Page 43 of Sending Love Letters to Animals

The sun was out, though there were enough clouds for it to play peekaboo with us, but February in Iowa is still bitterly cold at times, even if the sun is out. I shivered and pulled my coat tightly around me as Chris led me to the center of the backyard where a picnic table sat. Upon it laid a tripod. Without a word, he indicated where I should stand, so I did as instructed.

As I watched, hugging myself against the chill, Chris retrieved the tripod from the table and walked about six feet from the table. He spread the legs and positioned it in the grass. The camera from around his neck was removed and he attached it to the tripod, aiming it at the table. Watching me to make sure I wasn’t leaving, Chris pulled a long cord from his pocket and attached it to some port in the camera.

Once he was certain that he had everything set up appropriately, Chris gripped the end of the cord, which I suddenly realized had a plunger attached to it, and walked over to the table. Stepping over the bench, he slid in to sit down, facing the camera. I watched as Chris positioned himself, looking out at nothing in the backyard. Slowly, a smile came to his face, beatific and hopeful. I couldn’t help but smile softly at the scene.

Hope.

When a ray of sunlight found Chris’ face, I heard a click. He had pushed the plunger on the cord down and snapped a picture. He didn’t get up. The ray of sun left his face, but he waited. When his face was illuminated again, another click sounded. Chris and the sun played their little game long enough for him to take a dozen pictures. Once he was certain he had gotten a picture that would make him happy, he slid out of the picnic table, chewing at his lip, and walked over to me.

At first, his eyes were down, avoiding mine. Finally, he looked up and met my gaze. He didn’t need to say anything. I didn’t want him to say anything. So, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the letter I had retrieved from my closet after school before I drove over to his house.

Holding it out to him, Chris plucked it gently from my hand and unfolded it. His eyes slowly scanned the page, but he didn’t read it out loud. He didn’t have to—I knew the words by heart.

Chris,

I’m going to come out to my parents today. Tell them I’m gay. It’s scary even to write that word. What if I chicken out again and then someone finds this letter anyway? What if they decide they don’t love me anymore? What if I find out I’m as weak as I think I am? What if, what if, what if…

I can’t not be me anymore. I can’t be scared anymore. I want my life to be real. I want it to be genuine. If that means that my parents can’t love me, I guess I’ll just have to love myself. Until I find someone else who loves me, too. Just as I am. I hope you’re not alone.

Sorry.

Ryan

Chris must have read the letter at least three times because there was no way one read through would have taken him as long as his eyes were on the page. When he finally looked up, his eyes were wet and distant. He stared back at me, his fingers holding the paper gently as we looked into each other’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Really sorry.”

He nodded.

“See you at school tomorrow?” I asked.

Another nod.

I didn’t force him to answer me verbally. I’d already pushed the “no talking” rule far enough. Instead, I nodded back, and then left him with his camera and my letter.

Everything was a mess. Bodies were everywhere and my ears were aching. Mr. Melvin looked like he was contemplating turning in his resignation. Our eight performers that had been selected for the spring recital could hold a tune. But not all at the same time. They couldn’t harmonize. Throw in the prospect of dancing while singing and we had an absolute disaster on our hands. If everyone up on the stage that we were watching from our front row seats in the auditorium didn’t have bruises when they went home, I would have been shocked.

Mr. Melvin had set the first rehearsal for the Friday after the list of performers had been posted. Everyone had come to the auditorium after the final bell, enthusiastic and ready to work. The fact that they had absolutely no idea how to work together as a group was obvious. It was apparent immediately that enthusiasm to work with others didn’t translate into the ability to work as a cohesive unit.

The first collision of two bodies occurred within thirty seconds of rehearsals beginning. Mr. Melvin had decided that aside from the eight solo numbers that would be performed during the show, there should be a group number. On Wednesday, he had found me right before lunch and asked me for an acceptable group number for the recital. I had suggested You Can’t Stop the Beat from Hairspray. He had been thrilled with the idea.

Watching our eight performers try to sing it, together, in tune, on the beat, while also attempting some dance moves, crushed his excitement quickly. It wasn’t only the out of tune singing or the fact that no one was on the same beat, it was the wild elbow jab from Elle that caught Rory in the eye that did it. A freshmen boy squealing like a stuck pig and dropping to his knees while everyone danced poorly around him was quite a sight. Elle realized immediately she had hurt Rory, but it took the other six performers a few seconds to realize one of their comrades had been injured in the line of duty.

Fortunately, when Mr. Melvin rushed up on the stage to make sure Rory was okay, no blood was trickling down his face. His eye looked a little red, at least from my seat where I was watching, but otherwise okay. Hopefully, being a performer, he had simply reacted dramatically to his eye getting jabbed. Having him go home with a black eye after recital rehearsals would not bode well for Mr. Melvin.

“Everyone!” Mr. Melvin had announced after checking on Rory. “Let’s all take a step back. Why don’t we learn the song and how to sing it as a group before we try to dance?”

Excellent advice, I thought to myself.

Mr. Melvin left me alone in the front row, and he stayed on stage near Mrs. Watson and the piano. In case he had to rush in to provide first aid again. After Rory’s musical injury, I didn’t hold out much hope for Mr. Melvin succeeding in organizing the spring recital. Surprisingly, within fifteen minutes, he had everyone at least in tune and on the same beat. They weren’t moving around, but when they sang the song together, anyone listening could actually understand the words.

It was a start.

Seeing as it was only the first rehearsal, I risked hoping for the best once more. I had to see the positive aspects of what Mr. Melvin was doing. He was giving students a chance to express themselves artistically and bring some culture to A.M. Whitemane.

Even so, I wanted to ask Mr. Melvin why he hadn’t simply recruited kids from his theater and choir classes to do the recital. He could have sweetened the deal with extra grade points or something. Surely, students who took classes from him all year long would have been better—and easier to train. Then I remembered that some of the theater and choir kids only took those classes because they were considered “Easy A” classes. All they had to do was show up, do the work the best they could, and Mr. Melvin gave them a good grade.

Expecting talent or drive from those types of students was ridiculous. Having students audition—students who wanted to perform—was obviously the better option. Even if those students had never sang and danced in a group before. Enthusiasm, talent, and drive always produced a better show than kids looking for extra credit.