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Authors: Katherine Reay
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vulnerability.
“Don’t think that way. You could make all the way to eighteen.” I wanted to reassure him and give him that elusive guarantee. “Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman will love you. And I’m always around.”
Kyle stood still and blinked a couple times. He whispered, “Thanks, Sam.”
I pulled him into a hug and he grabbed on tight. It was the first physical contact we’ve had since he shoved my hand away on our second run. It lasted a heartbeat before he pushed me away and swiped his eyes.
“Gotta go, Sam. E-mail me. If they don’t have a computer, I’ll check at school. Every day, you hear?”
“Every day. I promise.” Every day? I almost made some quip about that being more than we’ve talked—ever. But I kept silent. You don’t make fun of vulnerability. It’s too rare.
I was reminded again of Hannah’s comments. Maybe all my quips and characters are cowardice—ways to avoid feeling and standing and being me. I didn’t want to withdraw at that moment; I owed Kyle more than that. So I forced a pathetically watery smile and watched as he hoisted the duffel, walked out the door, and met the Hoffmans standing in the courtyard with Father John.
So I have a new friend, Mr. Knightley, and I may have lost one too. They couldn’t be more different, could they?
“There are just a lot of different sides to me . . .”
NOVEMBER 4
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I can’t go back to Medill. I’ll get my apartment back and I’ll work at the library. The library shifts always end in daylight. And Starbucks is only a block from my apartment. They’d probably take me back. Because I won’t go back to Medill. I can’t take the ‘L’ again.
At first I didn’t think anything of the commute. I ride the ‘L’ late at night all the time. Evanston is safe, and Grace House is only a few blocks from the stop downtown. There are always people milling around. I’ve never felt the slightest bit afraid. These are my neighborhoods. I’ve lived in Chicago all my life.
I heard the footsteps. But there are always footsteps. People are everywhere. It wasn’t until the first hit that I knew I was in danger.
I don’t know what he wanted. He didn’t take my bag. He didn’t ask for money. He just kept hitting me—and hitting me. I tried to get up, twice, but he looped back. He went about ten feet away then circled back to hit me again. He was swinging a bar or a bat or something—over and over.
Then I heard yelling. Someone must have scared him away, because the hitting stopped. Not the pain.
Father John came to the hospital. So did the police. They kept asking the same questions: “What did he look like? What did he say? What did he do? What did he say? What was he wearing? What did he do? What did he look like?” Again and again . . . and again.
He was short. About my height, but that’s not tall for a man. Where I am thin, he was stocky. He wore a dark hoodie and had stubble. I remember his stubble. And I remember his hands around the bar. Mine are long. He had small hands with short fingers. Isn’t that odd? I noticed every detail about his hands. His thumbs were stumpy, and three fingernails were beaten black on his left hand. The right hand was scraped up, but the nails were intact. And they were dirty. Both hands were dirty. I remember the hands.
They kept me at the hospital overnight to watch me. I have a concussion and thirteen stitches along my right eyebrow. There’s some pretty good bruising too. My right forearm is pretty bad. I used it to shield my head, I guess. They also took X-rays to see if he fractured my jaw. He didn’t.
I’ve been trying to work up the courage to go back to class tomorrow, but I can’t do it. I barely made it to the library today, and it’s only a few blocks away. Ten in the morning, and the footsteps behind me paralyzed me. I couldn’t move until there was no one behind me. I ended up walking almost sideways, pressing my back against the buildings. It took me over an
“Don’t think that way. You could make all the way to eighteen.” I wanted to reassure him and give him that elusive guarantee. “Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman will love you. And I’m always around.”
Kyle stood still and blinked a couple times. He whispered, “Thanks, Sam.”
I pulled him into a hug and he grabbed on tight. It was the first physical contact we’ve had since he shoved my hand away on our second run. It lasted a heartbeat before he pushed me away and swiped his eyes.
“Gotta go, Sam. E-mail me. If they don’t have a computer, I’ll check at school. Every day, you hear?”
“Every day. I promise.” Every day? I almost made some quip about that being more than we’ve talked—ever. But I kept silent. You don’t make fun of vulnerability. It’s too rare.
I was reminded again of Hannah’s comments. Maybe all my quips and characters are cowardice—ways to avoid feeling and standing and being me. I didn’t want to withdraw at that moment; I owed Kyle more than that. So I forced a pathetically watery smile and watched as he hoisted the duffel, walked out the door, and met the Hoffmans standing in the courtyard with Father John.
So I have a new friend, Mr. Knightley, and I may have lost one too. They couldn’t be more different, could they?
“There are just a lot of different sides to me . . .”
NOVEMBER 4
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I can’t go back to Medill. I’ll get my apartment back and I’ll work at the library. The library shifts always end in daylight. And Starbucks is only a block from my apartment. They’d probably take me back. Because I won’t go back to Medill. I can’t take the ‘L’ again.
At first I didn’t think anything of the commute. I ride the ‘L’ late at night all the time. Evanston is safe, and Grace House is only a few blocks from the stop downtown. There are always people milling around. I’ve never felt the slightest bit afraid. These are my neighborhoods. I’ve lived in Chicago all my life.
I heard the footsteps. But there are always footsteps. People are everywhere. It wasn’t until the first hit that I knew I was in danger.
I don’t know what he wanted. He didn’t take my bag. He didn’t ask for money. He just kept hitting me—and hitting me. I tried to get up, twice, but he looped back. He went about ten feet away then circled back to hit me again. He was swinging a bar or a bat or something—over and over.
Then I heard yelling. Someone must have scared him away, because the hitting stopped. Not the pain.
Father John came to the hospital. So did the police. They kept asking the same questions: “What did he look like? What did he say? What did he do? What did he say? What was he wearing? What did he do? What did he look like?” Again and again . . . and again.
He was short. About my height, but that’s not tall for a man. Where I am thin, he was stocky. He wore a dark hoodie and had stubble. I remember his stubble. And I remember his hands around the bar. Mine are long. He had small hands with short fingers. Isn’t that odd? I noticed every detail about his hands. His thumbs were stumpy, and three fingernails were beaten black on his left hand. The right hand was scraped up, but the nails were intact. And they were dirty. Both hands were dirty. I remember the hands.
They kept me at the hospital overnight to watch me. I have a concussion and thirteen stitches along my right eyebrow. There’s some pretty good bruising too. My right forearm is pretty bad. I used it to shield my head, I guess. They also took X-rays to see if he fractured my jaw. He didn’t.
I’ve been trying to work up the courage to go back to class tomorrow, but I can’t do it. I barely made it to the library today, and it’s only a few blocks away. Ten in the morning, and the footsteps behind me paralyzed me. I couldn’t move until there was no one behind me. I ended up walking almost sideways, pressing my back against the buildings. It took me over an
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