But I hope to use it to my advantage: desperation and terror usually bring out my best work, and I already have three assignments. I’ll ace these and have it made. Johnson will respect my work, and the rest will be a breeze. At least I can count on that—school always works. Nothing else comes together quite so well. In fact, nothing else works at all. I ran into a girl from my Audience class at Norris, the student center, during lunch. She was with a big group and waved at me to join them. So I took a deep breath and dived in—my first friends on my first day.
“We’re just finishing lunch. Grab something and join us.”
I quickly bought a sandwich and sat next to her. Her name is Debbie and she went to Duke. I didn’t feel so cool with my honors from Roosevelt, so I didn’t say much. But I was joining in. It was when Debbie asked about my family that I took the nosedive. I unsuccessfully tried to divert the conversation, but she asked again. I panicked.
“Let’s not get personal so quickly.” I actually said that.
“Oh . . .” Her jaw dropped and she looked around at the others.
I couldn’t stop there. No, I had to say more. I started out as Edmond Dantes and, when I noticed all their weird looks, morphed into a lighter, kinder Jane Bennet. Everyone likes Jane Bennet. Not today. It was humiliating.
After a few minutes Debbie stood up. “I need to head to the bookstore. I’ll see you all later.” She looked equal parts ticked and confused.
And within three minutes everyone else left the table. I sat alone and finished my sandwich.
I’d be glad to share more of my first day, but those are the highlights. All pretty awful, except the school part. If I can get some good work in, Johnson and Debbie won’t bother me so much.
Writing apace,
Sam
OCTOBER 20
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m sorry it’s been more than a month . . . I’ve been busy. I think you and Father John were wrong about this. The program is too tough. Dr. Johnson handed another of my articles back today and basically called me an idiot. I didn’t tell you my first efforts crashed and burned because I thought I could save myself. And this article was better. I was sure of it.
Johnson disagreed. He criticized my topic, my approach, my research, and my tone. I’m “formulaic, pedantic, and prosaic.” How can anyone be that bad? I thought I’d specialize in feature writing. I can’t now. He’s the guru of that, and there’s no getting past him. Johnson is Journalism.
In fact, I was so certain of success that I pre-registered for his winter class, Journalism Methods: News Writing. I’m dead, and I’m not the only one. One guy already left. He said that Johnson is too powerful and that a bad recommendation can kill a career. He called the Austin Statesman and got his old job back. He’s headed home to Texas and a good salary with benefits . . . What’ll happen to me?
When handing back my assignment, Johnson asked me to stay after the seminar today. Each of my classmates silently ducked out with grimaces and sympathetic glances—even Debbie, who hasn’t talked to me since that disastrous lunch. I sat there feeling sick as Johnson crossed the room and sat on the edge of my table.
“Find your voice, Moore, or you’re going to have a rough go here.” He leaned back and watched me. For a man with an amazing amount of energy and size, he can sit remarkably still.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve seen seven exercises from you and four full articles. We move fast here, Moore, and your work isn’t cutting it. You’re a good writer and I sense real potential, but your topics and approach are sterile. Is this all you’ve got?”
“I—I need to find more interesting topics?”
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Moore. That’s not the problem; another reporter could make your topics leap from the page. I see no risk in your writing. You need to stretch so that your soul touches each topic. If you fail to connect, you fail the reader.”
“I put myself in these articles.”
Johnson plucked the paper from my desk and looked it over. “You say here, ‘The judge yielded without conviction, which was no compliment to the case’s importance.’ That voice is stilted, withdrawn, and I can’t tell what you mean. Is that you? Because if it is, you stepped away from the subject and created an insurmountable barrier for your reader. You destroyed its relevance. Why?”
“I didn’t mean to.” I sat there, confused and exposed. “I was trying to be objective.” Also, I had loosely borrowed some Austen verbiage to help me out. Oops.
“Objective and contrived are two different things.” He handed the paper back. “Figure it out, Moore.” He dismissed me with a nod and went back to his computer. Discussion over.
