Cara pushed off the counter and fidgeted with her hands. I knew that gesture. She needed me to leave.
“Thanks for seeing me, Cara. I’m sorry. That’s all I wanted to say.” I tried to hug her, but she didn’t lift her arms. I walked through the living room. “’Bye, Ric. Nice meeting you.” He didn’t look up.
It had turned dark outside. There were no cabs around, so I ran to the ‘L’ fast enough that I don’t think an attacker could have caught me if he’d tried. Luckily it was so cold no one was outside or interested in coming out. I hopped the train and gulped in air. Each breath took me north . . . and forward.
When I got home I took a hot bath and invited Isabella up for a movie. We chatted, ate popcorn, and drank hot chocolate. It was just what I needed to settle my thoughts and memories. She’s a cute kid. I gave her a copy ofEmmafor her twelfth birthday last week. I thought you’d appreciate that.
And now I should tell you about my classes this quarter—assuming I stay. You know about my Johnson class, the features one. I’m also taking Distribution Statistics and Audience Variance, as well as Quarterly Reviews. I know, statistics is a math class, and you might question the relevance. But Johnson always talks about the importance of connecting with the reader, and I figure I can do it better if I understand my readers, where they live and what they think. Hmm . . . I sound like a kiss-up. Still, it’s a solid topic and it makes good sense.Quarterly Reviewscovers academic writing and, although I doubt I’ll do much of that, many such articles are written by free-lancers because there’s good money in it.
So there you go. Either it’s going to be a good quarter, Mr. Knightley, or I pack my bags. No halfway.
Sitting and waiting . . .
Sam
P.S. Just got a text—while brushing my teeth. I sincerely hope we never have instantaneous and unknowing video access to people.
Alex: Mom M said you had a rough go at Christmas. Here’s to happy healthy spring. Still working hard?
Me: Much better, school and health. Thanks for the scarf and hat. How’s movie?
Alex: Stop thanking me. Movie great. Better than last but keeping me from my book. Thinking____for a title. Thoughts? But don’t tell.
Me: Very intriguing. Lips are sealed.
I sat speechless, toothpaste dribbling off my chin. Alex told me the book title. I feel like an insider, a trusted friend. What do you thinkETwould pay for that title? Just kidding. I wouldn’t even tell you. After all, I’m a woman of integrity—an insider with integrity.
JANUARY 18
Dear Mr. Knightley,
You’re the first—second—to hear the news: Johnson loved my article. He was stunned. I’m stunned. You have no idea what this means, Mr. Knightley. Maybe you do.
He called my cell this afternoon and demanded I come to his office. I dropped my tuna fish sandwich and left Debbie and Ashley at Jimmy John’s, worried for my survival.
He stood as I entered and pointed to the chair across from him. “Sit down and tell me about your feature.” He sat and bounced back and forth in his office chair, tapping the armrest with his fingers.
“It’s my story, in my voice. It’s a beginning if I have any hope of writing or staying here.”
“Hope of writing? This is it, Moore. I see you. And even though you say it’s your story, you’ve approached it with astounding objectivity and subtlety—very impressive. Where’s it been hiding?”
I sat there a minute.How to explain?
“Sometimes it was too hard to be me. Eventually I forgot how.” I looked toward the window to calm my breathing. “I literally broke over Christmas. My appendix burst, and I don’t think it was a coincidence. And I was sure you were going to kick me out, so I went back to Grace House. I thought I’d move back in and find work, but Kyle got me talking, and . . . this is what came out of us.”
“I added a lot of pressure, didn’t I?” His voice was quiet and concerned.
“You were right. I’ve been picking subjects that couldn’t touch me or ones that I could hide behind—until this. Kyle started us, and then we couldn’t stop. We needed to get it out.”
“Tell me about Kyle. Tell me about everything.” He bounced forward and leaned over the desk—getting closer to the story.
And that’s what I gave him. My story. I told him everything. It was another one of those cathartic afternoons: I talked, he asked questions, he pulled out a ham sandwich to share, and three hours later he stretched and said, “You’re going to be fine, Moore. This is good work. I’m sending it to theTrib.”
“Really?”
“It’s that good. What’d you think? You can’t use this simply for a grade. I told you, Moore, we make careers here. TheTribuneawards a couple internships each summer—not errand-boy jobs, but the real deal, writing and investigating. This may be strong enough to land you a spot.”
He noticed my fallen expression. “What is it? Your mouth turned down.”
