Hannah hugged me and left without another word or backward glance. Cara grinned and took over commentary. I didn’t hear a word—as usual, I’d already retreated. I figured this was how Nicholas Nickleby felt when he was forced to work at Squeer’s squalid Yorkshire School. That was a dark, horrific place, where Mr. Squeer beat life and hope from his students. And those few months beat the life from me too. Hope had died long before.
I don’t remember much, to be honest. I worked all the time, studied, and subsisted on granola bars, ramen noodles, and the semi-spoiled half-price fruit at work. My last White Hen shift ended at midnight and I rode the ‘L’ home to begin again the next day. Until one night . . .
Dickens wrote Nicholas a glorious exit from Squeer’s repulsive school. Young Nickleby beat Squeer with his own cane, freed the boys, and even saved one crippled boy’s life by taking him away. My departure was less heroic. I got the beat-down.
I still blush when I think about the names Cara called me as I packed to leave.
“I can’t stay here, Cara. I got fired. They said the holdup was my fault. Without the job, I can’t pay the rent.”
“So get another!”
“Do you know what that’s like? A gun held to your head? Your life doesn’t flash before your eyes; it stops. Mine stopped, and there was nothing, Cara—nothing in me. I didn’t exist.”
That’s what scared me the most, and the one thing I’ve never confessed to anyone before, Mr. Knightley. In those few moments, in that White Hen at midnight, I ceased to exist. I was alive, but there was no me. Is that what my boss at Ernst & Young discovered too?
“Grow up, Sam. Get more work.” Cara’s cold voice shook me.
“I can’t. I’d have to quit school,” I sobbed. I hated such weakness. Cara despised it too.
“Then quit! You owe us!” She grabbed my book off the counter and tore it to shreds. “You and your stupid books. Eat them, Sam. Live on that. We need your rent!”
“That’s all you need! That’s why I got my own room. It isn’t even mine. I know Jocelyn sleeps in there when I’m not here, and I bet you do too! I don’t live here. No one can call this living!” I’m not used to yelling, but I gave it my best shot. Austen would never approve.
“You’re never here! You wanna be here more? Quit school!”
“School’s all I’ve got. It’s the only thing that can change all this.”
“Ronnie says—”
“No. Don’t give me advice from Ronnie. I don’t care what he says or even what you think, Cara. Not anymore.” My life felt like the torn pages scattered at my feet. I needed to get back to school, get close to my books, and return to a life that made sense—even if that meant living at Grace House. So I grabbed my duffel, shoved a few things into it, and left.
While Cara only wanted freedom from the “system,” my dream was for more. I wanted “normal.” On the surface it means paying your rent, going to dinner with friends, sipping lattés at Starbucks, and working a good job with benefits. Everything Ernst & Young offered, and everything I lost. But deeper, Mr. Knightley, it’s living a life that flows and is not dominated by worry or fear or scarcity. Isn’t that the American Dream?
And I still want it. I want it so badly I can taste it. But now I see the hint of more. If I can conquer Medill and journalism, then maybe I can achieve “normal” and actually like what I do—write for a living. Maybe this is the great leap that will work.
Sincerely,
Sam Moore
JUNE 5
Dear Mr. Knightley,
This is my last letter. Thank you for the opportunity, but I didn’t get into Medill. I was wait-listed. It means the same as rejected.
Father John can give me a couple weeks while I find more work. He suggested I enroll in Roosevelt’s grad school night program in order to stay here, but I refuse to be that pathetic. It’s time to go.
I’ll keep my library job and find extra work. I filled out five applications today alone. I like the barista position at Starbucks best. It pays well and offers benefits for part-time workers. There are no full-time positions available.
Thank you, Mr. Knightley.
Sincerely,
Sam Moore
JUNE 8
Dear Ms. Moore,