What am I to do? If he were wrong, I could dismiss the criticism. But he’s right. I chose topics I thought interesting, but ones that wouldn’t expose me. Then I hid further because the articles will be judged, graded. I don’t know how to be “me” in this kind of writing.
In literature analysis I hid behind the subject, and it made my papers come alive. I had a voice that mirrored, if not emboldened, the subject. When I write to you, I’m safe in your anonymity and your silence. For all I know, you may not even read these letters.
But Johnson? I need to impress him. I need a grade from him. And I need a voice—fast. My characters have always provided that, both in writing and in life—as Darcy said of Lizzy, I too “find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not my own.” But now I need to produce something objective, something original. Is there nothing that’s mine alone?
And to top it off, the nightmares are back. I used to get them as a kid, but they’ve been gone for a couple years. Not anymore—Dr. Johnson and nightmares. Doesn’t this sound fun?
Each nightmare begins with bright daylight and gray walls. There’s nothing scary as I feel myself falling deeper, but then I start to resist. Fear comes before action. My heart pounds, even before my father enters the scene. He’s always larger than life and oddly red. Yelling begins, but I can’t hear it. I can only feel the fear and the heat it creates. After that the dreams change: Mom enters some, my father dominates others, or occasionally the Putmans (my sixth or seventh foster family) drive at me. Whoever comes brings a black/red fear with them.
As a small child, Jane Eyre gets locked in her dead uncle’s red bedroom for punishment. She grows terrified by the walls, the voices, and his ghost. She bangs on the door, gasping and terrified, as his spirit comes after her, and then passes out. My walls press like Jane’s, and I suffocate. That’s when I wake up gagging and choking.
Roommates used to shake me awake, but no one’s in the cottage now. Morgan moved out last month. So I stay in the nightmares longer and wake drenched in sweat and exhausted.
School and the nightmares are related, Mr. Knightley—even I know that. If I can figure out Johnson, I’m sure the nightmares will go away. But how? I can’t try any harder. If I don’t solve this, Johnson will fail me. Then where do I go?
Sincerely,
Sam
P.S. The Chicago Marathon was last Sunday. Kyle and I still run almost daily, but I couldn’t get enough long runs in to be ready for a marathon. But on a bright note, Kyle joined the cross-country team. You’ll never believe how it happened . . .
We were running laps a couple weeks ago when a large man approached—late fifties, super fit, with gray sideburns and kind, wrinkly eyes.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you a student here?”
“No.”
“Do you work here?”
“No.” Forget the kind eyes. I grew wary.
“Do you have permission to be on this track?”
“Do I need permission?” I inched toward antagonistic.
“Yes. They aren’t my rules and I’m not enforcing them to bust your chops, but we’ve got a lot of police around here, and if they catch you without permission, they can arrest you.”
“Arrest me? For running?”
“It’s the drugs, the gangs,
and the crime. They can arrest you.” He tried to soften it with a smile. Then he stared hard at Kyle. “You’re Kyle Baines, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
I got nervous. This man hadn’t told us anything about himself, but he knew a lot about us. I started to open my mouth, but he was still talking to Kyle.
“I’m Coach Ridley. I’ve been talking to Father John about you. He says you’re a strong runner. You should join our team.”
“I thought—” I started, but Coach Ridley subtly shook his head at me. If I hadn’t been so surprised, I might have gotten mad.
He focused on Kyle. “Your friend here can’t come back to the track; I don’t want her to get in trouble. But her stride’s too long. Think you could help her with that?”
Kyle, who hadn’t looked the man in the eyes during any portion of this, locked eyes on Coach Ridley. I couldn’t believe it. He was listening. But I was listening too, and I felt my face flush with anger. My stride is not too long! I remembered the day when I ran Kyle into the ground. I don’t like losing. And I don’t like criticism.
