“Sir, as I said, I’ve hidden my past for a while now. And there’s Kyle to consider. He may not want this published.”
“Tell you what, talk to Kyle. While I like my writers to stand behind their work, pseudonyms might be appropriate here.”
“Thank you.”
“E-mail me the piece with the names changed tonight, and I’ll send it in.”
“Thank you. I’m completely honored.” I stood to leave.
“Don’t be. You deserve it, Moore. And if you get that internship, it’ll push you harder than I do. You’re green, but I suspect you need challenge to keep you going.” He reached out to shake my hand. “Well done, Moore. I’m proud of you.”
I grasped his hand in a daze and turned to leave.
“And, Moore?” Johnson’s tone told me that I wasn’t out of the woods yet.
“Yes, sir?”
“This is outstanding, but it’s only a quarter of my assessment for a concentration in feature writing. I don’t grade on potential. Unless you want to switch specialties, all your work must come up to scratch.”
“It will.” There was nothing more to say, so I bounced out on little puffs of joy. I know the last comment was a downer, but it was also very hopeful. Johnson is proud of me and, I think, believes my work can improve. He wouldn’t send me as a possible candidate to theTribuneotherwise. So I’m not going to talk myself out of being pleased and extremely relieved.
As I sat on a bench to call Kyle, I got scared.Published? I’ll be exposed to the world. Am I ready for that?
Kyle wouldn’t hear of pseudonyms. “We use our own names or nothing. We did this to be free. Fake names ain’t free.”
“Kyle, you can’t stop me.” I felt backed into a corner.
He didn’t answer for an eternity. “I can’t.” He took a deep breath. I could hear it shudder over the line. “Sam, I’m fifteen next summer; guys I know have babies or they’re dyin’ on the streets. I’m past being a kid and I got choices to make. To be the kinda man I see in Coach, the kind Father John talks about . . . I won’t hide anymore, Sam. Don’t make me ashamed of my life. Do what you want, but I got no part in it.” He hung up.
I sat stunned. I’ve replayed his words in my mind, Mr. Knightley, and I’m so ashamed. I thought only of me, and I made Kyle feel likeless. I can’t have it both ways, can I? It’s that moment. We go forward or we’re done, trapped forever. I will never hold Kyle back.
I e-mailed a note to Dr. Johnson:
Thank you so much for this opportunity. Please submit the article with no changes and use our real names.
I sent it an hour ago and I still feel shaky. There are so many people I need to warn—so much to say. What if theTribuneactually prints it? I’m going running . . .
Sincerely,
Sam
FEBRUARY 1
Dear Mr. Knightley,
School is moving along well. My favorite class is actually statistics. It’s a nice mental break for me—crunching numbers is far easier than figuring out how to reveal yourself in print while still “maintaining objectivity and perspective.” It’s a fine line I haven’t learned to walk, but I’m getting better help now. Johnson is more constructive in his criticism, like he believes I’m worth his time. It’s a good feeling and makes me work harder. Debbie noticed it and congratulated me on getting out of the doghouse.
I haven’t told anyone about the article yet. Even if theTribdoesn’t publish it, I need to be honest with my friends. And I need to talk to Josh. He came to my apartment last night. I cooked him dinner before we watched a movie. Afterward I thought I’d tell him, but he seemed interested in other things . . . so I never said a word. Part of me thinks it should affect nothing. Another part knows it changes everything. I called Hannah this morning in a panic.
“You’ll be fine, Sam. I’ve never seen you so free. Don’t step back now.”
“It’s too hard, Hannah. I already feel raw. What if I retreat into my books?”
“You won’t. Besides, how could you ever want to be Fanny Price?”
I laughed. “You’re readingMansfield Park? Fanny’s dull at times, but she has her uses. She’s very capable of fading into the background, and she’s a perfect moral compass.”
“Are you channeling her lately?”
