Page 53 of Sending Love Letters to Animals

Because Ryan is just like the rest of us. All of those things don’t make him unique. We all have a specific way we like to eat a certain food or a movie we are obsessed with at some point in our lives or a family we love or hate and siblings we wish would get lost from time to time.

We’ve all had friendships that faded away and new friends we couldn’t get enough of. Everyone has had disappointments and failures and successes and wins. None of that makes us unique or special, either.

This report is supposed to be about the thing that makes Ryan…Ryan.

So, here it goes. Even when he thinks all is lost, he doesn’t give up hope.

Ryan is a guy who is kind of hard to get to know. He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. But he feels everything deeply. He cares about his friends deeply. He just doesn’t always tell them like he should. He doesn’t reach out when he’s struggling or terrified or worried.

But he’s almost always there when his friends need to tell him that they’re struggling. He’s not always perfect, but he tries. And when he fails, he never gives up hope that one day he can fix what he’s done wrong.

I guess that’s what makes Ryan…Ryan. But he’s also just like the rest of us. A normal human being out in the world trying to figure out the best way to be himself. Hoping he’ll find people who will see how hard he tries and how much he cares.

I’ll ask the opposite question now.

How do you know a guy is a good person?

Is it that when they do something horrible, you know deep down that you could never be mad at them for it? No matter how hard you try, you can’t hate them? Because somewhere deep inside of you, you know they’re a good person. You know there’s a reason for their bad behavior. And if you wait long enough, they’ll tell you what it is.

They just have to find the courage first.

Ryan might make you wait longer than you’d like, but he always finds his courage. He always ends up doing the right thing. That’s who Ryan is.

After I read the last word, I turned to look at Chris. Apparently, he had finished reading my essay about him. His eyes were shiny and he was smiling at me. He mouthed the words “thank you” as he jostled the papers in his hand gently. I returned the gesture. Glancing over at Ms. Tabatabai and finding her distracted with grading papers, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and shook it at Chris. She had said we could play on our phones, but I wasn’t certain she wasn’t being sarcastic.

Chris must have had the same feeling about what she’d said about phones, because he looked over to make sure she wasn’t paying attention as well. Then he discretely pulled his phone out of his pocket. Once he had it in hand, I tapped out a text message.

Me: Thanks. A lot. I’m sorry.

Chris: Shut up already.

It took all I had to not laugh out loud. I glanced at Chris, then tapped out another short message.

Me: Do you want to come to the spring recital tonight? Support your friend?

I looked over to find Chris rolling his eyes comically before responding.

Chris: I guess. What time?

Me: Seven. In the auditorium. It should be good. Or short. Or both. We’ll see.

Chris responded with a few laughing emojis, then nodded at me from across the room.

Before I could forget, I walked over to his desk and retrieved the essay I’d written about him. Then I walked over to Ms. Tabatabai’s desk and deposited mine and Chris’s reports in her box. Our teacher muttered a half-hearted “thanks.” I couldn’t wait for summer. Mrs. Tabatabai needed a break.

When I got back to my desk, another text was waiting for me from Chris.

Chris: So, are you still a total Lord of the Rings geek or what? What did I miss the last four years?

I looked over at him with a smile. Yeah. We could pick up where we left off.

Mr. Melvin had looked like he was about two seconds away from pulling out every strand of hair on his head twenty minutes before the spring recital was to begin. Along with the eight performers and Mrs. Watson, I was huddled up with the apoplectic man. Apparently, the sheet music for all of the songs that were supposed to be performed—both the group number and the solos—had mysteriously disappeared.

At first, Mr. Melvin assumed that they had simply been misplaced. Then he began suggesting some students at A.M. Whitemane were pulling a prank. After that, he moved onto some theory that students from Whitmer Central had come over and were trying to sabotage the show. When he suggested that “maybe a homophobic parent was trying to put a stop to things,” I figured it was only a matter of time before he started espousing conspiracy theories that involved the CIA and Bigfoot. I wouldn’t have been shocked if he thought little green men were sneaking into his choir room at night to rearrange the risers.

“What are we going to doooooooooo?” He pleaded with me, as though I had any way of solving the mysterious disappearance of the sheet music.

Honestly, other than sitting in during rehearsals and giving non-committal comments about the performances, I had very little to do with the recital. Aside from selecting songs that wouldn’t send parents into a tizzy, my job had been done before rehearsals even began.