A Katherine Reay Collection Page 2

  I was about fifteen when I first arrived at Grace House. Father John took me to his office and invited me to sit. No one had ever done that—invited me to do anything. He chatted for a few minutes, then handed me an Anne Perry novel.

  “Detective Huber got your file for me, Sam, and it’s full of references to Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Oliver Twist, and other great classics. I think you must like to read. So until I get some of your favorites, would you like to read one of mine?”

  The thick hardback had a picture of a Victorian house on the cover. I slowly turned the pages, hoping if I feigned interest in his book, he’d take me to wherever I’d be staying and leave me alone.

  He didn’t. “This is one of the first mysteries I ever read. Now I’m hooked. I’ve got about a hundred titles over there.” Father John pointed to his bookcase and waited.

  I looked up.

  “Come to my office anytime you want a new one. I picked that for you because it takes place in England in the nineteenth century, about the same time as your favorites.”

  I put the book down, never breaking eye contact. A show of strength, I thought.

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Your choice. I’m sure I can get some classics this week. Or you can go to the public library; it’s on the corner of State and Van Buren.”

  I wanted to say I knew exactly where the library was, but that would require speaking to him, so I simply slid the book into my lap. I wasn’t going to admit, even to myself, that I liked the man—and still do. In spite of how angry I am with him at the moment, I know that Father John has always been on my side.

  He welcomed me at fifteen and again at eighteen, after I tried to move out. And now at twenty-three, despite my heated words, he’s opened Grace House’s door once more. So while I’m here, I will listen to his lectures and I will try to do what he asks. I owe him that much.

  I’ll even try to play nice with Morgan, my new roommate in Independence Cottage . . .

  “She’s had a rough time, Sam. She turned eighteen a couple days ago and her foster family ended the placement.”

  “She can go on her own. Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “Not without her GED. You know how important that is. She’s testing next month, then joining the army.” Father John stared right through me.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m asking you to be kind. Morgan’s defense mechanisms are different from yours, and it may be rough going. Please don’t make waves.”

  “I make waves?”

  “Like the ocean, kiddo. Then you retreat before they hit the sand.”

  Ouch.

  So I’m being kind, but Morgan isn’t making it easy. We were cleaning the kitchen the other day and I told her about your grant. I was trying to be friendly. She was not.

  “You’re selling yourself for school? I can’t believe you’d give it up for tuition. At least get some money or clothes from the deal.”

  “Morgan, shut up. You’re disgusting. It isn’t like that. I write letters to an address in New York and I get my tuition paid to graduate school.”

  “I bet a lot of girls start out that way.” Morgan stopped washing her dishes and stared at me. She smiled slowly, almost cruelly. “Letters will be worse for you anyway. Good luck with that.”

  “What do you mean ‘worse for me’? I can write a few letters, Morgan. That’s what I do. I write.”

  “Honesty will kill you. You’re a coward, and you’ll lie. That makes the whole deal a lie.” She put her plate down and walked away.

  She’s not right. I’m not a coward, and I will be honest in these letters. Simply because I don’t blab my business to the world like Mrs. Bennet doesn’t mean I’m a coward. I’m prudent when dealing with people. That’s smart. Wouldn’t you agree?

  But Morgan brings up a good point—her only one so far. Have you read Jane Eyre? There’s a part when Mr. Rochester meets Jane and asks if she expects a present. Adele, his ward, believes everyone should receive presents, daily. Jane isn’t so sure. She replies, “They are generally thought pleasant things . . . a present has many faces to it, has it not? And one should consider all before pronouncing an opinion as to its nature.”

  You’ve led me to believe your gift has one face, Mr. Knightley. I’ll leave it at that.

  Sincerely,

  Samantha Moore

  P.S. Okay, I can’t leave it . . .

  If you are truly a “Mr. Knightley,” I can do this. I can write these letters. I trust you chose that name as a reflection of your own character. George Knightley is a good and honorable man—even better than Fitzwilliam Darcy, and few women put anyone above Mr. Darcy.

