’t mean to sound like such a snob.” She hugged me. “Ugh . . . so much to improve. See you tomorrow.”

Now I sit here thinking about Ashley, and about that stupid poster, and about my characters. It’s time to lay them down, isn’t it? They’ve gone from helping me to trapping me to hurting others. That can’t be good.

Good night, Mr. Knightley. Thanks for reading. Sleep well . . .