Dear Mr. Knightley Read Online Free

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 narrowedeyes. 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.