  Yes, Darcy’s got the tempestuous masculinity and brooding looks, but Knightley is a kinder, softer man with no pretense or dissimilation. Yes, he’s a gentleman. And I can write with candor to a silent gentleman, and I can believe that he will not violate this trust.

  I admit that if you had a face and a real name—or a nefarious name—it might be different. Morgan might be right. But as I sit here and think about this, I feel comfortable. See what power a name holds?

  MAY 17

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  I thought about you last night and stayed up reading Emma. I adore her, though she’s out of my reach. Can you imagine such confidence and assurance of your own significance? Do you know anyone who would dare declare that he or she “cannot really change for the better”? I’d like to believe that—even for a moment.

  But no, I gravitate toward Fanny Price, morally spot-on, but commonly thought dull. Or Anne Elliot, demure and kind, not one to stand out in a crowd. Or the ever-practical and sensible Charlotte Lucas. Those dear friends I understand. I found my first copy of Pride and Prejudice on the ‘L’ when I was nine. I loved Austen’s world. It was safe and I could breathe. By the time I looked up, the book was disintegrating from wear and I had barely registered two foster placement switches. My “inability to relate” caused a few headaches at the Department of Children and Family Services. And that’s never changed. I’ve told you already about my similar failure at Ernst & Young. But trying to relate always seems to end badly for me. My last real attempt was four years ago.

  Cara was my roommate at Charing Cottage. She was a lot like Elizabeth Bennet’s little sister Lydia—silly, vivacious, cute, and deceptively street savvy. And as Lydia doggedly pursued Wickham, so Cara was consumed with Ron, a slimy dropout who pushed drugs on middle school kids. And if Cara was Lydia, I’m sure she saw me as a righteous Aunt Gardiner: “And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking as if she were reading a sermon . . .” Our differences made us a good team: I helped Cara in school and she shielded me by absorbing all the oxygen in the room.

  So at eighteen Cara and I moved out of Grace House together to chase the dream: college, jobs, our own place, no social workers, no tracking . . . I worked out the budget; Cara found the apartment and a third roommate, some girl I’d never met, Jocelyn. Hannah, who is now head girls counselor at Grace House, drove me to the apartment. I knew the moment I stepped from her car that I’d made a mistake.

  Hannah grabbed my wrist as we looked up at the building. People were watching us. We both felt it, though we saw no one. I hurried inside, trying to push away my feelings of exposure and vulnerability.

  In the lobby, an acrid urine reek assaulted me. That, combined with the clang of the metal doors and the greasy thin walls, made me feel six years old again and back home with Mom. It felt so real. Have you ever confused your senses? Something tastes like another thing smells? This was one of those moments. I think I swayed, because Hannah shoved me against the wall and pushed me to my knees. The world turned blue.

  “You don’t have to do this, Sam. Cara makes her own choices and you can’t save her. Come back to Grace House with me.” She rubbed my back, whispering in my ear.

  “I’m fine. I just needed to catch my breath.” I pushed against the wall to stand.


  “It’s more than that.”

  “No. It’s my life now.”

  “You sound like Cara. Are you going to quit school too?”

  Her tone infuriated me. I had worked hard to get into college. “I’m not scared of work, Hannah. Grace House isn’t my summer camp.”

  “But Grace House is free, Sam. How will you pay for this? The ‘L,’ your food, your rent? And it isn’t even safe.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve got my job at the library. I can study there. I’ve got part-time work at the White Hen near Roosevelt. I’ll carry pepper spray.” I clenched my jaw and moved around her.

  You can only hear so much about options you don’t have. This wasn’t my dream, but it would do. The idea of going back to Grace House felt like failure . . .

  We headed down the hall and into the apartment. It was the size of an old school bus and just as yellow and decrepit. The two bedrooms were no bigger than shoe boxes. The walls held hints of buttercup, but age had soured them. Or maybe it was the yellow light bulbs—everything held a bitter tinge. There were bars on the grimy windows, one tiny moldy bathroom, a kitchenette, and a small central living room. The yellow bulbs in there muddied the gray tones of the walls, carpet, and furniture. Cara and Jocelyn brought in my duffel and tossed around their stuff to make room. I just stood there—lonely and bereft. This was life—this was my future.

