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 exciting. 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?
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?