Dear Mr. Knightley Read Online Free Page B

down.
    “And stop discriminating. You think because you’re a boy or because you’re black that you can beat me? You can’t.” I poked my finger into his chest.
    The poke may have been overkill. His eyes flashed to the finger, to my face, and then to the track. “Name it.”
    “One mile, if you can keep up.” I suspected he was faster than me, but a mile takes more than speed. It takes stamina—my strength. Anything longer, he’d probably refuse.
    “Let’s go, you—”
    “Save the smack and run.” I tapped the timer button on my watch and took off. I thought I could do a 6:30, but not much faster. I glanced down as we finished the first lap in ninety seconds. That’s a six-minute mile—way too fast for me. But I needed to win, or at least keep up with him. Beating Kyle would get me respect.
    As we started the second lap, Kyle surged ahead. I let him go, and within a quarter lap he dropped back. He didn’t pace well, and I slowed a touch, hoping he’d fall in line with me. We finished the second pretty tight and I started to break in the third, keeping a few steps ahead.
    As we raced, I realized that this kid runs like I used to. All heart and tension with a complete purging of self—no holds barred. Kyle’s vulnerability was tangible. I guess my additional ten years have taught me pacing and hiding; because as I watched the emotions play across his face, I missed the abandon I used to feel about running. About anything. When was the last time I felt something? Really felt it?
    Right there in the third lap, I knew Kyle should win. I could see it in his pulled-back lips, every muscle tensed and pushed forward. This was more than a race. Kyle was running for his life. The same run I made many times. Runs I slogged through alone. No one bolstered me or gave meencouragement. I could have done that for Kyle. I should have done that for him. But I hate to lose.
    In the fourth he started wheezing, and I pulled ahead. At the first corner I pulled away completely and, despite momentary guilt, kicked up the pace and drove the last half lap in a full sprint. I looked down at my watch as I crossed the line: 6:05! It was the fastest mile of my life. It felt amazing, and I thought I’d die. Kyle came in at 6:39, doubled over, and gagged. If there’d been something in his stomach, it’d have been all over my shoes.
    I bent next to him, both of us hanging inches over our shoelaces. “You’re my new running partner, Kyle. You got speed, man.” I was so elated I forgot about respect. I thought about friendship. My mistake.
    “I ain’t nothin’ to you.” He shoved me aside and left. Without a look back, he sped through a hole in the fence and headed to Grace House.
    I tried to muster anger and brush off his rejection, but it didn’t work. Usually it’s a fantastic and safe emotion. But I hurt Kyle, Mr. Knightley, and anger couldn’t fix that. I deliberately wounded a kid. He showed me the real Kyle, and I crushed him. Is this the adult I’ve become?
    Sincerely,
    Sam

JUNE 20
    Dear Mr. Knightley,
    I took the ‘L’ to Evanston and wandered around Northwestern University’s campus yesterday. Punishment, I think, but I wanted to see it.
    Despite it being summer, people were everywhere. I first roamed through the English building. It’s gothic and very romantic looking. Full of great literature and ideas, I’m sure. The course listings blew me away: English Literary Traditions, Twentieth-Century American Novel, British Fictional Studies, Shakespearean Tragedies . . . We didn’t have offerings like that at Roosevelt. There were only a few in literature at all; plenty in electrical engineering, basic math, and trade, but nothing like this. Hallowed halls of academia and all that, right?
    I wandered to Medill next. It’s not as architecturally interesting as the other buildings. More straightforward and practical—newsy, I guess. They posted listings too: Ethics of Journalism, Long-Form Reporting, Advanced