Page 48 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

I doubt my April Fool’s letter tricked you even for a moment. I thought about striking closer to home, just: I’m marrying Josh and he wants me to drop out of school. But when I typed that out, it didn’t feel funny.

But I do have news to report that’s not a joke. I confirmed it, twice. Ms. Ellis from the Tribune called this morning.

“Sam, Susan Ellis here. I want to offer you the summer internship. Are you still available?”

“Yes.” I played it so cool. “What happened?”

“Our candidate accepted another post. I have the spot and I admire tenacity, Sam, and good writing. The six treatments you sent were fantastic. I will run them as a series beginning next month.”

“Really?” Very articulate.

“Really. I may be wrong about you, Sam. I thought you needed more experience, but you may simply need a launch pad. Internship starts June 15. I need your answer by tomorrow.”

“I’ll take it, and I’m telling you now. This isn’t a joke?”

“No.”

“Seriously, you’re offering me an internship? At the Chicago Tribune ?”

“Yes, Sam. I’ll send you paperwork as proof,” she laughed. “Glad you’re on board. I think you’ll enjoy it here.”

Can you believe it? I’m so excited, but still not articulate. I hope she’s right about that whole launch pad thing. What if I don’t have the talent? No, I can’t think that way . . . I’m going to the Trib !

I called Josh. “Honey, I knew you could do it.” He made me feel loved and successful. We’re going out tomorrow to celebrate. The Tribune !

I also called Kyle.

“I started all this!” he yelled. I could feel his pride. He deserves the credit, and I’m the first to admit it.

“You did, Kyle. And I can never thank you enough.”

“Ditto.”

“What’d I do?”

“You stayed, Sam. You never left.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.”

We both got teary so, naturally, we hung up. Kyle’s doing well now—inside and out. He’s calmer, not predatory and angry. He’s also kinder. I think when you’re fighting for your life, kindness becomes a luxury you can’t afford. Seeing it in Kyle lets me know he feels safe.

And speaking of Kyle, I’ve got a secret. You cannot tell anyone. No one. It’s so fragile that the telling might shatter it: Coach Ridley and his wife are taking foster parenting classes for Kyle.

They’re in their late fifties, with two grown kids and a couple grandkids—great for Kyle, but not so great for approval from DCFS.

So Coach Ridley made me promise not to tell him.

As if I would. Kyle couldn’t stand another “almost.” Placements are rare at his age, and if this fails I say he’s at Grace House for good.

I don’t want that for him. It’s so lonely.

That’s what no one shares: the deep sense of aloneness that pervades a settlement home versus a family, any family.

So I’m keeping my mouth shut and my fingers crossed. I’ve found wishing and wanting something too badly makes it disappear. The Tribune better not disappear. If it sticks, I’ll rethink my theory. If Coach Ridley fosters Kyle, I’ll throw it out completely.

Back to work,

Sam