“Are you sure?” Alex said.
“Yes. It happens in the scene right after—” I clamped my hand over my mouth. No more talking! They didn’t seem angry, but I’m not sure . . . Alex left moments later.
I sat with the professor for a few minutes while he drank his coffee. I didn’t know how to leave without being even more insulting.
“You should meet my wife.”
“Excuse me?”
“You should come to dinner. Here, write down your number and she’ll call you.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Nonsense. I like you. And a friend of Alex’s is always worth knowing.”
There was no point protesting again that I’d just met Alex, so I wrote my number down, thanked him, and left.
It was a great day, Mr. Knightley, and I’ll never forget it. And though I tarnished it at the end, I am determined to revel in what began as a most spectacular day. I’ll never see him again, so what does it matter? Besides, can you believe that, for a brief shining moment, I was on a first-name basis withtheAlex Powell?
I called Ashley to recount the morning; she chewed and savored every detail. I’m meeting Debbie after class tomorrow, so I’ll get to enjoy the whole story again. Now it’s late and I need to sleep.
Lovely dreams,
Sam
NOVEMBER 21
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I know I just wrote yesterday—but I need to sort this out, and writing you is always good for that. I shot an e-mail off to Kyle yesterday just to see how he’s doing and got a horrid reply. I’ve been on the phone with Kyle and Father John all afternoon trying to understand.
Kyle’s e-mails have been nonexistent the past couple weeks, and I just thought he was busy. I hoped cross-country, studies, and his new family filled his time. Perhaps I saw only what I wanted to see. Or had time to see. Life’s been busy and school’s a struggle. Maybe I shut him out too—I don’t know.
Anyway, Coach Ridley saw marks on Kyle’s neck and refused to send him home a few days ago. Ridley called the police, who took Kyle to a holding house and brought Mr. Hoffman in for questioning. Father John says DCFS believes there’s no wrongdoing and that Kyle is self-sabotaging. It’s a term used to describe when kids push new families away to test their loyalty. Kyle didn’t talk and he’s going back to the Hoffmans’ this afternoon.
I asked him myself and he didn’t deny it—so maybe DCFS is right. Maybe he was just testing them. He sure tested me long enough. No, that’s not fair—we tested each other.
“Did you do it, Kyle?”
“Do what?”
“Hurt yourself? To see if they cared? You know you can talk to me.”
No reply.
“Heck, we’ve been through a lot. If we can’t be honest with each other, who can we trust?”
“Dunno. You okay?”Nice deflection, Kyle. “Your e-mail said you were flunking out.”
“I’m doing better. I’m getting the hang of it.”Counterattack. “Let’s talk about you.”
Kyle paused. At the time, I thought he was thinking. Now I wonder, was his deflection a test of my honesty? A test of my loyalty? And I failed?
It was—I know it. Darn it! I really like that kid and for some reason feel he’s an indelible part of me. I’ve tried to call him a couple times, but he won’t answer. It’s so clear to me now that I let him down.
I need to give him space to work out his life without me pestering him. And I’ve got to remember this is about him, not me. But I have that sinking feeling I had when I beat him on the track—that he needed something and I deliberately withheld it to protect myself. I was wrong and I will apologize . . . again. But for now I think I need to let Kyle enjoy Thanksgiving with the Hoffmans.
I’ve got other stuff on my plate anyway—which leads me to you. Loyalty and honesty, right?