“Excuse m—” I protested, but that’s all I got out as Coach Ridley glanced at me and winked. He winked! I almost laughed as I caught on. The coach was trapping Kyle. It was a dare. And Kyle was eating it up.
“I can run you through some drills with the team, and you can help her shorten that stride. It’ll improve her times.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. I’ll see you right here after last period tomorrow.” He turned back to me. “And what’s your name?”
“Samantha Moore.”
“Well, Miss Moore. You’ll have a better stride by next week. And the track is open to the public for meets. You can come watch Kyle.” Coach Ridley walked away without another word or look back.
Kyle and I turned and walked back to Grace House. I think we were both stunned, probably for different reasons.
“So you’re on the cross-country team?” I tried to sound casual. This is good for him. It’d be good for any teenage boy.
“Yeah.”
“Are you excited?”
“Dunno.”
“You don’t know? Why’d you join?”
“You need help.”
I shot him a glance, trying to find sarcasm. There wasn’t any. I laughed. “Well, Kyle, I’ll take all the help I can get.” That’s irony for you, if nothing else.
It’s been almost two weeks now, and Kyle looks lighter. I don’t mean his weight—he was already a lanky kid. I mean his eyes. They aren’t as cruel, and his mouth isn’t compressed so tight. Promising changes, Mr. Knightley.
OCTOBER 26
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I turned in another article to Johnson today. It was better. He takes only a couple days to review our work, so I’ll know soon enough. I can do this, Mr. Knightley. I hope I didn’t worry you last week. I want to assure you that the work is not beyond me. Please don’t feel you’ve wasted your time or your foundation’s money.
For a change I should tell you about one of my successes: I think I made a friend. If not, I’m a project . . .
Last Tuesday, I saw Debbie at Norris. She hasn’t talked to me all quarter, but I smiled and threw out a hello before I lost my courage. There was some truth to Hannah’s criticisms, even if she “never had the smallest idea of them being ever felt in such a way.” I know, I’m quoting. But Lizzy expresses things so well. My point is that I’ve taken Hannah’s words to heart and I have been trying to pay attention to people and reach out to them.
So anyway, Debbie looked surprised, and the girl next to her immediately called out to me. “Hey, come join us. I’ve seen you in here before. Are you in Medill’s program?” She looked between Debbie and me. Debbie nodded with that stop-talking look in her eyes. I was so humiliated. I wanted to run, but I forced myself to stand.
The girl smiled at me. “So how do you like it? Debbie says it’s impossible.”
“I hate the contrast between my ideas and my work. In each article I imagine something which I’m powerless to realize.” I cringed.
“That was impressive. Sit down.”
I sat, even more nervous. “What was impressive?”
“The way you paraphrased that line from Jane Eyre and used it for your own context. I like that.”
“You got that?” I was stunned, then caught myself and looked at Debbie, hoping she could understand. Taking a deep breath, I dived in. “I quote when I’m nervous.”
“It’s brilliant. You should get your master’s in English literature like me. You’d have a blast. I’m Ashley, by the way.”
Yes, I should. Don’t you agree, Mr. Knightley?
I stayed and enjoyed myself. Ashley is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. She’s one of those girls. The kind you see in movies, but you don’t believe exist in real life. An Emma. She wears a diamond watch and has blond hair that lies precisely and tosses effortlessly. She has blue eyes and perfect skin. And she’s so manicured and polished and perfectly casual that you want to either pinch her to make sure she’s real or punch her because you wish she wasn’t.
And she says outrageous things. Don’t you agree that spending $900 on a pair of shoes is crazy? I looked up the designer, Jimmy Choo, and found that she was serious. One can actually spend $900 or more on a pair of shoes! I had no idea that shoes could cost nearly as much as a car. After that comment I wanted to dislike her—but she’s nice.
Nevertheless I tried to dismiss her. I decided she was superficially amusing and refreshingly knowledgeable about literature, but she had no substance. After all, how much did Emma and Harriet Smith really have in common? Did Ashley regard me as her Harriet? Her poor pet project pursued out of a warped noblesse oblige? Or, worse, boredom?
