“I’m not leaving, Kyle. I’m moving back for another year and a half.”
“So?” He still didn’t leave.
“I’ll ask you to run every day then. Eventually I hope you’ll say yes.” I stopped and stared at him. His eyes were shiny, unsure. He seemed so small at that moment. Granted, his shoulders are getting broad and his feet are huge, but he’s fourteen and that’s still young.
“Tomorrow I get off at the library at five. I’ll meet you here and we’ll do some speed work.”
“We ain’t friends.”
“Believe whatever you want. Just be here.” I turned and walked away. “And don’t miss your appointment with Father John,” I called over my shoulder.
Kyle’s probably right, Mr. Knightley. We ain’t friends, but I don’t think he hates me, and that’s something.
Sincerely,
Sam
SEPTEMBER 11
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Classes start Monday. I got all my first choices and took the ‘L’ up to Evanston yesterday to pick up course packets and books. It freaked me out. It was one thing to visit the campus as some strange swan-song farewell, but now I have to fit into that place. I want to fit into that place. I got so worked up I practically hyperventilated on the ride back. A man forced a teenager to give me his seat.
While sitting there, I slapped on a thick layer of Edmond Dantes. He’s my go-to guy for any fight. Have you readThe Count of Monté Cristo? After being framed for murder and imprisoned for years, Edmond finally escapes, finds a huge treasure, and creates the persona of the Count of Monte Cristo. He then returns home to exact revenge—cleverly, coldly, and systematically destroying each man who ruined his life. And he does it with exquisite manners, impeccable style, and an aura of sophistication. Ruthless.
Charlotte Lucas, on the other hand, could never survive at Medill, and Fanny Price wouldn’t try. Even Jane Eyre would recognize her limitations, and she’s as strong as they come. So I’ve been trying on small doses of Edmond. By the time I reached Grace House yesterday, I felt strong. Then came Kyle . . .
As we left for our run, he seemed silent, almost sullen.
“What’s up, Kyle?”
No answer.
“You know, some conversation will enliven this run.”
He stopped and glared at me. “Who are you?”
“I—”
“Forget it.” He turned away.
“Fine, run away, Kyle. You coward.” Edmond challenges. Edmond never backs down.
“Coward? Me? Why’d you ask me to run? This some charity thing?” Kyle’s voice cracked.
And that took care of Edmond. Kyle’s a kid—a searching kid—and I had attacked him again.
“No. It’s not some charity thing.” I deflated, like a balloon with a slow leak, not a pop. I shriveled and floated down. “I’m sorry, Kyle. Don’t leave. Just run with me a few minutes. Please.”
I think he heard the plea in my voice because he simply turned back and ran. I caught up and neither of us spoke for about thirty minutes. I picked up the tempo until we were running probably 6:50s for the last two miles.
At the end we both hung over our knees. My face felt so hot: sweat, blood, everything pounding in it.
“You okay?” he whispered between gulps of air.
“Yeah.” I stood and looked at him. I decided to go for honesty. Running strips me of my inhibitions. Which is one reason I usually run alone. “I’m sorry, Kyle. It’s not that easy for me. Sometimes I get so scared I sort of . . . hide . . . in my books.”
He stared blankly at me.
