Page 31 of Sending Love Letters to Animals

Everyone was shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

“Sending letters can be a metaphor, because does anyone really understand who we are deep down if we have to explain it to them?” she asked, though no one offered a response. “A human being’s biggest wish is to just be themselves and have someone else just…get it. To see them for who they are. To feel a kinship. To not feel so alone.”

Unintentionally, I glanced over at Chris. He was staring up at our teacher.

“This project I’ve assigned you all—getting to know each other without talking—is not just about your ability to write and read an acceptable report,” Ms. Tabatabai said. “It was to help you not just discover who you are when you don’t have the choice to spell it out for each other, but it was to help you learn to truly learn about someone. To find out who they are deep inside. Actions speak louder than words. When we don’t have words, all we have is that thing inside of us that makes our decisions for us, that guides our hands and feet. That unique little glimmer inside of us that defines who we are deep down. That thing that is utterly undefinable that words can’t do justice.”

The classroom grew quiet as Ms. Tabatabai considered us.

“So,” she said, “remember that you only have ten weeks left. How do you want to use that time? Are you just going to try and wing it with this project and get a good enough grade to maintain your GPA, or are you going to see this as a unique experience that will help you understand what it means to be human?”

Chris’ eyes were still locked on Ms. Tabatabai.

“I’m fine with whatever you all decide to do here,” she said. “It’ll be your letter telling me exactly who you are.”

Almost everyone had already left on the school buses or gotten in their cars and headed home. I’d never realized how lonely the parking lot at my high school could feel when everyone was gone and I was sitting in my car, staring out at nothing. Some of the teachers’ cars were still in the lot, though there were few. It was Friday after all. Everyone was anxious to start their weekend and not think about the halls of A.M. Whiteman for two full days.

I couldn’t blame anyone for that.

As I stared out at nothing, my eyes unfocused, what Ms. Tabatabai had said in English kept playing in my head. What we all did each day, the things we said, but moreso, the things we did, told everyone who we were deep down inside. She was willing to let us all slack off with the project, lower our GPAs marginally. That was our choice. But it would tell her what to think of us as people.

Did I care what Ms. Tabatabai thought of me? Did I care what anyone thought of me? More importantly, what did I want everyone to think of me? If someone was to think of Ryan Offsteader, what did I want their mind to conjure up? Did I really have any control over that anyway? Even if I did and said the right things day in and day out, minute after minute, hour after hour, could I control what people thought of me? If I was in control of my words and actions, weren’t other people in control of what they thought of my words and actions?

If I spoke and behaved in a way that described me perfectly every second of my life, it didn’t guarantee that people would think what I wanted. Right?

Then again, did I want people to get the wrong impression of me because of what went on inside their head—or because I’d done something boneheaded? Did I want to give people reasons to think I was a piece of crap?

Thinking about the project, Ms. Tabatabai, and Chris, I knew there was only one right answer.

I’d caused damage by inaction and silence before. I didn’t want to do that again. No matter what it said about me. Regardless of what people thought of it. I wanted to fix that mistake. Well, maybe not fix it. I couldn’t turn back time, after all. But I could make sure I learned from my past mistakes. That was something I wanted people to know about me. I could learn from my past problematic behavior. I could grow as a person.

I wanted to grow as a person.

When the sound of knuckles rapping on my window sounded, I jerked so hard in my seat that my head nearly hit the roof of my car. My head whipped to the left to find a pair of shoulders and a head peeking through my window. I turned the key in the ignition far enough to give my window the juice to roll down.

“You scared the shit out of me.” I laughed nervously.

“Sorry.” Davud grimaced comically. “I saw you sitting out here and just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You wheeled yourself all the way over here to make sure I’m okay?” I asked. “Wait. Why are you still here?”

Davud sighed.

“Had to stay late with Mr. Martin,” he grumbled. “Last test kicked me in the teeth. I mean, I didn’t fail, but I definitely don’t want another ninety, you know? I wanted some extra help.”

“You are an insufferable geek,” I said. “I’ll take your ninety. He gave me an eighty-two. My worst grade in the last four years—and I’m happy with it.”

Davud laughed. “Well, some of us just have higher standards for ourselves, obviously.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m rolling my window up now.”

“Oh, stop. I’m just joshing with you,” he said.

“I know.”

“So?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know,” I said, avoiding the truth. “Just thinking. I didn’t really want to go home yet. It’s hard to think when Mom is asking about my day and Dad is trying to plan our next guy thing, you know?”