“I’m Coach Ridley. I’ve been talking to Father John about you. He says you’re a strong runner. You should join our team.”
“I thought—” I started, but Coach Ridley subtly shook his head at me. If I hadn’t been so surprised, I might have gotten mad.
He focused on Kyle. “Your friend here can’t come back to the track; I don’t want her to get in trouble. But her stride’s too long. Think you could help her with that?”
Kyle, who hadn’t looked the man in the eyes during any portion of this, locked eyes on Coach Ridley. I couldn’t believe it. He was listening. But I was listening too, and I felt my face flush with anger.My stride is not too long!I remembered the day when I ran Kyle into the ground. I don’t like losing. And I don’t like criticism.
“Excuse m—” I protested, but that’s all I got out as Coach Ridley glanced at me and winked. He winked! I almost laughed as I caught on. The coach was trapping Kyle. It was a dare. And Kyle was eating it up.
“I can run you through some drills with the team, and you can help her shorten that stride. It’ll improve her times.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. I’ll see you right here after last period tomorrow.” He turned back to me. “And what’s your name?”
“Samantha Moore.”
“Well, Miss Moore. You’ll have a better stride by next week. And the track is open to the public for meets. You can come watch Kyle.” Coach Ridley walked away without another word or look back.
Kyle and I turned and walked back to Grace House. I think we were both stunned, probably for different reasons.
“So you’re on the cross-country team?” I tried to sound casual. This is good for him. It’d be good for any teenage boy.
“Yeah.”
“Are you excited?”
“Dunno.”
“You don’t know? Why’d you join?”
“You need help.”
I shot him a glance, trying to find sarcasm. There wasn’t any. I laughed. “Well, Kyle, I’ll take all the help I can get.” That’s irony for you, if nothing else.
It’s been almost two weeks now, and Kyle looks lighter. I don’t mean his weight—he was already a lanky kid. I mean his eyes. They aren’t as cruel, and his mouth isn’t compressed so tight. Promising changes, Mr. Knightley.
OCTOBER 26
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I turned in another article to Johnson today. It was better. He takes only a couple days to review our work, so I’ll know soon enough. I can do this, Mr. Knightley. I hope I didn’t worry you last week. I want to assure you that the work is not beyond me. Please don’t feel you’ve wasted your time or your foundation’s money.
For a change I should tell you about one of my successes: I think I made a friend. If not, I’m a project . . .
Last Tuesday, I saw Debbie at Norris. She hasn’t talked to me all quarter, but I smiled and threw out a hello before I lost my courage. There was some truth to Hannah’s criticisms, even if she “never had the smallest idea of them being ever felt in such a way.” I know, I’m quoting. But Lizzy expresses things so well. My point is that I’ve taken Hannah’s words to heart and I have been trying to pay attention to people and reach out to them.
So anyway, Debbie looked surprised, and the girl next to her immediately called out to me. “Hey, come join us. I’ve seen you in here before. Are you in Medill’s program?” She looked between Debbie and me. Debbie nodded with thatstop-talkinglook in her eyes. I was so humiliated. I wanted to run, but I forced myself to stand.
The girl smiled at me. “So how do you like it? Debbie says it’s impossible.”
“I hate the contrast between my ideas and my work. In each article I imagine something which I’m powerless to realize.” I cringed.
“That was impressive. Sit down.”
I sat, even more nervous. “What was impressive?”
“The way you paraphrased that line fromJane Eyreand used it for your own context. I like that.”
