Page 25 of Sending Love Letters to Animals

“Good, good,” she said as she stepped over to her desk and retrieved the stack of papers identical to the one in her hand. “Here, Jules. Take one and pass them back, please.”

Ms. Tabatabai handed the stack of charts to Jules, and Jules took the first one, then passed the remaining charts over her head to Brandon Cole, who was sitting behind her.

“Speaking of the project,” Ms. Tabatabai began when she returned to the podium and charts were still being passed around. “We have a new student today. A transfer from Whitmer Central.”

This got my attention. I’d forgotten all about not having a partner until the transfer student arrived. Without direction from my brain, my head turned to find out who was now occupying the desk that had sat empty by the door for the first part of the year. Right as my eyes connected with the new student, who was already staring at me, Ms. Tabatabai spoke again.

The guy in the desk made my stomach drop. Underneath the porkpie hat pushed back on his blond head, two steely blue eyes assessed me coldly.

“This is Chris Beale,” she said cheerfully. “He’s joining us for the last half of his senior year.”

Chris and I continued to stare at each other.

“Chris,” Ms. Tabatabai said, “Ryan Offsteader will be your partner for the writing project I was telling you about.”

Chris didn’t say anything, and I was glad.

I already knew what his voice sounded like, and I wasn’t ready to hear it again.

You know that T.S. Eliot quote: This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a whimper? Thomas Stearns Eliot couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s not a bang or a whimper. It’s the sound of anxiety diarrhea churning in your stomach. When the end of the world comes, all you can do is trust the integrity of your sphincter.

Mr. Melvin wasn’t an easy man to locate after hours. Our combination drama, theater, and choir teacher liked to travel. Not internationally; but throughout the school. He did his traveling in style regardless. Throughout the day, Mr. Melvin was easy to catch a glimpse of in the hallways thanks to his colorful button-downs, wild bowties, starched slacks, and stylish glasses.

A middle-aged gay man, Mr. Melvin was cheerful, loquacious, and unabashedly himself. Unbothered and uncompromising, he didn’t mind stares or whispered comments about his attire or behaviors. It was uncommon for people to talk smack about Mr. Melvin, though. He was always the first teacher to go to bat for students if they were having problems and every student at A.M. Whitemane knew he was a sympathetic ear when one was needed.

His main fault was never staying in his classroom if he wasn’t actively teaching.

As I stood in the doorway of his empty classroom ten minutes after the end of the school day, I stuffed my hand in my pocket. The tips of my fingers played along the folded-up piece of paper as I considered where to look for Mr. Melvin. I tried to remember where I’d usually see Mr. Melvin at the end of the school day to narrow down my search.

Vending machines.

Mr. Melvin usually made his way down to the cafeteria to get a snack if he was planning to stay after school and grade papers. I yanked my hand out of my pocket, doing my best to take my mind off of the paper in my pocket. I didn’t want to think about the filled-out chart that had been practically thrown in my face at the end of English. Hopefully, when the chart was thrown at me and mine was snatched off of my desk, it hadn’t been thrown away.

My stomach churned anxiously again as I turned away from the classroom and headed in the direction of the cafeteria.

Mr. Melvin was exactly where I’d expected. When I found him in the cafeteria by the vending machine, he was staring intensely at the selections on offer. His crisp khakis, pink checkered button down, and pink bowtie he’d chosen for his Monday outfit definitely set him apart from the rest of the staff. His square, black nerd-chic glasses completed his look. The guy was simply cool. Well, cool in that he didn’t give a crap what anyone thought of him or how he liked to present himself. One day, I hoped to have his confidence.

“Mr. Melvin?” I asked as my gut rumbled again.

Luckily, the more time passed, the less I felt like I was going to have explosive diarrhea. When I first felt the pangs in English class—all because of Chris-Freaking-Beale—I thought I’d have to leave early for the day. When Ms. Tabatabai asked me to go find Mr. Melvin after school to discuss the spring recital, I knew leaving early would disappoint her. Fortunately, by the time the final bell rang for the day, I knew that even though my gut still hadn’t totally returned to normal, I was in no danger of making spin art in my pants.

“Ryan,” Mr. Melvin said cheerfully, barely taking his eyes off the vending machine long enough to see who had spoken to him. “How’re you? Why are you still here?”

“Uh—”

“Do you think the Zebra Cakes or the Oatmeal Crème Pie is worse for you?” He asked.

Mr. Melvin wasn’t slender, but he wasn’t fat. He was an averagely fit middle-aged man. Finding out that his after school snack consisted of sugar and…well, sugar…surprised me.

“Um, well, the oatmeal might have some nutritional value?” I shrugged. “Maybe?”

He nodded slowly. “Zebra Cakes then.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

Mr. Melvin pushed a few buttons on the machine, obviously having already paid, and the two of us watched as the machine did its job. The little metal spiral arm spun, flinging a 2-pack of Zebra Cakes to its doom. Mr. Melvin retrieved his snack from the flap at the bottom of the machine, then stood and gave me his full attention.

“Roy doesn’t let me have sugar, so I have to sneak my treats in here at work,” Mr. Melvin said, as though this meant anything to me.