  Hannah hugged me and left without another word or backward glance. Cara grinned and took over commentary. I didn’t hear a word—as usual, I’d already retreated. I figured this was how Nicholas Nickleby felt when he was forced to work at Squeer’s squalid Yorkshire School. That was a dark, horrific place, where Mr. Squeer beat life and hope from his students. And those few months beat the life from me too. Hope had died long before.

  I don’t remember much, to be honest. I worked all the time, studied, and subsisted on granola bars, ramen noodles, and the semi-spoiled half-price fruit at work. My last White Hen shift ended at midnight and I rode the ‘L’ home to begin again the next day. Until one night . . .

  Dickens wrote Nicholas a glorious exit from Squeer’s repulsive school. Young Nickleby beat Squeer with his own cane, freed the boys, and even saved one crippled boy’s life by taking him away. My departure was less heroic. I got the beat-down.

  I still blush when I think about the names Cara called me as I packed to leave.

  “I can’t stay here, Cara. I got fired. They said the holdup was my fault. Without the job, I can’t pay the rent.”

  “So get another!”

  “Do you know what that’s like? A gun held to your head? Your life doesn’t flash before your eyes; it stops. Mine stopped, and there was nothing, Cara—nothing in me. I didn’t exist.”

  That’s what scared me the most, and the one thing I’ve never confessed to anyone before, Mr. Knightley. In those few moments, in that White Hen at midnight, I ceased to exist. I was alive, but there was no me. Is that what my boss at Ernst & Young discovered too?

  “Grow up, Sam. Get more work.” Cara’s cold voice shook me.

  “I can’t. I’d have to quit school,” I sobbed. I hated such weakness. Cara despised it too.

  “Then quit! You owe us!” She grabbed my book off the counter and tore it to shreds. “You and your stupid books. Eat them, Sam. Live on that. We need your rent!”

  “That’s all you need! That’s why I got my own room. It isn’t even mine. I know Jocelyn sleeps in there when I’m not here, and I bet you do too! I don’t live here. No one can call this living!” I’m not used to yelling, but I gave it my best shot. Austen would never approve.

  “You’re never here! You wanna be here more? Quit school!”

  “School’s all I’ve got. It’s the only thing that can change all this.”

  “Ronnie says—”

  “No. Don’t give me advice from Ronnie. I don’t care what he says or even what you think, Cara. Not anymore.” My life felt like the torn pages scattered at my feet. I needed to get back to school, get close to my books, and return to a life that made sense—even if that meant living at Grace House. So I grabbed my duffel, shoved a few things into it, and left.

  While Cara only wanted freedom from the “system,” my dream was for more. I wanted “normal.” On the surface it means paying your rent, going to dinner with friends, sipping lattés at Starbucks, and working a good job with benefits. Everything Ernst & Young offered, and everything I lost. But deeper, Mr. Knightley, it’s living a life that flows and is not dominated by worry or fear or scarcity. Isn’t that the American Dream?

  And I still want it. I want it so badly I can taste it. But now I see the hint of more. If I can conquer Medill and journalism, then maybe I can achieve “normal” and actually like what I do—write for a living. Maybe this is the great leap that will work.

  Sincerely,

  Sam Moore

  JUNE 5

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  This is my last letter. Thank you for the opportunity, but I didn’t get into Medill. I was wait-listed. It means the same as rejected.

  Father John can give me a couple weeks while I find more work. He suggested I enroll in Roosevelt’s grad school night program in order to stay here, but I refuse to be that pathetic. It’s time to go.

  I’ll keep my library job and find extra work. I filled out five applications today alone. I like the barista position at Starbucks best. It pays well and offers benefits for part-time workers. There are no full-time positions available.

  Thank you, Mr. Knightley.

