“Me too.”
We sat silent for a few moments. I think that was enough soul baring for both of us.
“Ohhh . . . How’d Josh take it?”
I’d just drifted to sleep when Ashley’s playful voice startled me. “Why did you say it like that?”
She seemed to take his negative response as a given.
“Sam, the guy’s a poser.” Ashley caught herself. “That’s not a bad thing. He likes things a certain way, and I can’t imagine he appreciates surprises.”
She was right. Josh doesn’t like surprises. Maybe it was the surprise, not the story or my past, that bothered him. The necklace confirms that. And he’s very excited now.
Debbie came back, and I told them all about Valentine’s Day and Josh’s reaction and the necklace. Debbie said he behaved badly, but agreed the necklace is beautiful. Ashley said to cut him some slack and added that Josh is ambitious, but not mean.
I vacillated between the opinions for a while. I haven’t seen him much because work’s kept him busy most nights, but he’s been very attentive in calls and texts—far better than usual. That’s to his credit.
So I decided to cut him some slack. Second chances are good, right? I called him and flirted shamelessly, telling him I couldn’t wait to see him when I got home. Very Marianne Dashwood.
The rest of the week was great. We sunned, swam, ate, laughed, and talked. The only cloud came yesterday: Mrs. Walker and Constance, Ashley’s older sister, arrived.
“Ashley, Constance and I are going to Saks today. You should join us. You’re looking worn. If this is what you wear every day, it needs freshening.”
“Mother, I’m fine. Debbie and Sam are here. I’m not going shopping with you.”
“What you wear reflects upon your family, Ashley.”
“No, Mother. It reflects upon me. In Chicago, folks look at me, get to know me for me. I make my own decisions.”
“If your decisions lead to sloppy clothes and shabby friends, perhaps you should reconsider.”
“My friends? What are you talking about?”
“Your friends are shabby. Sam’s the worst of the lot. She has no style, no presence.”
“Sam’s a good friend. If you only—”
Don’t say it, Ashley.
Her mom, thankfully, cut her off. “Ashley, I’m not discussing this right now. Clean up and let’s go. You’re a mess.”
Neither had seen me approach from the kitchen. I can’t believe they didn’t hear my heart pounding. I slowly retraced my steps and ate another bowl of corn flakes. Is that how people see me? Shabby? I thought I looked pretty pulled together. I don’t have Ashley’s sense of style, but I’m neat and tidy and, thanks to you, own some lovely clothes. I thought I fit in.
We hopped the plane this morning seemingly happy, but Ashley’s eyes were tight and flat, and I felt deflated. I had tried to stand up straight and thank Mrs. Walker with dignity, even bravado. But my best Edmond Dantes came off limp and got waved away with a flick of her fingers.
Other than those moments, Mr. Knightley, it was an amazing trip, and I got to know Ashley and Debbie better. And they got to know me, the real me—painful and scary, yes, but also necessary and good. I refuse to let Mrs. Walker steal any of that.
Nevertheless, next time I travel to Florida, I’ll visit Disney World. I need more reality. And you’ll never find Mrs. Walker there.
Back home safe and sound,
Sam
P.S. Here’s my spring schedule: Johnson for Civil Writes. Catchy title, huh? The sensible part of me warns I should avoid his classes. They bring down my GPA. But Johnson pushes me, and I’m getting better.
I’m also taking Investigative Journalism, Statistical Research, and Magazine Editing. Just can’t stay away from those math classes.
Still no summer internship. Most of my class is placed, but I’m still here—still writing, still clawing at the ledge, and still applying for jobs . . .
APRIL 1
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’ve decided to drop out of school and trek with the Yucanube tribe of Guana Lampusata through the mountain pass of Indrogolia.
Josh is most supportive. We plan to be married in a Hitakutiku ceremony during the first full moon of the spring vernal equinox. Thank you so much for your support.
With deep and abiding joy,
Saman-tha
APRIL 15
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I doubt my April Fool’s letter tricked you even for a moment. I thought about striking closer to home, just: I’m marrying Josh and he wants me to drop out of school. But when I typed that out, it didn’t feel funny.
