Page 41 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

You’re the first—second—to hear the news: Johnson loved my article. He was stunned. I’m stunned. You have no idea what this means, Mr. Knightley. Maybe you do.

He called my cell this afternoon and demanded I come to his office. I dropped my tuna fish sandwich and left Debbie and Ashley at Jimmy John’s, worried for my survival.

He stood as I entered and pointed to the chair across from him. “Sit down and tell me about your feature.” He sat and bounced back and forth in his office chair, tapping the armrest with his fingers.

“It’s my story, in my voice. It’s a beginning if I have any hope of writing or staying here.”

“Hope of writing? This is it, Moore. I see you. And even though you say it’s your story, you’ve approached it with astounding objectivity and subtlety—very impressive. Where’s it been hiding?”

I sat there a minute. How to explain?

“Sometimes it was too hard to be me. Eventually I forgot how.” I looked toward the window to calm my breathing.

“I literally broke over Christmas. My appendix burst, and I don’t think it was a coincidence.

And I was sure you were going to kick me out, so I went back to Grace House.

I thought I’d move back in and find work, but Kyle got me talking, and . . . this is what came out of us.”

“I added a lot of pressure, didn’t I?” His voice was quiet and concerned.

“You were right. I’ve been picking subjects that couldn’t touch me or ones that I could hide behind—until this. Kyle started us, and then we couldn’t stop. We needed to get it out.”

“Tell me about Kyle. Tell me about everything.” He bounced forward and leaned over the desk—getting closer to the story.

And that’s what I gave him. My story. I told him everything.

It was another one of those cathartic afternoons: I talked, he asked questions, he pulled out a ham sandwich to share, and three hours later he stretched and said, “You’re going to be fine, Moore.

This is good work. I’m sending it to the Trib . ”

“Really?”

“It’s that good. What’d you think? You can’t use this simply for a grade. I told you, Moore, we make careers here. The Tribune awards a couple internships each summer—not errand-boy jobs, but the real deal, writing and investigating. This may be strong enough to land you a spot.”

He noticed my fallen expression. “What is it? Your mouth turned down.”

“Sir, as I said, I’ve hidden my past for a while now. And there’s Kyle to consider. He may not want this published.”

“Tell you what, talk to Kyle. While I like my writers to stand behind their work, pseudonyms might be appropriate here.”

“Thank you.”

“E-mail me the piece with the names changed tonight, and I’ll send it in.”

“Thank you. I’m completely honored.” I stood to leave.

“Don’t be. You deserve it, Moore. And if you get that internship, it’ll push you harder than I do. You’re green, but I suspect you need challenge to keep you going.” He reached out to shake my hand. “Well done, Moore. I’m proud of you.”

I grasped his hand in a daze and turned to leave.

“And, Moore?” Johnson’s tone told me that I wasn’t out of the woods yet.

“Yes, sir?”

“This is outstanding, but it’s only a quarter of my assessment for a concentration in feature writing. I don’t grade on potential. Unless you want to switch specialties, all your work must come up to scratch.”

“It will.” There was nothing more to say, so I bounced out on little puffs of joy.

I know the last comment was a downer, but it was also very hopeful.

Johnson is proud of me and, I think, believes my work can improve.

He wouldn’t send me as a possible candidate to the Tribune otherwise.

So I’m not going to talk myself out of being pleased and extremely relieved.

As I sat on a bench to call Kyle, I got scared. Published? I’ll be exposed to the world. Am I ready for that?

Kyle wouldn’t hear of pseudonyms. “We use our own names or nothing. We did this to be free. Fake names ain’t free.”

“Kyle, you can’t stop me.” I felt backed into a corner.

He didn’t answer for an eternity. “I can’t.

” He took a deep breath. I could hear it shudder over the line.

“Sam, I’m fifteen next summer; guys I know have babies or they’re dyin’ on the streets.

I’m past being a kid and I got choices to make.

To be the kinda man I see in Coach, the kind Father John talks about .

. . I won’t hide anymore, Sam. Don’t make me ashamed of my life.

Do what you want, but I got no part in it. ” He hung up.

I sat stunned. I’ve replayed his words in my mind, Mr. Knightley, and I’m so ashamed. I thought only of me, and I made Kyle feel like less . I can’t have it both ways, can I? It’s that moment. We go forward or we’re done, trapped forever. I will never hold Kyle back.

I e-mailed a note to Dr. Johnson:

Thank you so much for this opportunity. Please submit the article with no changes and use our real names.

I sent it an hour ago and I still feel shaky. There are so many people I need to warn—so much to say. What if the Tribune actually prints it? I’m going running . . .

Sincerely,

Sam