And then today, I added something else to my pool of self-reflection: I only do what I want to do—even if it costs others dearly.
It all started this morning when I stopped at Buckhorn to return some corrected math work sheets. Kyle was rude, as always, and I got ticked that Hannah got respect and I didn’t. Call it jealousy. So when Father John called me later today and asked me to find Kyle, who had missed his anger management session this afternoon, I was already on the offensive.
I started my search at the high school track a few blocks away, where I’d occasionally seen Kyle when I was there running laps myself. Sure enough, he was there. It struck me that racing him might earn me some respect.
“What do you want? You—” He sneered as I approached, and started pacing like a caged tiger, circling me. He acted tough, but a familiar glimmer of vulnerability gave him away.
“Hey! Don’t say it!” I reached for tough.
“Say what?”
“You were about to call me something nasty. At Grace House you can’t swear without getting detention, but I bet you’ve got an amazing arsenal. Don’t say something you’ll regret.”
“I don’t regret nothin’.”
“You might.”
He thrust his chin up and glared at me. This boy knows how to hate.
“I know. I don’t like you either, but we’re both runners. Maybe we have more in common than we realize.”
“We ain’t friends, you—”
“I said nothing about friends.” I looked at the track. “I bet I can whip your butt.” Now I had his attention.
“You can’t beat me. A skinny white girl like—”
“You scared?” I cut him off with a challenge because that’s how you trap a boy, in case you’re interested. You dare him. I looked down at his legs. They aren’t kid legs. At thirteen, Kyle’s legs have enough muscle definition that I questioned my great idea. Yet I refused to back down.
“And stop discriminating. You think because you’re a boy or because you’re black that you can beat me? You can’t.” I poked my finger into his chest.
The poke may have been overkill. His eyes flashed to the finger, to my face, and then to the track. “Name it.”
“One mile, if you can keep up.” I suspected he was faster than me, but a mile takes more than speed. It takes stamina—my strength. Anything longer, he’d probably refuse.
“Let’s go, you—”
“Save the smack and run.” I tapped the timer button on my watch and took off. I thought I could do a 6:30, but not much faster. I glanced down as we finished the first lap in ninety seconds. That’s a six-minute mile—way too fast for me. But I needed to win, or at least keep up with him. Beating Kyle would get me respect.
As we started the second lap, Kyle surged ahead. I let him go, and within a quarter lap he dropped back. He didn’t pace well, and I slowed a touch, hoping he’d fall in line with me. We finished the second pretty tight and I started to break in the third, keeping a few steps ahead.
As we raced, I realized that this kid runs like I used to. All heart and tension with a complete purging of self—no holds barred. Kyle’s vulnerability was tangible. I guess my additional ten years have taught me pacing and hiding; because as I watched the emotions play across his face, I missed the abandon I used to feel about running. About anything. When was the last time I felt something? Really felt it?
Right there in the third lap, I knew Kyle should win. I could see it in his pulled-back lips, every muscle tensed and pushed forward. This was more than a race. Kyle was running for his life. The same run I made many times. Runs I slogged through alone. No one bolstered me or gave me encouragement. I could have done that for Kyle. I should have done that for him. But I hate to lose.
In the fourth he started wheezing, and I pulled ahead. At the first corner I pulled away completely and, despite momentary guilt, kicked up the pace and drove the last half lap in a full sprint. I looked down at my watch as I crossed the line: 6:05! It was the fastest mile of my life. It felt amazing, and I thought I’d die. Kyle came in at 6:39, doubled over, and gagged. If there’d been something in his stomach, it’d have been all over my shoes.
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 exp
ressionless. 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.”
“Why you run so far?”
There are always two ways to go here. Normally when asked why I run, I dish out some meaningless lie. To tell the real reason is dangerous. It’s too personal.
“It relaxes me,” I said.
Kyle stopped. “Forget you.” He crossed the inside of the track to get back to the entrance.
I watched him and felt my heart collapse. “Kyle, wait!”
“For crap? I get enough a’ that.” He turned away.
I didn’t think. I yelled.
“I run because it’s the only place I’m me. Until I slog out the miles, I can’t find myself. But if I do it, if I make one mile more, I find myself. My head clears and sometimes, just sometimes, I see that I’m worth something.” I scrubbed tears from my face with the back of my hand.
Kyle had stopped, but he didn’t turn around.
I kept going. “I’m sorry about what I did to you. You scared me, you hated me, and I fought.”
He turned. “Don’t mess with me.”
“I won’t. I promise.” I said it slowly—making the promise to both of us. Without another word or look, he jogged back to the track.
We ran a series of sprints and a cool-down without talking. Maybe he knew I needed space. Maybe he was winded. Regardless, I was reeling with what I’d said and done. Part of me hoped he hadn’t processed how much I’d shared with him, while the other part knew that he understood me perfectly. Because he’s not dumb. That happens with most foster kids—people underestimate us. They dismiss us—as I had dismissed him.
When we finished I slapped him on the back, expecting that we felt the same. I was wrong.
“Don’t touch me.”
“I . . .”
“We’re running. We ain’t friends.” And he walked away.
So there it is. We’re not friends, but I did my best. And, in this last letter to you, it’s important that you know I tried. I am not an adult who purposely ruins kids’ identities and dreams.
Now . . . I’m off to find out what kind of adult I am. Thanks for everything. At the very least, your grant let me rest in Grace House’s safety for a few months—that helped a lot.