But I do have news to report that’s not a joke. I confirmed it, twice. Ms. Ellis from the Tribune called this morning.
“Sam, Susan Ellis here. I want to offer you the summer internship. Are you still available?”
“Yes.” I played it so cool. “What happened?”
“Our candidate accepted another post. I have the spot and I admire tenacity, Sam, and good writing. The six treatments you sent were fantastic. I will run them as a series beginning next month.”
“Really?” Very articulate.
“Really. I may be wrong about you, Sam. I thought you needed more experience, but you may simply need a launch pad. Internship starts June 15. I need your answer by tomorrow.”
“I’ll take it, and I’m telling you now. This isn’t a joke?”
“No.”
“Seriously, you’re offering me an internship? At the Chicago Tribune?”
“Yes, Sam. I’ll send you paperwork as proof,” she laughed. “Glad you’re on board. I think you’ll enjoy it here.”
Can you believe it? I’m so excited, but still not articulate. I hope she’s right about that whole launch pad thing. What if I don’t have the talent? No, I can’t think that way . . . I’m going to the Trib!
I called Josh. “Honey, I knew you could do it.” He made me feel loved and successful. We’re going out tomorrow to celebrate. The Tribune!
I also called Kyle.
“I started all this!” he yelled. I could feel his pride. He deserves the credit, and I’m the first to admit it.
“You did, Kyle. And I can never thank you enough.”
“Ditto.”
“What’d I do?”
“You stayed, Sam. You never left.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.”
We both got teary so, naturally, we hung up. Kyle’s doing well now—inside and out. He’s calmer, not predatory and angry. He’s also kinder. I think when you’re fighting for your life, kindness becomes a luxury you can’t afford. Seeing it in Kyle lets me know he feels safe.
And speaking of Kyle, I’ve got a secret. You cannot tell anyone. No one. It’s so fragile that the telling might shatter it: Coach Ridley and his wife are taking foster parenting classes for Kyle.
They’re in their late fifties, with two grown kids and a couple grandkids—great for Kyle, but not so great for approval from DCFS. So Coach Ridley made me promise not to tell him. As if I would. Kyle couldn’t stand another “almost.” Placements are rare at his age, and if this fails I say he’s at Grace House for good. I don’t want that for him. It’s so lonely. That’s what no one shares: the deep sense of aloneness that pervades a settlement home versus a family, any family.
So I’m keeping my mouth shut and my fingers crossed. I’ve found wishing and wanting something too badly makes it disappear. The Tribune better not disappear. If it sticks, I’ll rethink my theory. If Coach Ridley fosters Kyle, I’ll throw it out completely.
Back to work,
Sam
MAY 12
Dear George,
Do you think we should be on a first-name basis? Consider it . . .
I’ve got three more weeks of school and then the Tribune. I still can’t think about it without getting giddy. I submitted my paperwork and no one has called to take it away. Life is beginning to feel real and hopeful and e
xciting. That’s very new for me.
Now that I think and act and speak as Sam, I sometimes miss my alter egos. Occasionally I page through my books to read their more memorable lines, and then I return them to the shelf and let them be. But they’re allowed to come out with Alex, and that’s fun, because I’m not hiding—I’m showing off! The other day we had a battle via texting, and I lost.
Alex: Heard you got an internship at the Trib. You’ll have more pub credits than me soon.
Me: I will do my best, but doing one’s best does not always answer.
Alex: Nice try, Jane Eyre. You shall meet with many stumbling blocks, no doubt. But you’ll persevere. :)
Me: Stumped.
Alex: Victory!
Me: Teazing, teazing man!
Alex: Gotta go, Lizzy. Bye, Sam.
It took me three hours of poring over my books before I found it in Gaskell’s North and South. Is that too geeky to admit?
Me: North and South. Got you!
Alex: I’ll say. It’s 3 am. Go to sleep!
