Page 34 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

Christmas break has started, and I’m shredded.

I’m killing myself fixing articles and working on the January feature, but it’s all crap.

I handed in that review of The Merchant of Venice , but I couldn’t find an objective yet warm tone for the article.

I liked the production, but I couldn’t get perspective.

And between work for all my classes and Josh, there was no time to think it through.

Josh wants to go out practically every night and calls for me to meet him downtown with his friends, and then it’s late and hard to get home on the Metra.

I feel wasteful paying for so many cabs, but the ‘L’ still scares me.

Night still scares me. I can’t decide if I’m exhausted from the late nights or the stress.

Josh also seems put out with my worrying and early departures. He says I should just stay at his place, and I guess he’s right. We’ve been dating for a couple months now and it’s expected. I don’t know why I don’t agree, and I think he’s losing patience. Last night it almost came to a fight.

“Do you have to leave before even ordering dessert? You missed drinks out with Scott and Jessica last night, and it’s rude. I feel like a third wheel. What’s up with you?”

Ashley says I’m acting prudish. Debbie refuses to weigh in.

There’s something very sensible and Midwestern about Debbie that I really appreciate.

She’s like Jane Eyre; she doesn’t lose her way.

She says I have good instincts and should trust them.

I think that’s why she’s top in our class—she listens.

No one absorbs the most important points and then draws them out as well as she does.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that’s brilliant.

But doesn’t she know that I have no instincts?

That it’s impossible for me to draw my own conclusions?

I shouldn’t canvass my friends on this, but I don’t know what’s normal.

That’s what I can’t tell Debbie or anyone.

None of them know I haven’t slept with a guy.

I gather everyone has. My reticence seems strange, even to myself.

And I love Josh. At least I think I do. He loves me.

At least I think he does. He’s never said the words, but it’s in his look and actions.

Goodness, I sound exactly like Marianne Dashwood.

She felt the same about Willoughby, and look where it got her—the poor girl almost died.

Thank goodness, Josh is an honorable Colonel Brandon and not a villainous Willoughby.

But I have to admit that, while he makes me feel very attractive and cherished, I also feel uncomfortable with some of his ideas.

I suspect that’s my issue, not his, and that I really am “two steps behind reality.” I try to share my reality with him, but he doesn’t hear me.

Our conversation while running this morning is a perfect example.

“You can’t be that naive, Sam. It’s the way the world works. Everyone is like that.”

“Not everyone.”

“You’ve got the brains and certainly the determination, but it takes more than that to cut it at Medill and certainly in the newspaper biz. You have to take the next guy out, even if it’s Debbie or another friend. They’d do it to you. Get out of your head and your books, Sam.”

I ran silently a few minutes. Is that really how I need to think? Is that what living “normal” looks and feels like?

“I probably do spend too much time in my books. They saved me, you know?” I wanted to share my life and let him know how little I understand these new arenas. Ask about the real me. Can I trust you?

“Saved you from what? The mall?” He laughed.

“My childhood wasn’t like yours, Josh. I didn’t have a bunch of brothers playing football in the front yard.”

“Whatever, Sam.”

“And Debbie and the others are my friends. I’m not going to ‘take them out,’ as you say.”

“Listen, Sam, I get that you love to stand out by acting clueless, but don’t pretend it’s not an act and that you’re not as cutthroat as the rest of us.”

Love to stand out? Cutthroat? How could anyone think that’s me?

I spend every moment of every day painfully working to fit in.

I work to not stand out in any way, to not get noticed.

At least not in a negative way—I’d love it if my classmates and Johnson thought I occasionally brought something good to the table.

Of course, I didn’t say all that. I never do.

But I did subtly pick up the pace. Josh could barely breathe by the end—not that he’d ever admit it.

And I felt a little better. Maybe I am cutthroat, Mr. Knightley.

I wanted a little of my own back, and I purposefully ran Josh into the ground to get it.

And unlike that first race with Kyle, this time I felt no regret.

We had plans to spend the day together, but they evaporated. Josh suddenly had a meeting, on a Saturday, and I needed to study.

Isn’t your boyfriend supposed to want the real you? I mean I know I’ve hidden stuff, most everything, I grant, but I’ve tried to let truth slip out too. And today I was ready for honesty.

Sincerely,

Sam

P.S. Mr. Knightley, thanks for this—these letters.

At first I questioned them, even though I found them oddly easy.

And now I trust our one-sided, soul-purging relationship.

I depend on it. It’s got to be more therapeutic than all those psychologists people pay in the movies.

It’s certainly more helpful than all that chatting I had to do with Dr. Wieland at Grace House. So again, thank you.

Oh . . .

I just got a text from Alex Powell:

Mom M gave me your number. Saw Hamlet off Broadway. Thought Much Of You. How’s school? A. Powell

I wrote back: LOL. Heard Three Days Found is coming out as a movie. Congrats. Will see it opening night.

Alex: It’s fun. Flying to LA to consult storyboard and set. Am getting so Hollywood.

Me: Careful. Next you’ll put your picture on your books.

Alex: Never! Thanks for staying @ Muirs over turkey day. They get lonely.

Me: Me too. Loved it. Can see why they’re your 2nd parents.

Alex: No fear. I share well. Gotta go.

I promptly deleted his number. You might call me ridiculous, but it was necessary.

What if I couldn’t help myself and started texting, pestering, stalking?

It wouldn’t be my fault! I’m already following him on Twitter.

He really shouldn’t guard his privacy so much.

Other than the upcoming movie, very little leaks out.

And I refuse to pepper the Muirs. But I did find an interview with Conan on YouTube.

Now do you understand why I got rid of his number?