Forgot to mail this again—I’m beginning to think there’s something psychological going on here. Attachment issues?
But I’m bored and there’s no one here now, so I might as well add more.
The morning started fine. After I recovered from yet another dissing from Kyle, I headed to my library job. Mrs. Grunschovitch, one of my favorite library regulars, was the first through the doors. She’s a wonderful, crusty old lady who constantly scolds me for not pulling my hair out of my eyes and not eating enough. Believe me, I eat plenty. I just run more.
Lately she says I need more blush. She says I have beautiful cheekbones. I never noticed. A foster mom once called me a “long drink of water” and I never think much beyond that. When I do look in the mirror, the long brown curly hair and bushy eyebrows stop me way before I get to the cheekbones. Still, it’s nice for someone to say something about me is pretty.
A couple weeks ago, Mrs. G helped me put up the Summer Love display. I pulled out Lisa Kleypas, Nora Roberts, and a few other hot, steamy novelists in an effort to appear modern and hip.
“You can’t put these out.” Mrs. G plucked them from my book pyramid.
“These are summer romances.”
“You need the real lovelies. Tales of true love,” she sighed.
“Which are?”
“I’m disappointed in you, Sam. I thought you’d know. The Scarlet Pimpernel, Romeo and Juliet, Persuasion.”
“Wuthering Heights? Jane Eyre? Pride and Prejudice?”
“I knew you understood.”
“Some of those didn’t work out so well, Mrs. G. Romeo and Juliet? Wuthering Heights? The boss likes it a bit lighter.”
“The endings don’t matter.” She waved her bent finger at me. “The love was true. Put them out.”
How could I refuse? So I grabbed all my favorites, and she grabbed a few of hers. I also added Outlander, The Food of Love, and Austenland for a nod to modern tales. I let Mrs. G take home Austenland. She wanted Outlander, but some scenes would leave her blushing for weeks and then I’d get another kind of lecture.
She came back today and wanted my next pick, because she loved Austenland. She’s never asked me to suggest titles for her before, so this was high praise and high pressure. I handed her The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. What do you think? I worried a moment about the WWII angle, for I know her family escaped Poland when she was little. But when I hinted at it, she dismissed me.
“The day we forget the horror, Sam, we will repeat it. Never forget your past. It will make you less human, less than human.”
I smiled and thought it was unlikely I could forget my past. It presses pretty constantly.
Mr. Clayton came in this morning too. He’s one of my all-time favorite patrons, another mystery nut like Father John, and I’ve been in charge of his recommendations since we first met a few years ago. Everyone else intimidates him, but if we’re alone, he’ll sit and chat for hours. He needs more action than Mrs. G, but no gore: “Remember the ulcer, Sam. Don’t stress me.”
I started him awhile back on Patricia Cornwell, but she got too graphic. Alex Powell is his current favorite. Mine too. And today I had a surprise for Mr. Clayton: I pre-ordered Powell’s new novel, just for him. Mr. Clayton was thrilled. So was I, because I’ll read it next.
I love Powell’s books: good writing, solid detective/hero, strong cast of characters, and great plots. Plus all the main gore happens offstage. He gives you enough to keep you riveted but doesn’t wallow in the depravity. It’s a satisfying brew of old-world charm in gritty, contemporary NYC.
And of course, Powell’s hot hero keeps me
coming back too. Detective Cole Barker is totally lean, deliciously flawed, smart, loyal, rugged, and, I imagine, gorgeous—a modern Darcy and Knightley meet Ethan Hunt. Redemption comes out as a movie in a couple weeks. We’ll see if Hollywood agrees. Oh . . . Gotta go. Someone needs my help.
Later still . . .
Are you beginning to think I’ll never go away? I promise I will, but it’s hard to let go of lifelines—I mean—friends. Especially when they’re dropping like flies all around me.
Dan stopped by the library this afternoon. He’s a guy I used to study with at Roosevelt. We’ve kept in touch over e-mail and texts these past few months, but nothing big.
I texted him that my job fell through and that I’m back at the library. And today in he walked. I was happy to see him. He reminds me of a comfortable sweater that you pull on, knowing it will keep you warm every time. That’s a nice metaphor, isn’t it? Hannah didn’t think so—but more on that later.
Anyway, we chatted a few minutes and then he placed a small black box on the counter. He was so excited and pushed it toward me. I just stared.
“Open it.” He poked it again. “What are your plans now?”
“I move into my apartment tomorrow, and I got part-time work at Starbucks. I’ll keep my job here too.”
“You’re so smart. You’ll do great.”
“Thanks. Not smart enough to get this ribbon off.” Still working on the box . . . I finally opened it and looked up. “It’s a heart necklace, Dan. It’s so nice. But why would you buy me a heart?” Big mistake.
Shutters pulled over his eyes. “I . . . never mind. Wasn’t it your birthday awhile back?”
“Yes. Thank you so much.” I knew I’d hurt him. I didn’t know what to do, so I started gushing. “It’s really nice, Dan. I’ve always wanted a heart necklace. It’s so lovely.” My words sounded stilted and hollow.
But I wanted his eyes to soften again. I liked that look. This one made me nervous and unsure. How did I go wrong? I know it was awful because he sputtered a few words and left—fast, shoulders down, like Atlas carrying the world. I didn’t have the guts to go after him.
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 3