Me: So sorry. Go back to bed. Delete message . . . Off to die.
Alex: No dying. Would miss you this summer. Sleep well.
Thankfully, humiliating myself with Alex is not the only way to engage my books. I found another: Isabella and I are reading Emma together. We reached Box Hill yesterday and Emma insulted Miss Bates. We almost cried. I was thrilled Isabella felt the emotion of it: Emma’s confusion and embarrassment, retaliation, then remorse. It was awful.
Austen’s descriptions of human nature are spot-on. Isabella and I both recognize them in our friends. Like the Box Hill participants, my fellow journalists size each other up, cut each other down, and make alliances/friendships where they benefit us most. It’s pretty brutal right now. Isabella told me about the girls in her class gossiping and backstabbing each other for attention—from the teachers, from the boys, from everyone. It sounded just as bad.
She also said something about Josh I couldn’t place. We were sprawled on my couch chatting when she commented on my necklace.
“Thank you. Josh gave it to me.” I fingered the necklace.
“I figured that. It’s pretty.”
“Why’d you think it was from him?”
“Josh likes the way things look. Like Mr. Elton.”
We moved on, but her comment struck me. Mr. Elton is a mercenary fop. He only wants Emma, rejects Harriet, and then marries Augusta Hawkins for money and appearances. There’s no substance behind Mr. Elton. But that’s a side of human nature we can’t deny. We want our coveted place in the sun. I keep tripping over Isabella’s comment. Maybe she doesn’t understand Mr. Elton? Or Josh? She’s only twelve.
But speaking of Emma and coveted places: Ashley got her spot in New York at Sotheby’s Wine Auction House. She doesn’t want work in English literature. Never did. She just came to NU to get away from her mother. I’m glad she’s pursuing what she actually likes—maybe she’s tired of hiding too. She loves talking about wine.
We’ve gotten closer the past couple months. Though she appears to be an Emma, she’s vulnerable too. She fears life is passing her by, fears she doesn’t measure up, fears she isn’t worthy. Not that she says all this, but she lets the chinks in her armor show more now.
Yesterday we saw one of Ashley’s friends and a woman coming toward us. Ashley paled, turned around, and took a different path. I followed.
“What just happened?” I asked.
“I can’t see him. He’s been dating her for a month now.”
“Will? You two are friends.”
“Yes. No. I mean, I love him, Sam. I have since I was eighteen.”
I stopped walking, stunned. “You mentioned him that night. The night you killed my eyebrows. You said he was a silly boy. You love him?”
“That’s what makes him silly.” She wasn’t laughing. “He’s one of Constance’s college friends. He hung around my senior year. He worked at JP Morgan and used to come to dinner and stuff. He’s never noticed me.”
“You never told me this. How is it you’re both here?”
“I knew he was coming to Kellogg. English lit got me out of New York, so why not here?”
“Seriously?”
“I know. Please don’t tell, Sam. It’s so pathetic. Please?”
“I’ll never say a word. I promise. But, Ash, have you told him?”
“Of course not! You don’t tell a guy that he’s wrong about you, that you’re not some flighty debutante who giggles all the time, that you’re real and that you work hard. He’s supposed to notice. Will’s never noticed. No one notices.”
“I’m sorry, Ashley.”
We walked in silence. I’m sure she was pondering Will. I pondered myself, Josh, my friends, my life . . .
Changing, being real and becoming who you want to be, is hard work. Right now, I’d love a good chat with Jane Eyre. She never lost herself. Not once.
I may need to find her,
just for a moment,
Sam
P.S. I’ll leave it because I wrote it, but you’re not a “George.” It feels awkward. I’ll stick with “Mr. Knightley.” Don’t you agree?
JUNE 15
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Johnson gave me a C! Everyone’s shocked that a C pleases me, but it does. It really does. And that was only part of my great day . . . Today was my first at the Tribune and it was terrifyingly extraordinary. I took the Metra early and savored every step from the Loop out to Michigan Ave. I grabbed a latté and felt very chic. But let’s be honest . . . I grinned like an idiot.
