Dear Mr. Knightley by Katherine Reay Page A

bathroom to grab both tweezers and Kleenex, questioning my sanity. First I let Coach Ridley insult my stride to help Kyle, and now . . . Was I really going to let Ashley yank out my eyebrows to boost her self-esteem? Was she helping me? Or was I helping her? Then I had to concede, Kyle is doing better and I’m running faster. We both won.
    So I got the tweezers. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t nervous. “What do you plan to do with these?”
    “Sit at the table.”
    I sat in front of her. Ashley reached up and plucked a hair between my eyes.
    “Ouch! You can’t do that!” I jerked my head away.
    “Stop it and sit still.”
    “Watch the scar, it’s super tender.”
    “I won’t go near it. Sit still or I’ll miss and land right on it.”
    I froze. I didn’t even breathe. Clearly she needed this. Maybe I did too.
    “I’m sorry I criticized your room, Sam. I was angry. I know you hide, but at least you do it somewhere intellectual. Most people don’t think I have a real thought in my brain.”
    “Of course you do. You’re smart, Ashley. You’re just amazingly pretty too, and that can be intimidating—ouch.” I tried not to cry out each time, but it hurt.
    “Really?”
    “Sure. You’re the classic kind of pretty: petite, blond, blue-eyed. And you have that great accent. It’s intimidating. And I think you know it.”
    “Sometimes.” She had the grace to smile.
    “Then you can’t blame me for throwing out a few quotes here and there. Sometimes I use them to hide and sometimes just to even the score.”
    “Even the score? But you’re so smart.”
    “And tall and gangly and clueless. Like the other day—you were laughing about rhinoplasties. I thought you were talking about some kind of rhinoceros.”
    “Rhinoplasty means my mother hauled me and my big nose to a plastic surgeon when I was sixteen to make it into a cute little button.” She tapped her nose in staccato with the last three words.
    “She did?”
    “Yeah.” She pulled extra hard on the tweezers.
    “Ouch! Maybe we shouldn’t talk about your mother.”
    She grimaced. “Probably not the best topic right now . . . I’m almost done. You look like Anne Hathaway, you know.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “It’s true, whether you believe it or not. So tuck it away and pull it out when you need it.” Her voice drifted. “You know the best compliment I ever got?”
    “Hmmm?”
    “I was in seventh grade and a friend was over. We were flipping through magazines, yapping about something, and she turned to me and said, ‘Ashley, you always make me feel so good about myself.’” Ashley paused, tasting the compliment in her mind. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”
    “Very nice.”
    We were silent for a few moments.
    “I pull that out sometimes. I’d like to be that person.” Ashley sat back and examined her work. “Go look.”
    I went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror, and was shocked. I’m not saying I was instantly gorgeous. No Anne Hathaway. But I looked pretty. My eyes looked bigger, browner somehow. Everything looked neat and refined. I didn’t even feel so tall. That probably makes no sense to a man, but it felt good—really good.
    I returned to the living room with a huge grin on my face. Ashley laughed. “My work here is done.” She grabbed her bag off the couch and headed to the door.
    “Thanks, Ash. You can stay, you know? Do you want some popcorn?”
    “No, but thanks. I’ve got some work to do.” She looked through the door to my bedroom. “I’m sorry about earlier. None of this was about your poster. I love the O’Keeffe.”
    “I get it. And I’m sorry I push back at you sometimes. Just call me out when my quoting is obnoxious.”
    “Yeah. And tell me when I go all Park Ave on you, okay? I don’t mean to sound like such a snob.” She hugged me. “Ugh . . . so much to improve. See you tomorrow.”
    Now I sit here thinking about Ashley, and about that stupid poster, and about my characters. It’s time