Then I conceded that Ashley didn’t have plans to “improve” me. No reading lists, drawing exercises, or music practice . . . She reached out to make me feel comfortable, declared my literary knowledge “impressive,” and included me with all her friends—and there are a ton of them. This girl is rarely alone.
Then last night I learned something new. Ashley called, frantic for Debbie and me to join her for dinner. Her parents are in town and she said her mom was “sucking the life out of her.” When Debbie couldn’t make it, I almost backed out, but I was too intrigued. I met Ashley and her parents at Davis Street Fish Market after my evening seminar.
Initially I found Mrs. Walker highly entertaining. She’s a cross between Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Caroline Bingley. The first brings very strong opinions to the table, while the second adds a bit of insecurity, afraid those opinions aren’t well received.
Within the first five minutes Mrs. Walker criticized Ashley’s hair (roots showing), her skin (sallow), her boots (scuffed), and her lack of communication (doesn’t call home enough—wonder why?). Ashley gave polite, distant replies, but her eyes revealed that each dart hit its mark. The pain and loneliness they conveyed surprised me. While Ashley appears to have everything, something she desperately wants is missing. I know that look.
Then Mrs. Walker turned on me. I quickly yanked out a slightly dusty but diplomatic Jane Bennet and fielded her questions: “Yes, I’m from Chicago. There are lovely homes by the lake. Journalism is very challenging. Yes, feature writing does seem a bit more prestigious than daily news—”
On and on and on. Ashley finally saved me. “No, Mother, Sam doesn’t need the name of your personal shopper. Yes, I’m sure one can make a good living as a writer. Mother, don’t ask about her love life. Daddy, have you been to an auction lately?”
The last one wasn’t an innocent question, but it was effective. The interrogation stopped. Mrs. Walker’s face instantly dropped and her eyes flashed vulnerability and hurt.
A lot of things happen below the surface, don’t you think? A jab, a deflection, a hit, then pain—all hidden beneath exquisite manners and an aura of sophistication. There’s a little of Edmond Dantes in all of us, I guess.
Mrs. Walker’s face clo
sed as she watched her husband and daughter delve into the fall wine auctions. No one else existed for Ashley and her dad. Mrs. Walker slouched in her chair and said it all with a small sigh and a dip of her chin that I alone noticed.
Soon our dinner arrived and I could no longer focus on Ashley’s family drama. A large sea creature was deposited in front of me, and I had no clue what to do with it. I’ve seen ads for Red Lobster, so when Mr. Walker demanded I try one, I agreed. Lobsters look good on TV: all white, red, and buttery. Not this thing. It had a shell, two claws, and a spiky tail, and was delivered with a pair of pliers.
I’ve struggled with table etiquette lately, and this was way out of my league. No one ever taught me the purpose and propriety behind all the forks, knives, and spoons. And now I was supposed to know how to wield pliers? The waiter tied a plastic bib around my neck, and I almost jumped from my seat.
Ashley and her dad grabbed the lobster with one hand, the pliers with the other, and started cracking the shell. It broke off and they dug out the meat inside with a tiny fork. Holding my pliers likewise, I watched as they’d stab a piece, dip it in butter, and eat it. How hard could this be? So I started in.
The pliers immediately slipped from my hand and the shell cut me. I sat for five minutes with my finger clutched in my napkin to stop the bleeding. That’s when I realized that Mrs. Walker hadn’t moved a muscle.
“Stanley, call over a boy to help me.”
“You can do this yourself, dear. This isn’t the club.” Mr. Walker sounded exasperated.
“Mother, you can’t be serious?” Ashley sounded horrified.
“I am. Call over a boy.” Lady Catherine was going to make her presence felt again.
“You could try to crack it, dear.” Mr. Walker gave it one more try.
“Do not discuss it further, Stanley. I will not play with my food. Call someone over this instant.”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 5