  Sincerely,

  Sam Moore

  JUNE 8

  Dear Ms. Moore,

  Mr. Knightley requests that you continue your letters until you hear definitively from the Medill program. Wait-listed at the nation’s best journalism school constitutes an accomplishment rather than a defeat. Should you gain admittance, it would be unfortunate for you to have violated the terms of this grant prematurely.

  Sincerely,

  Laura Temper

  Personal Assistant to

  G. Knightley

  JUNE 15

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  Thank you for such optimistic thinking. I will continue to write, for now. I still haven’t heard from Starbucks, but I got turned down at Macy’s and two legal firms. Desperation claws and chokes a bit more now. On to another topic, any topic . . .

  A new kid named Kyle moved into Buckhorn Cottage last week. I hate him. That’s not true; he makes me hate myself—and that’s worse. Kyle’s only thirteen, but he intimidates me. I’m five foot ten, so that’s not easy to do. But Kyle’s already about five eight, and his features aren’t small, cute, and kid-like. He’s got a strong nose, his hair is shaved close to his head, and his eyes are the hardest I’ve ever seen. It took him thirty seconds to pick out the weak and timid boys, and he has spent every moment since torturing each of them. Until yesterday . . .

  Hannah dropped by Buckhorn as I was tutoring some boys in math. She noticed Kyle twisting nine-year-old Jaden’s arm in the living room and told him to stop. Kyle shoved Jaden against the wall and came after her. He grabbed her shoulder and swung a punch, and I thought she was going to die.

  But teeny-tiny Hannah swung her forearm out to block his punch. He threw another and she blocked it again, slicing her arm in a high arc above her head. Kyle swung again, lunging simultaneously. Hannah blocked his strike with another sweep of her arm as she stepped to the side.

  Kyle righted himself and stared at her through narrowed eyes. The moment lengthened, then he backed away, clearly stunned.

  “We done now, Kyle?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “Wise choice.” Hannah lowered her arms and sighed. “Don’t bully the boys, Kyle, or I’ll make sure you get moved outta here.”

  Kyle stared at her. We all stared.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Kyle ducked his head and walked away.

  Hannah turned to me, completely relaxed. “Sam, I just finished a wonderful book. I’ll bring it by after I’m
finished in the office. Will you be in your cottage?”

  “Umm . . . Hannah? How did you do that?”

  “It’s not hard. That’s first-degree black belt stuff. I’ll show you later.” And she breezed out. I didn’t teach long division coherently after that.

  I practically tackled Hannah when she stopped by last night. I’m never eager to chat, but I’ve known Hannah for years, and everything I knew or assumed had been completely flipped. No pun intended.

  “Where’d you learn that? Why’d you never tell me? That was unbelievable!”

  “Yeah, I can’t believe Kyle walked away like that. He even found me in the office to apologize.” Hannah flopped on my couch. “I think I’m going to like that kid.”

  “No one could like that kid.”

  Hannah hesitated. “I do, Sam.”

  “Anyway, tell me how you did it.” I knew she thought me harsh, so I pushed her past thinking about Kyle.

  “You want me to show you?”

  For the next ten minutes I pretended to punch her and she blocked every attempt. Ramp up the power and speed, and I can imagine Kyle’s surprise.

  “Is that karate?”

  “Tae kwon do.”

  “What’s the difference?” How can it matter?

  “Karate is from Japan. Tae kwon do, Korea.”

  “How did I not know this about you?”

  “That I’m Korean?” Hannah smiled. Then she considered me for a moment. She finally said, “You know, Sam, there’s a lot you don’t see because you don’t choose to. I’ve studied martial arts since I was nine. It’s a big part of who I am. But I doubt Jane Austen would find it ladylike.”

  “You’re probably right, but knock-offs like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies make Lizzy Bennet an amazing fighter. I just read one that had demure Anne Elliot from Persuasion throwing punches.”

  Hannah sighed and looked away. Did I say something wrong? She left soon after that. Did I miss something? Those questions kept me up half the night. And the whole conversation irritated me because I suspected she was right: I only see what I want to see.