“Saved you from what? The mall?” He laughed.
“My childhood wasn’t like yours, Josh. I didn’t have a bunch of brothers playing football in the front yard.”
“Whatever, Sam.”
“And Debbie and the others are my friends. I’m not going to ‘take them out,’ as you say.”
“Listen, Sam, I get that you love to stand out by acting clueless, but don’t pretend it’s not an act and that you’re not as cutthroat as the rest of us.”
Love to stand out? Cutthroat? How could anyone think that’s me? I spend every moment of every day painfully working to fit in. I work tonotstand out in any way, tonotget noticed. At least not in a negative way—I’d love it if my classmates and Johnson thought I occasionally brought something good to the table.
Of course, I didn’t say all that. I never do. But I did subtly pick up the pace. Josh could barely breathe by the end—not that he’d ever admit it. And I felt a little better. Maybe I am cutthroat, Mr. Knightley. I wanted a little of my own back, and I purposefully ran Josh into the ground to get it. And unlike that first race with Kyle, this time I felt no regret.
We had plans to spend the day together, but they evaporated. Josh suddenly had a meeting, on a Saturday, and I needed to study.
Isn’t your boyfriend supposed to want the real you? I mean I know I’ve hidden stuff, most everything, I grant, but I’ve tried to let truth slip out too. And today I was ready for honesty.
Sincerely,
Sam
P.S. Mr. Knightley, thanks for this—these letters. At first I questioned them, even though I found them oddly easy. And now I trust our one-sided, soul-purging relationship. I depend on it. It’s got to be more therapeutic than all those psychologists people pay in the movies. It’s certainly more helpful than all that chatting I had to do with Dr. Wieland at Grace House. So again, thank you.
Oh . . .
I just got a text from Alex Powell:
Mom M gave me your number. SawHamletoff Broadway. Thought Much Of You. How’s school? A. Powell
I wrote back: LOL. HeardThree Days Foundis coming out as a movie. Congrats. Will see it opening night.
Alex: It’s fun. Flying to LA to consult storyboard and set. Am getting so Hollywood.
Me: Careful. Next you’ll put your picture on your books.
Alex: Never! Thanks for staying @ Muirs over turkey day. They get lonely.
Me: Me too. Loved it. Can see why they’re your 2nd parents.
Alex: No fear. I share well. Gotta go.
I promptly deleted his number. You might call me ridiculous, but it was necessary. What if I couldn’t help myself and started texting, pestering, stalking? It wouldn’t be my fault! I’m already following him on Twitter. He really shouldn’t guard his privacy so much. Other than the upcoming movie, very little leaks out. And I refuse to pepper the Muirs. But I did find an interview with Conan on YouTube. Now do you understand why I got rid of his number?
DECEMBER 24
Dear Mr. Knightley,
It’s Christmas Eve and all I can do is sit here and cry. Why is it so hard? I need to quit. Everyone knows I can’t cut it. Johnson will kick me out in January anyway. I should go—on my own terms—just like he advised.
The nightmares are back full-force and I can’t sleep. They’ve been around for months, but the past few nights they’ve been relentless. I haven’t slept a wink in three days. I can’t look in the mirror. The circles under my eyes tell of too little sleep and too much pain. I can’t talk to my friends. Most have gone home, and Josh is in Cincinnati for Christmas. I don’t want to talk to him anyway.
Johnson yelled at me the last day before break—so much for honesty. He asked me to stay after class and then started yelling. He’d probably say he talked loudly, but it felt like yelling.
“Moore, what are you doing? You picked a fine subject, one with meat, bones, and questions; yet you breezed through it. That production is provoking discussions, debate. You addressed none of it. Stop wasting my time.”
He’d printed out myMerchantreview—I’m sure just to emphasize his point with all the red slashes. Hard copy is much more devastating.
“I thought it was better, Dr. Johnson. I put myself in there.”
