At first I thought the red was embarrassment, but her tone hinted at anger.
“What?”
“Compare my proposal from my real fiancé to one of your books. This is my life and I’m inviting you into it. Don’t belittle it by quoting fiction.”
“ ‘I wish you all imaginable happiness,’ Hannah.” I was mad, and I threw that out just to spite her.
“Forget it, Sam. I don’t know who you’re quoting, but I can tell you are. I thought you’d enjoy my story and I wanted to share it with you, but you aren’t even here. I don’t know why I bother. I’ve got work to do.” She stood up and walked to the office.
She was right, of course. When she told me about the dinner, I got carried away. I didn’t want restaurant details; I wanted emotional details—for me. I desperately wanted some guy’s hands to be sweaty because he couldn’t live another moment without knowing if I’d marry him. And I lashed out at her because I was jealous. If I couldn’t have the reality, I wanted the story. But it was her story and her proposal.
Maybe I shouldn’t go see that movie again . . .
SEPTEMBER 14
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m officially learning to be a reporter, so I will report. Here are my classes: Audience Insight, Urban Issues Reporting, Long-Form Nonfiction Narrative, and Magazine Writing. I have the same professor for Urban Issues and Long Form, Dr. Russell Johnson. You may have heard of him. He’s won multiple Pulitzers and was a big civil rights guy. He actually marched on Selma with Dr. King when he was thirteen. From what I gather, JohnsonisJournalism. CapitalJ.
Everyone is in awe. I had both Johnson classes today, and all the students were talking about what an honor it is to work with Johnson, how much Johnson will teach us, what doors a recommendation from Johnson can open, and how impressing Johnson should be the sum of all effort. As if that wasn’t intimidating enough, today the man himself loomed over me and bellowed like a drill sergeant. I almost wet my pants. No kidding. He frightened me that much.
But I hope to use it to my advantage: desperation and terror usually bring out my best work, and I already have three assignments. I’ll ace these and have it made. Johnson will respect my work, and the rest will be a breeze. At least I can count on that—school always works. Nothing else comes together quite so well. In fact, nothing else works at all. I ran into a girl from my Audience class at Norris, the student center, during lunch. She was with a big group and waved at me to join them. So I took a deep breath and dived in—my first friends on my first day.
“We’re just finishing lunch. Grab something and join us.”
I quickly bought a sandwich and sat next to her. Her name is Debbie and she went to Duke. I didn’t feel so cool with my honors from Roosevelt, so I didn’t say much. But I was joining in. It was when Debbie asked about my family that I took the nosedive. I unsuccessfully tried to divert the conversation, but she asked again. I panicked.
“Let’s not get personal so quickly.” I actually said that.
“Oh . . .” Her jaw dropped and she looked around at the others.
I couldn’t stop there. No, I had to say more. I started out as Edmond Dantes and, when I noticed all their weird looks, morphed into a lighter, kinder Jane Bennet. Everyone likes Jane Bennet. Not today. It was humiliating.
After a few minutes Debbie stood up. “I need to head to the bookstore. I’ll see you all later.” She looked equal parts ticked and confused.
And within three minutes everyone else left the table. I sat alone and finished my sandwich.
I’d be glad to share more of my first day, but those are the highlights. All pretty awful, except the school part. If I can get some good work in, Johnson and Debbie won’t bother me so much.
Writing apace,
Sam
OCTOBER 20
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m sorry it’s been more than a month . . . I’ve been busy. I think you and Father John were wrong about this. The program is too tough. Dr. Johnson handed another of my articles back today and basically called me an idiot. I didn’t tell you my first efforts crashed and burned because I thought I could save myself. And this article was better. I was sure of it.
Johnson disagreed. He criticized my topic, my approach, my research, and my tone. I’m “formulaic, pedantic, and prosaic.” How can anyone be that bad? I thought I’d specialize in feature writing. I can’t now. He’s the guru of that, and there’s no getting past him. JohnsonisJournalism.
In fact, I was so certain of success that I pre-registered for his winter class, Journalism Methods: News Writing. I’m dead, and I’m not the only one. One guy already left. He said that Johnson is too powerful and that a bad recommendation can kill a career. He called theAustin Statesmanand got his old job back. He’s headed home to Texas and a good salary with benefits . . . What’ll happen to me?
When handing back my assignment, Johnson asked me to stay after the seminar today. Each of my classmates silently ducked out with grimaces and sympathetic glances—even Debbie, who hasn’t talked to me since that disastrous lunch. I sat there feeling sick as Johnson crossed the room and sat on the edge of my table.
“Find your voice, Moore, or you’re going to have a rough go here.” He leaned back and watched me. For a man with an amazing amount of energy and size, he can sit remarkably still.
“Excuse me?”
