Page 29 of Dear Mr. Knightley
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I know I just wrote yesterday—but I need to sort this out, and writing you is always good for that. I shot an e-mail off to Kyle yesterday just to see how he’s doing and got a horrid reply. I’ve been on the phone with Kyle and Father John all afternoon trying to understand.
Kyle’s e-mails have been nonexistent the past couple weeks, and I just thought he was busy.
I hoped cross-country, studies, and his new family filled his time.
Perhaps I saw only what I wanted to see.
Or had time to see. Life’s been busy and school’s a struggle. Maybe I shut him out too—I don’t know.
Anyway, Coach Ridley saw marks on Kyle’s neck and refused to send him home a few days ago.
Ridley called the police, who took Kyle to a holding house and brought Mr. Hoffman in for questioning.
Father John says DCFS believes there’s no wrongdoing and that Kyle is self-sabotaging.
It’s a term used to describe when kids push new families away to test their loyalty.
Kyle didn’t talk and he’s going back to the Hoffmans’ this afternoon.
I asked him myself and he didn’t deny it—so maybe DCFS is right. Maybe he was just testing them. He sure tested me long enough. No, that’s not fair—we tested each other.
“Did you do it, Kyle?”
“Do what?”
“Hurt yourself? To see if they cared? You know you can talk to me.”
No reply.
“Heck, we’ve been through a lot. If we can’t be honest with each other, who can we trust?”
“Dunno. You okay?” Nice deflection, Kyle . “Your e-mail said you were flunking out.”
“I’m doing better. I’m getting the hang of it.” Counterattack . “Let’s talk about you.”
Kyle paused. At the time, I thought he was thinking. Now I wonder, was his deflection a test of my honesty? A test of my loyalty? And I failed?
It was—I know it. Darn it! I really like that kid and for some reason feel he’s an indelible part of me. I’ve tried to call him a couple times, but he won’t answer. It’s so clear to me now that I let him down.
I need to give him space to work out his life without me pestering him.
And I’ve got to remember this is about him, not me.
But I have that sinking feeling I had when I beat him on the track—that he needed something and I deliberately withheld it to protect myself.
I was wrong and I will apologize . . . again.
But for now I think I need to let Kyle enjoy Thanksgiving with the Hoffmans.
I’ve got other stuff on my plate anyway—which leads me to you. Loyalty and honesty, right?
Yesterday, after my once-in-a-lifetime hour with Alex Powell, I ran into Dr. Johnson.
He, of course, remembered that I submitted an article to the Tribune .
Why did I ever tell him? And I couldn’t lie when he asked .
. . They refused it with a very succinct Not suitable for publication at this time.
“It was my first try, Dr. Johnson. I’ll refine the next one and submit again.”
“You can try as often as you like, Moore. It won’t help. You need to decide if you’re right for this program. You’re way behind where you should be by now.”
My heart stopped. “What are you saying?”
“Simply this. Medill is expensive. If you have the funds and can afford a low-paying newspaper job, let’s keep at this.
If you’re on loans, you might want to consider more lucrative work.
Graduate school takes serious commitment and, given that, can yield serious results.
Careers are made within these walls, but students are broken as well. ”
“I’ve given everything to be here.”
“You have? Tell me what you’ve sacrificed, because I’ve never seen a student give so little.”
“What?”
“I see no passion in your writing. Only technique. It’s good, but it’s empty.”
“‘I certainly have not the talent which some people possess . . . ,’ but I am working hard.” I grimaced. Spewing forth a hackneyed Darcy line confirmed, not refuted, Johnson’s point.
“There you go, Moore—a perfect example. Can’t you feel yourself step away from the subject? Right here in this conversation.” He studied me a moment. “If you don’t commit, consider yourself warned. You’ll be one the faculty cuts. We don’t keep students who hold the others back.”
How did he know? He studied me again and, I think, pitied my fallen expression.
I blinked hard to clear my eyes as he continued.
“You must press deeper, stretch farther, dig. Give up on the Trib for now. Try the Evanston Review and some township papers. Get some publishing credits, grab a bit of encouragement, and drive harder. You’ve got two months, Moore. Don’t waste them.”
So here I sit, trying to stretch and dig.
A writer is revealed through her work, journalism or fiction.
I know that now. I learned it from Alex.
Last night, I pulled a few of his books from the shelves and reread my favorites.
And I found him, the real Alex, on every page.
Not him directly, but I found his passion.
That’s what Johnson is talking about. In journalism, you can take an objective subject and infuse it with life by your commitment to it, your passion for it.
I learned something else while perusing Alex’s books: Fiction is great to read, but it’s not for me to write. There are stories in me—hard-hitting stories, factual stories, life stories, news stories. I see them in front of me, and now I see them slipping away.
This has been plaguing me, especially since lying to Kyle about school this afternoon.
I know that avoiding the bad doesn’t make it go away, and escaping into a good book or character doesn’t help either.
I must deal with reality and all the mess I’ve pushed away for so long.
Please know I’m working. This program, this work, has come to mean the world to me. I won’t/can’t fail.
Thanks for listening,
Sam