Page 32 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

Do we ever get a break? Can’t we thrive? Why work to make our lot in life better if we keep getting beat down?

Kyle called Coach Ridley a couple days ago and asked him to take him to Grace House. Ridley did. Within hours Mr. Hoffman demanded Father John release Kyle and pressed kidnapping charges against the coach. Kidnapping? Can you believe it?

It won’t stick. Kyle started talking. Mr. Hoffman did hit Kyle.

Father John called the police, and they took Kyle to DCFS.

He recounted all kinds of abuse, to him and to the Hoffmans’ son, Brian.

It sounded so awful that the police sought former kids placed with the Hoffmans to confirm. Four corroborated Kyle’s testimony.

The stories make you want to cry: standing in the corner for hours; beatings around the lower abdomen and butt, where marks wouldn’t be seen; getting chained to the kitchen table or to the bed at night.

Horrid stuff. And things that wouldn’t leave visible marks once Kyle put on clothes.

They were careful, which is even more disgusting.

Kyle did actually give himself the bruises on his neck that Coach Ridley saw a few weeks ago, by falling out of a hiding place.

That’s why he wouldn’t talk then. He was afraid no one would believe him.

So Kyle’s back at Grace House. He thinks he failed. I went down and had dinner with him tonight. I had plans with Josh, but canceled them. I lied and said I had a seminar.

“I forgot,” I told him. “It’s a makeup from when Professor Feinberg was sick last month.”

“All right. We’ll be at Twin Anchors on Sedgwick. Just come after. I’ll text you if we move on.”

“It’ll be late. I don’t want to take the ‘L’ at night.”

“Then take a cab. You take a cab home all the time when you come down.” He paused.

I know my fears frustrate him, but some are legitimate. Aren’t they?

“Forget it, Sam. I’ll call you tomorrow, and maybe you can come down this weekend. Downtown isn’t that far, you know?”

“I know.” I started to feel small and defensive. “I’m sorry, Josh. Listen, I gotta go. Have fun tonight.”

“Fine.” He then relented a little. “Work hard, okay? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

And that was it.

I like Josh, I really do. He’s a great kisser.

Is that too much information? But he is.

I love his arms around me. I love his smell.

I love that when he walks next to me, I don’t fear steps behind me.

But I don’t always feel he understands me, though that’s probably my fault.

I haven’t always been honest with him. Like when we went bowling last week.

Josh made the effort to come north and meet the Conleys, but I wasn’t honest at the end of the evening.

“Thank you so much for coming.”

“You’re making me leave? It’s only ten. Why meet them if I get kicked out early like always?”

“I’ve got a ton of work tonight. You remember exams.”

Josh relented. “I do.” He kissed me lightly. “No big deal. I’m busy tomorrow, but I’ll text you about this weekend.” And he left.

While I did need to study, I didn’t kick him out because of exams. I’d been watching Isabella study Josh the whole evening.

She absorbed everything we said and every romantic gesture he made.

Back at Grace House, when Father John told us to set an example for the younger kids, I couldn’t have cared less.

Let them figure it out on their own . But Isabella matters to me.

I want to set a good example for her. And with her bedroom window facing the garage and my apartment, I felt certain she’d be looking for Josh’s car long after her bedtime.

Maybe I should have told Josh. Explained that girls have active imaginations . . . I don’t know.

But with that in mind—the importance of honest communication and setting a good example—I took a cab downtown to see Kyle after my last class this afternoon.

And, boy, did we start out rough. We’re two peas in a pod, Kyle and I.

At first he refused to talk and I couldn’t say anything meaningful.

He was as low as I’ve ever seen him—no anger, only sorrow. I wished for a bit of his old fight.

I finally stopped my inane chatter and told him the truth about school and all my other struggles.

It helped us both—shared failure is always a comfort.

I don’t mean that flippantly. I mean that sharing my dismal grades, poorly written articles, limited friends, horrific nightmares, and even all the details from the Great Beat-down and its aftermath made me relatable to Kyle. We could talk. We were alike.

By dessert Kyle was sharing as well. And it helped. I could see it in his eyes. They started the night tight and predatory, rounded and softened during pizza, and showed flashes of laughter during ice cream. It made me smile.

And so tomorrow we begin a new day. Can we make it better, Mr. Knightley? Can we make life “normal”? I want that more for Kyle than I want it for myself.

Sincerely,

Sam