Page 27 of Sending Love Letters to Animals

Of course, I thought to myself, how stupid of me to have not been able to read your mind.

“Yeah, I guess I can do that, but I’m not really, like, a singer,” I explained. “It probably isn’t fair for me to judge people’s singing abilities.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “You’re the Broadway dude. You’ll know who performs their songs best.”

I shrugged. “Okay. So, the Thursday after next after school? The thirteenth?”

“Three-thirty,” he said with a nod.

Then he slipped into his classroom and started to close the door.

“Mr. Melvin,” I said, stopping him. “When do you need the list of songs? And how many? Does it matter if they’re songs traditionally performed by men or women, or—”

“Eight songs by this Friday so I can go over them with plenty of time before auditions,” he said. “We won’t be choosing more than eight performers so that should be enough. Parents don’t want to sit for more than an hour, right? And you can decide for yourself which songs are best—as long as they fit the criteria.”

“Um, okay.”

“Great.”

I suddenly found myself staring at the wood grain of Mr. Melvin’s classroom door. Obviously, I had been dismissed.

Dad had gotten off early from work, so when I got home after meeting with Mr. Melvin, my plans were changed. I had wanted to go to the bathroom to be sure my stomach issue had resolved itself—if only temporarily—and then go to my room and unfold the paper haunting my front hip pocket. However, since Dad was home early, which rarely happened, Mom also ended her work day early, and it was apparent that we were all going to spend time together preparing and having a family dinner.

Juno hadn’t come home to do laundry or raid the fridge, so at least my suffering would be minimal. After helping Mom and Dad with dinner—which consisted of me answering texts and playing on social media at the kitchen table while they chopped and cooked, we sat down to a spaghetti dinner. I’m well aware that I’m not the coolest guy in the world, so it doesn’t bother me to admit that I actually enjoy spending time with my parents.

Sure, they’re both geeks simply for being my parents, but I actually like them. So, spending a few hours after school with them doesn’t exactly ruin my day. Even though Dad tells the same lame jokes and Mom asks too many questions about my day and my life in general, at least they care. When Juno’s not around, I’m actually able to merely be myself without worrying about her sass, so those family dinner nights are even better.

Though they don’t understand it, I can actually share pictures of my time with my friends with them, too. They both think the Low-Key Café is ridiculous, but they did their best to be nice about the pictures my friends and I had shared on Instagram. When I played a few TikTok videos from my night at the club for them, they both danced ridiculously in their seats to the music playing in the background. When that happened, sharing time was over.

Of course, I had to endure a quick talk about leaving Jules’ house to go to LKC without telling them, but they weren’t really upset. Obviously, I hadn’t been up to anything bad if I was sharing photographic and video proof of my evening with them. They did remind me to let them know if my plans changed during future outings, for safety’s sake. I agreed, but pretended to be bothered by their concern for my well-being.

Are you qualified to be a teenager if you don’t automatically get annoyed by everything your parents say and do? Even if you have to fake it?

Regardless of how well I get along with my parents, I was relieved when dinner was over. Within seconds of being excused from the table, I was in my bedroom, behind a locked door, and fishing around in my pocket. I yanked the paper out and unfolded it so quickly that I risked tearing it. I didn’t know what information had been written on the chart, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to know, but I knew it was better to find out sooner rather than later.

When the paper was finally opened and spread out before me, I stared down at the hastily written note.

“My phone number hasn’t changed.”

That wasn’t actually the entire message. It ended with a word that begins with “a,” ends in “e,” and describes a hole in the body that performs a vital function. That particular orifice in my body couldn’t be trusted, especially with my stomach beginning to growl at me once again. Chris had also jotted down his email address, but that was irrelevant, all things considered. Chris’ bravery, or complete lack of sense, in writing such a message on a chart Ms. Tabatabai easily could have seen by accident, impressed me. Especially since he had done it on his very first day at A.M. Whitemane.

As much as it impressed me, it made me more anxious than anything. After a trip to the bathroom to finally address my nearly day-long tummy issues, I found myself sitting on the side of my bed once again. The paper with Chris’ note was in one hand, and my phone was in the other. Chris’ message that his number hadn’t changed came with the crazy assumption that I would still remember it.

He wasn’t crazy, though. I did remember his number. I programmed it into my phone and opened a fresh text message. For several minutes, I stared at the empty message with his name displayed at the top. I typed out and deleted at least seventeen messages before I went back to staring at the blank screen with his name at the top, like a scarlet letter branding me for what I’d done.

One thing I’ve always tried to be is unashamed of who I am. It was something my mom and dad had tried to instill in me. My race, my sexuality, my gender—who I am inside and out, as long as I was a good person—was something of which I should be proud. Chris was a reminder that I didn’t always succeed. For four years, that was something I thought I’d never have to think about again.

Memories kept trying to flood back to me, but I fought them.

Finally, I abandoned the text and opened my music app. My Broadway musicals playlist began. My intention was to get a head start on making a list of songs for Mr. Melvin, but before I knew it, I was fast asleep. The stress of my day—and likely the heavy pasta from dinner—had worn me out. I hadn’t even changed into my pajamas.

The next morning, I decided that I would talk to Chris in person. Not in a way that would compromise the project, but to clear the air between us. I knew he hated me, and it was justified, but I wanted him to know that I didn’t hate him. Not that it would have been justified if I did. However, if we were going to work on the project together, we needed to clear the air between us. I wasn’t certain how to do that without possibly breaking the rules Ms. Tabatabai had laid out, though.

It wasn’t like she would know if anyone cheated. She had even indicated that she wouldn’t deduct points if we didn’t follow the guideline to get to know each other without talking. When it came to having Chris as a project partner, not talking was preferable. We hadn’t talked in so long, and the reason for that made me unsure if I wanted to talk to him.

I didn’t even want to think about Chris. He had been blocked from my memory since junior high. Having to see, speak to, or even think about him hadn’t been something I had even considered in almost four years. Considering the best way to address the situation with Chris had me so preoccupied all morning that, before I knew it, I was parking my car at school and walking up to the front doors before I had even formulated a plan.

Even though I was there a full fifteen minutes before the school day started, the halls of A.M. Whitemane were already flooded with students. Finding one particular person in the halls of the school was a guessing game unless you knew where their locker was or knew their morning routine. Even finding Jules, who was my best friend, was difficult at times. Finding Chris should have been impossible. I didn’t know where his locker was since he had only been a student for one day, nor was I was familiar with his morning routine.