Page 37 of Sending Love Letters to Animals

Every time he laughed at something one of them said, or I’d see him joining in the conversation going on at his table, I felt worse. Chris wasn’t miserable or having a bad life. I was the only thing in the world that brought him unhappiness. That was my fault, so when it made me feel like crap, I had no one to blame but myself.

Leaving immediately after the final bell brought me some relief. At least I didn’t have to see Chris, even if my mind wouldn’t let me stop thinking about him and the letter. Juno was at the house when I got home, doing laundry and waiting for Mom and Dad to provide a meal. That was merely the cherry on the turd sundae of a day for me.

I did my best to get along with Juno, which only confused her, but it made the first part of my evening go by smoothly. After dinner, I went to my room and did my homework. As long as Juno was home, there was no better place to be than sequestered upstairs in my room. When I heard Juno’s car driving away from the house, an hour before bedtime, I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d had enough stress in my life for a few weeks, so one less annoyance in my life was good.

My relief was short-lived, though. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang, and I realized that my sister had forgotten something and probably forgotten her key to the house. Mom and Dad were already in their room watching a movie, so Mom hollered down the hallway, asking me to get the door. Groaning to myself, I got up from my desk and made my way downstairs.

Annoyed with my sister, I jerked the front door open.

“How are you dumb enough to forget your key?” I grumbled.

Juno wasn’t standing at the door. It was Chris. His porkpie hat was perched on his head and a camera was hanging from his neck. He raised his eyebrow at my words. At first, I didn’t know what to say. I’d accidentally insulted him after having apologized to him earlier in the day. Obviously, I was trying to double down on my douchebag behavior even four years later.

“Oh,” I said. “I, uh, thought you were my sister. I thought she locked herself out, or…anyway. Uh…”

Chris said nothing. Instead, he held his hand out, a four by six piece of paper in his hand.

I was almost afraid to reach out and take what he was offering me. Was it another note that basically told me to go screw myself? When I didn’t take the paper from him immediately, he jiggled it impatiently. So, I reached out and took his offering. Without another word, Chris turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the front sidewalk. I stared in the direction he’d gone for the longest time, wondering why he had come to my house so late.

Surely, a text or email telling me whatever he had to say would have worked?

Finally, I brought the paper into the light so that I could read it. Chris had brought me a picture. He’d taken a black and white photo of himself—probably with the use of a timer and a tripod—of him sitting on a bed. Presumably his own. He was sitting in the corner, knees pulled up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them. He was staring out of the window next to his bed, only the profile of his face visible. It was actually a pretty artistic picture. And it sent a message.

Lonely.

I stared at it for several minutes in the foyer, wondering what it meant besides the feeling it evoked. I flipped the photo over on instinct, and it paid off. On the back, he’d written a simple note.

Your turn.

His address was written underneath. Immediately, I stared out into the inky black night, as though I’d spot Chris again. But he was gone. So, I slipped the photo into my pocket and closed the door.

“This is the absolute worst,” Mr. Melvin said.

He pushed the cushion down in the seat next to me and flopped into it. A cup from Bean Counter was in one hand—I knew he was the coolest teacher in the school—and a clipboard was tucked under his other arm. Concern was etched all over his face. Since I’d only been sitting in the auditorium for two minutes before he arrived, I couldn’t imagine what had upset him.

While I had waited for him, literally nothing had happened. Had he noticed something going on that I hadn’t yet? Were the students seated at the back of the auditorium, waiting to audition, up to no good? A quick glance over my shoulder let me know they were sitting quietly and politely.

Davud was seated in the aisle next to the row of students and shot me a wide smile and a quick wave. He had stayed after school to show support for the project I’d been roped into doing. When I had seen him in the auditorium, sitting there, I told him I’d give him a ride home if he wanted to text his mom. It was the least I could do for a good friend.

“Uh,” I said, “what happened? Everyone looks fine?”

Mr. Melvin took a quick sip of coffee. “Count them.”

I turned my head to check out the students again, but Mr. Melvin couldn’t wait.

“Ten students signed up,” he sighed. “Ten, Ryan.”

“Oh? Okay?”

“I only want eight.”

“Well, then this should be easy, right?”

“No!” He gasped. “It’s easier to cut a whole bunch of people. But only two? It’s a nightmare!”

“Um, why?”

“Oh, you sweet child,” he said. “If a bunch of people audition and you only accept a small percentage because you select the very best performers, it’s clear to the ones who don’t get selected that you’re selecting the cream of the crop. When only two people don’t get selected, one, the community they have to commiserate with is tiny. Secondly, they know that some of the people you selected weren’t that great, but you had a certain number of slots to fill, so some of them were selected regardless of talent. It lets the two that weren’t selected know they were really awful.”