Ashley never did that—any of it. She’s as pretty as Gwyneth Paltrow was in the movie, but she isn’t Emma. Her assurance and confidence have limits, and I saw them tonight. That makes Ashley approachable—maybe real friend material.
It was good, Mr. Knightley. I’m glad to have my First Impressions reversed. Let’s hope I can do the same with Johnson.
Off to revise another
assignment . . .
Sam
P.S. There’s more . . . and avoiding it won’t make it go away: Kyle fostered out, and I miss him.
I’m happy for him, don’t get me wrong. This is no place to grow up. But I’ve gotten used to Kyle and he’s gotten used to me. I don’t think either of us would admit we’re friends, but we’re something. We rely on each other, I think. I went to Buckhorn on his last morning to give him my duffel bag.
“It’s yours. I don’t want that.” He shoved it back into my hands.
“Come on. It’s better than trash bags.” I started folding his shirts to put them in the duffel, but he kept messing them up. “Stop that. I’m helping you.”
“Don’t do that.” He grabbed another and bunched it up.
I understood. No reminders of help. No reminders of friends lost. I grabbed all the shirts, scrunched them up, and tossed them to him. I thought he’d laugh. He didn’t.
“Who you gonna run with now?” Kyle’s voice broke, and so did my heart. All this meant something to him too.
“Jaden,” I threw out. I couldn’t bear to get emotional.
“Jaden? He can’t run!”
“I’m just kidding. I’ll run alone. No one can replace you, Kyle. But I’m glad you’re going. You’ve got a family now.”
“You give me two months?” Kyle refused to look at me. That alone meant the answer mattered. Books are much easier than this real-life vulnerability.
“Don’t think that way. You could make all the way to eighteen.” I wanted to reassure him and give him that elusive guarantee. “Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman will love you. And I’m always around.”
Kyle stood still and blinked a couple times. He whispered, “Thanks, Sam.”
I pulled him into a hug and he grabbed on tight. It was the first physical contact we’ve had since he shoved my hand away on our second run. It lasted a heartbeat before he pushed me away and swiped his eyes.
“Gotta go, Sam. E-mail me. If they don’t have a computer, I’ll check at school. Every day, you hear?”
“Every day. I promise.”Every day?I almost made some quip about that being more than we’ve talked—ever. But I kept silent. You don’t make fun of vulnerability. It’s too rare.
I was reminded again of Hannah’s comments. Maybe all my quips and characters are cowardice—ways to avoid feeling and standing and being me. I didn’t want to withdraw at that moment; I owed Kyle more than that. So I forced a pathetically watery smile and watched as he hoisted the duffel, walked out the door, and met the Hoffmans standing in the courtyard with Father John.
So I have a new friend, Mr. Knightley, and I may have lost one too. They couldn’t be more different, could they?
“There are just a lot of different sides to me . . .”
NOVEMBER 4
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I can’t go back to Medill. I’ll get my apartment back and I’ll work at the library. The library shifts always end in daylight. And Starbucks is only a block from my apartment. They’d probably take me back. Because I won’t go back to Medill. I can’t take the ‘L’ again.
At first I didn’t think anything of the commute. I ride the ‘L’ late at night all the time. Evanston is safe, and Grace House is only a few blocks from the stop downtown. There are always people milling around. I’ve never felt the slightest bit afraid. These are my neighborhoods. I’ve lived in Chicago all my life.
I heard the footsteps. But there are always footsteps. People are everywhere. It wasn’t until the first hit that I knew I was in danger.
I don’t know what he wanted. He didn’t take my bag. He didn’t ask for money. He just kept hitting me—and hitting me. I tried to get up, twice, but he looped back. He went about ten feet away then circled back to hit me again. He was swinging a bar or a bat or something—over and over.
