I bent next to him, both of us hanging inches over our shoelaces. “You’re my new running partner, Kyle. You got speed, man.” I was so elated I forgot about respect. I thought about friendship. My mistake.
“I ain’t nothin’ to you.” He shoved me aside and left. Without a look back, he sped through a hole in the fence and headed to Grace House.
I tried to muster anger and brush off his rejection, but it didn’t work. Usually it’s a fantastic and safe emotion. But I hurt Kyle, Mr. Knightley, and anger couldn’t fix that. I deliberately wounded a kid. He showed me the real Kyle, and I crushed him. Is this the adult I’ve become?
Sincerely,
Sam
JUNE 20
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I took the ‘L’ to Evanston and wandered around Northwestern University’s campus yesterday. Punishment, I think, but I wanted to see it.
Despite it being summer, people were everywhere. I first roamed through the English building. It’s gothic and very romantic looking. Full of great literature and ideas, I’m sure. The course listings blew me away: English Literary Traditions, Twentieth-Century American Novel, British Fictional Studies, Shakespearean Tragedies . . . We didn’t have offerings like that at Roosevelt. There were only a few in literature at all; plenty in electrical engineering, basic math, and trade, but nothing like this. Hallowed halls of academia and all that, right?
I wandered to Medill next. It’s not as architecturally interesting as the other buildings. More straightforward and practical—newsy, I guess. They posted listings too: Ethics of Journalism, Long-Form Reporting, Advanced Public Affairs Reporting. I think I would’ve focused on magazine and feature writing, halfway between news and a story. I’d have liked that.
And despite Hannah’s claim that I don’t see the world around me, I paid attention yesterday—to everything. And Northwestern is no Roosevelt. There’s a look there I can’t put my finger on. Money? Education? Assurance? The students are a bunch of Emmas. They know they rank in the world, or will someday soon. It’s in their walk, their talk, and their clothes. Is it ownership? Confidence? I don’t know. But I want it. I don’t know when or how, but I do know it’s my new “normal.”
I also noticed I need to step up my wardrobe. It’s not a huge deal, but first impressions matter, and I wouldn’t fit in there. I didn’t fit in at Ernst & Young either, but I didn’t get it then. I do now. They wear jeans and sweatshirts and T-shirts—all the stuff I do—but you can tell Madewell from Goodwill. And it’s how they wear them too. There’s a casualness about their clothing that belies effort. Then it goes one step further. That detail—a scarf, a necklace, a belt—that one thing that declares you’re unique. You matter. So with any extra money I earn, I’ll work on wardrobe. Because . . . I got the Starbucks job!
I found out this morning and I’m pleased. I really am. Maybe that was what my trip to NU was about yesterday. Even before hearing from Starbucks, I needed to let go of that dream. Visiting campus closed the chapter.
And Father John helped me find a walk-up about six blocks north. The neighborhood is a bit rough, but I can afford the rent and won’t need a car for either the library or Starbucks. I go this afternoon to sign a month-to-month lease. It’ll all be good.
Thanks again, Mr. Knightley,
for everything . . .
Sam
I forgot to mail this yesterday, so I’ll add a bit more . . .
I put my neck out with Kyle this morning. I know I’m leaving, but his hatred bothers me—probably because it’s deserved now. I was so nervous I almost threw up.
“Hey, Kyle. I’m training for the Chicago Marathon this fall and wondered if you’d run with me. I’m heading to the track for a couple miles of warm-up and some speed work. What do you say?”
He drank his juice, completely expressionless. His eyes never left mine—not even to blink. The look was so determined and aggressive that I struggled to keep contact.
“At least think about it. You’re good, Kyle—really good. You could run cross-country at school next fall. You’d win a lot of races.”
His stare faltered. If I had blinked, I would have missed the longing. I gulped and spoke again. “Listen, Kyle. I’m sorry about the other day. I hope you’ll come. I’ll be there for about an hour.”
I don’t apologize easily, Mr. Knightley. I think only Father John has pried a few sorries from me over the years, and he’s Father John. Even now, I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth. Kyle should’ve fallen down with shock and gratitude. Instead, he put his glass in the dishwasher and left the room.
So I went to the track, started to run, and hoped . . . That’s a lie, I fretted. Wow, did I work up a panic.
But I’m leaving Grace House again, and this time it’s permanent. As Father John said, this is my “watershed.” There’s no turning back. And unlike when I left with Cara or when Ernst & Young fired me, there’s no safety net. There’s no more Grace House because there’s no more school. That chapter has closed. And there are no real friends to catch me either.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot. That race with Kyle shook me—and not simply because of my cruelty. It shook me because, hanging over our shoes, I suddenly wanted his friendship. I innately understood him and believed he felt the same. Friendship from a thirteen-year-old boy? It still doesn’t make sense. I can’t explain it. But we’re alike, Kyle and I. And I could use a friend.
Outside my books, the only people I talk to are Hannah and you. But Hannah and I aren’t true friends. I’m a foster-kid-turned-convenient-acquaintance for her. And you? You’re a glorified diary. There . . . my two friends. Thinking about this gave me a new and unsettling sense of isolation. After two laps, the panic almost brought me to my knees.
Then I saw Kyle. He was watching me from the fence line. As I cleared my face of all expression and approached, he joined my pace wordlessly.
“Thanks for coming, Kyle. This’ll be my third time running Chicago, and I want to do it better.”
