Dear Mr. Knightley (13 page)
Alex leaned against the shelves. “No more spontaneity. No more first impressions. All of that gets tainted by the fame and the money, and even by Cole Barker himself.”
“I never thought of it like that. I used to believe all those externals meant happiness. I’m beginning to see they don’t.” Ashley and her mother came to mind.
“Often they lead to pain.” It was a cryptic answer, but one I couldn’t question.
We wandered a bit more. I confessed my obsession with Jane Austen. We agreed that Barnes and Noble could devote an entire section to Austen’s sequels, prequels, mimics, knock-offs, and add-ons . . .
Last year I got the flu and went through about forty titles:
The Darcys Give a Ball
,
The Watsons and Emma Watson
,
The Darcys and the Bingleys
,
George Knightley’s Diary
,
Captain Wentworth’s Diary
,
Fitzwilliam Darcy’s Diary
,
Austenland
. . . I emerged with no aches and pains, but with a stilted language pattern that took a month to purge. My new favorite title is
How Jane Austen Ruined My Life
. I don’t have the courage to read it, though. I’m afraid to discover she’s ruined mine too.
We were talking next to a display table when a booming voice startled us.
“About time you came home, young man!”
I looked up to see a blur of white bounding toward us. Professor Muir is tall, thin, and intense like a lightning bolt, with the bushiest white eyebrows imaginable. Without Ashley and those tweezers, mine may look like that someday.
The professor grabbed Alex into a quick hug and, after much backslapping, started rapid-firing questions. Alex jumped right in, and I faded into the background. It was like watching puppies play in a pet shop window, all unbridled affection and enthusiasm.
“You carrying your books around with you now?” Professor Muir joked to Alex.
“I signed these.” Alex threw me a glance. “Couldn’t help myself. I’ll take them down to the customer service desk on my way out.”
“Not yet, we’ve got a few minutes.” He took Alex’s arm to lead him toward the café.
I inched away.
“Don’t leave.” Professor Muir looked straight at me. “Come sit for a few minutes.”
“No, thank you. I just met Al—Mr. Powell today. You two catch up.” I turned to Alex. “Good-bye.”
He studied me for a moment. “Sam, I’ve only got about fifteen minutes before I’m needed downtown for some PR work. Come sit. You should know this old guy.” He poked the professor in the ribs. “He’s good to have in your back pocket.”
To be honest, it was time to leave. I was intruding and I knew it, but I didn’t know how to politely decline. And it was fine for a few moments. Then I opened my mouth and humiliated myself. I should have left when I had the chance.
Alex clearly got that “quote from a book” game from the professor, because that’s what got me into trouble. I corrected an English professor and America’s best writer—who does that? They were talking about another writer they both knew and disliked.
“I saw him last week and couldn’t help but think ‘How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heartburned an hour after.’” Professor Muir laughed as he delivered the line in a high falsetto.
“Katherine to Bianca,
Taming of the Shrew
. Bravo, Pops. Very appropriate. I feel the same way.”
“No, no! It’s from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. You’ve forgotten the Bard.” The professor sounded pleased.
“I have not. You’re confused. Katherine says it about Bianca’s suitor in act 1,” Alex replied.
“I beg—”
“You’re both wrong,” I announced. Their heads swiveled so fast I thought they’d twist off. Alex hiked his eyebrow at me, questioning.
“Beatrice said it to Antonio in
Much Ado About Nothing
.”
Both men stared at me. My face burned.
“Are you sure?” Alex said.
“Yes. It happens in the scene right after—” I clamped my hand over my mouth. No more talking! They didn’t seem angry, but I’m not sure . . . Alex left moments later.
I sat with the professor for a few minutes while he drank his coffee. I didn’t know how to leave without being even more insulting.
“You should meet my wife.”
“Excuse me?”
“You should come to dinner. Here, write down your number and she’ll call you.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Nonsense. I like you. And a friend of Alex’s is always worth knowing.”
There was no point protesting again that I’d just met Alex, so I wrote my number down, thanked him, and left.
It was a great day, Mr. Knightley, and I’ll never forget it. And though I tarnished it at the end, I am determined to revel in what began as a most spectacular day. I’ll never see him again, so what does it matter? Besides, can you believe that, for a brief shining moment, I was on a first-name basis with
the
Alex Powell?
I called Ashley to recount the morning; she chewed and savored every detail. I’m meeting Debbie after class tomorrow, so I’ll get to enjoy the whole story again. Now it’s late and I need to sleep.
Lovely dreams,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I know I just wrote yesterday—but I need to sort this out, and writing you is always good for that. I shot an e-mail off to Kyle yesterday just to see how he’s doing and got a horrid reply. I’ve been on the phone with Kyle and Father John all afternoon trying to understand.
Kyle’s e-mails have been nonexistent the past couple weeks, and I just thought he was busy. I hoped cross-country, studies, and his new family filled his time. Perhaps I saw only what I wanted to see. Or had time to see. Life’s been busy and school’s a struggle. Maybe I shut him out too—I don’t know.
Anyway, Coach Ridley saw marks on Kyle’s neck and refused to send him home a few days ago. Ridley called the police, who took Kyle to a holding house and brought Mr. Hoffman in for questioning. Father John says DCFS believes there’s no wrongdoing and that Kyle is self-sabotaging. It’s a term used to describe when kids push new families away to test their loyalty. Kyle didn’t talk and he’s going back to the Hoffmans’ this afternoon.