When I arrived, the lobby was full of interns anxiously awaiting our orientation program. College kids get the jobs in the mail room, copy service, and the newsroom. Only two writing spots are reserved for grad students. The other writer’s name is Mike and he’s from Columbia’s program. He doesn’t say much, but he seems nice. And shy. And cute. Clark Kent?
Orientation culminated in photos and a swanky little badge that I get to clip on my waist each day and flash to the security guard. We then ate lunch in the small café at the bottom of the building, where Mike and I sat with some college girls who flirted shamelessly with him. The poor guy is going to have his hands full. He didn’t mind it, but he didn’t engage them either. He seemed fairly serious about his sandwich.
We then reported to our assignments. I’m with Kevin McDermott, who runs the local interest stories and features—not hard crime, but the heavy-hitting local stuff, national stories with Chicago implications, and the downtown beat. It’s perfect for me: minor investigative journalism with a bent toward human interest and larger-format writing. McDermott’s also eager to promote my work and rattled a few topics he wants me to pursue. He has his own syndicated column and even offered me guest spots throughout the summer.
His cubicle is a war zone. Articles, pictures, magazines, food—everything fights for dominance. He cleared mountains of old newspapers from a chair for me to sit. I saw pictures of his “girl” (wife named Millie), their girls, and their girls’ girls. He and Millie celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary tonight, so I got off easy today.
. . . Which is why I’m writing you. I’m not complaining, but it’s lonely in Winnetka. The Muirs left Saturday, the Conleys are at their cottage in Michigan for the summer, Josh is in Vegas at some consumer packaging convention, Ashley sent me a text that she’s working her first auction tonight, Kyle’s at the movies with the Buckhorn boys, and Debbie’s phone went straight to voice mail. So here I sit—all excited with news to share and no one to listen.
I have flowers, though. Josh sent roses to celebrate my first day. The card read I wish I could be there in person. I know it went great. Love, Josh. They smell so good. And things are good with him too. He’s been busy with work, but when we’re together, it’s lighter and easier. I like it. Even though we only go out once a week, if that, we seem to be having more fun together.
Speaking of fun, Alex showed up at my doorstep last night. Well, the
Muirs’ doorstep. He thought they were still here and was disappointed he missed them. But he rallied and stayed for dinner. I’ve been trying out some of Mrs. Muir’s favorite recipes, and last night was spicy shrimp pasta with parsley, called Shrimp Fra Diavolo.
At Grace House, cooking was the worst chore assignment. I hated it. And when I lived with Cara, I could only afford ramen noodles. That just takes a packet and water. When I returned to Independence Cottage, I mastered cooking an entire meal in a single pot. Pasta works best. You cook the pasta, throw frozen veggies in at the last minute, drain the water, and toss a jar of sauce on top. Then eat—out of the pot. I’m embarrassed to admit I cooked and ate like that most nights. But it does illustrate what a surprise this new passion is for me. I thought my first attempt at shrimp worked well, and Alex seemed to enjoy it . . . at least he didn’t get sick.
I gather Alex is here because his publisher suggested a change of scenery for his hero, Cole. He’s in a rut. Fictional characters get in ruts? Or is it the writers? Regardless, both are here to break free. Cole’s here to help an interstate task force hunt a serial killer, and Alex is here to “assist”—that’s exactly what he said.
“What does ‘assisting’ a fictional detective entail?”
“It’s a boondoggle,” he laughed.
I sighed. Clearly, he assumed I knew what that meant. I was about to ask when he must have caught my lost look.
“It means I get to play around Chicago, try out restaurants, go to baseball games, visit museums, and do anything I want that will help Cole solve crime and capture local flavor, and call it ‘work’.”
“Can I have a fictional detective too?”
“I might let you assist.”
I almost pounced on that: When? Where? Why? What? How? All my instincts were firing because it sounded so fun, but I simply smiled.
We chatted all evening and covered everything: books, politics, school, weather, writing, friends, and my internship—that impressed him.
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 16