I asked him myself and he didn’t deny it—so maybe DCFS is right. Maybe he was just testing them. He sure tested me long enough. No, that’s not fair—we tested each other.
“Did you do it, Kyle?”
“Do what?”
“Hurt yourself? To see if they cared? You know you can talk to me.”
No reply.
“Heck, we’ve been through a lot. If we can’t be honest with each other, who can we trust?”
“Dunno. You okay?”
Nice deflection, Kyle
. “Your e-mail said you were flunking out.”
“I’m doing better. I’m getting the hang of it.”
Counterattack
. “Let’s talk about you.”
Kyle paused. At the time, I thought he was thinking. Now I wonder, was his deflection a test of my honesty? A test of my loyalty? And I failed?
It was—I know it. Darn it! I really like that kid and for some reason feel he’s an indelible part of me. I’ve tried to call him a couple times, but he won’t answer. It’s so clear to me now that I let him down.
I need to give him space to work out his life without me pestering him. And I’ve got to remember this is about him, not me. But I have that sinking feeling I had when I beat him on the track—that he needed something and I deliberately withheld it to protect myself. I was wrong and I will apologize . . . again. But for now I think I need to let Kyle enjoy Thanksgiving with the Hoffmans.
I’ve got other stuff on my plate anyway—which leads me to you. Loyalty and honesty, right?
Yesterday, after my once-in-a-lifetime hour with Alex Powell, I ran into Dr. Johnson. He, of course, remembered that I submitted an article to the
Tribune
. Why did I ever tell him? And I couldn’t lie when he asked . . . They refused it with a very succinct
Not suitable for publication at this time.
“It was my first try, Dr. Johnson. I’ll refine the next one and submit again.”
“You can try as often as you like, Moore. It won’t help. You need to decide if you’re right for this program. You’re way behind where you should be by now.”
My heart stopped. “What are you saying?”
“Simply this. Medill is expensive. If you have the funds and can afford a low-paying newspaper job, let’s keep at this. If you’re on loans, you might want to consider more lucrative work. Graduate school takes serious commitment and, given that, can yield serious results. Careers are made within these walls, but students are broken as well.”
“I’ve given everything to be here.”
“You have? Tell me what you’ve sacrificed, because I’ve never seen a student give so little.”
“What?”
“I see no passion in your writing. Only technique. It’s good, but it’s empty.”
“‘I certainly have not the talent which some people possess . . . ,’ but I am working hard.” I grimaced. Spewing forth a hackneyed Darcy line confirmed, not refuted, Johnson’s point.
“There you go, Moore—a perfect example. Can’t you feel yourself step away from the subject? Right here in this conversation.” He studied me a moment. “If you don’t commit, consider yourself warned. You’ll be one the faculty cuts. We don’t keep students who hold the others back.”
How did he know? He studied me again and, I think, pitied my fallen expression. I blinked hard to clear my eyes as he continued. “You must press deeper, stretch farther, dig. Give up on the
Trib
for now. Try the
Evanston Review
and some township papers. Get some publishing credits, grab a bit of
encouragement, and drive harder. You’ve got two months, Moore. Don’t waste them.”
So here I sit, trying to stretch and dig. A writer is revealed through her work, journalism or fiction. I know that now. I learned it from Alex. Last night, I pulled a few of his books from the shelves and reread my favorites. And I found him, the real Alex, on every page. Not him directly, but I found his passion. That’s what Johnson is talking about. In journalism, you can take an objective subject and infuse it with life by your commitment to it, your passion for it.
I learned something else while perusing Alex’s books: Fiction is great to read, but it’s not for me to write. There are stories in me—hard-hitting stories, factual stories, life stories, news stories. I see them in front of me, and now I see them slipping away.
This has been plaguing me, especially since lying to Kyle about school this afternoon. I know that avoiding the bad doesn’t make it go away, and escaping into a good book or character doesn’t help either. I must deal with reality and all the mess I’ve pushed away for so long. Please know I’m working. This program, this work, has come to mean the world to me. I won’t/can’t fail.
Thanks for listening,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m flooding your mailbox. Sorry about that. There is so much happening right now and you’re the best place to send this—the good and the bad. Mrs. Muir called today, and I took the Metra up to Winnetka for dinner. I’m still shocked both that she called and that I accepted. To make it more dramatic, Alex Powell showed up during dessert—and none too pleased to see me.
When I rang their doorbell, Professor Muir immediately opened it and bounded onto the front walk.
“You’re here. I was sure you wouldn’t come . . . Don’t just stand there. Come in.” He led me into the front hall. The walls were light brown and there was a patterned rug on the wood floor. The front stairs arched around the entrance hall. Not grand, like in the movies, but large enough and strong enough to contain Professor Muir. It looked like “home.”
“I have something you should read. I think you’ll love it.”
“Let her settle a moment, Robert.” A quiet voice came from beside me. I jumped, for I hadn’t noticed anyone standing there. “Would you rather help me in the kitchen, Sam? It’s Sam, right?”
Mrs. Muir was tall like her husband, but exuded serenity, not fireworks. Can someone personify peace? It’s the best way to describe her.
I looked back at the professor, who nodded at me. “Go ahead. We can talk after dinner.”
I followed Mrs. Muir into the kitchen.