Amy Gladstone - Little Bird Audition

The narrator is frustrated with a creative writing assignment and the lack of response from someone they wrote a letter to. They go for a run and when they return, they find a letter from the person they wrote to. They feel hopeful and start drafting a response. The narrator also expresses frustration with their roommate, Kennedy, who spread their secrets and caused them to be disliked by others. Popping my pencil against the notepad, I glanced around the room seeking inspiration. A professor knew creative writing wasn't my strong suit, yet he insisted on this assignment in my portfolio. It had been three days since I sent my letter to the local prison, and every time I checked the mailbox, my heart sank with disappointment. He had not written back. Surely there was an incentive for him to be part of the program, too. I tried my best to make the letter engaging, but really, how creative could I be with one damn piece of paper? You weren't supposed to overwhelm me with the first one, but after that, all bets were off, or so I was told. My roommate, Kennedy, tapped obnoxiously on her phone, her long nails flipping with every word she typed, as if she were a super annoying boyfriend. You stop that, she asked, her nasal voice pierced through my ears. You stop texting, I said back, to which she just rolled her eyes, furrowed her blonde brow, and sighed. Why do you always have to have this fidget stick up your ass? Oh, I don't know, Kennedy said, throwing the notebook down on the bed, driving my feet into my seat as I stormed out of our small dorm. I stopped past the mailbox on my way out, hoping to see a letter, but was only greeted with an empty box, just like all the days before. Oh, taming my messy locks into a tight ponytail, I stretched quickly before tapping my smart watch and coalescing the outdoor run hopper. Running always made everything better. An hour later, sweat was dripping down my hollowed cheeks and my heart was hammering against my chest. I sucked in greedy breaths of air as I stopped the mailbox. I should see an envelope there. The name was nestled in scrub and black ink was steeped in digs on the top left corner. She finally answered me. Kennedy was still lounging on her bed when I unlocked the door and reached past her. She didn't even glance up long enough to stop texting. Her long, straight, flattened blonde hair was rolled back into a ponytail. Her tan legs on display with her tiny, barely there shorts covering only what should be necessary. She ate whatever she wanted and still looked like a damn model. I wasn't so lucky. When we moved here, I thought we'd be friends until she started spreading my secrets around campus. She didn't have to tell everyone those secrets. And everyone started to hate the weird girl with two different colored eyes. I'd warn her contact for as long as I could remember to hide the fact that I was different. But Kennedy didn't keep it between us. And then she told everyone about my parents. She never wanted to spend the holidays with me. Secret after goddamn secret she shared with our kids, pushing me farther and farther away from making any friends. Someday, I really hated her. Flopping onto my bed, I ripped open the letter, glancing at the top corner. My thought was stamped with yesterday's date. August 24th. Dear Harley, Just thought I'd start out by letting you know that your name is killer. Wanna trade? It's one piece of paper rolling bullshit. What are we supposed to talk about that will fill more than one page? I haven't written to anyone in so long I had to remind myself how to hold a pen. My fingers already ache, but I'm going to do my best to answer all your questions. I don't care why you're writing me. I haven't had any contact with the world aside from my lawyer, and he isn't exactly the friendly type. So, you need to graduate, and I need to get out of here. Everyone asked if I was born in the East, and honestly, I don't know where the name came from. I grew up in the foster system. My first memory is of a foster home. Names don't really bother me. They don't mean anything in the long run. I like to read as well, but I've read all the books they have here, so I switched to working out and trying to learn new hobbies. One of my previous cellmates was an artist, and he taught me how to draw, so that's what I do to ignore the reality of my life. Did I pass the test? I can't wait to read back from you too. Smiley face. You're 10,000. My heart fluttered at the little smiley face. Oh, you passed the test with flying colors, all right. We had some things in common. Releasing the breath I didn't realize I was holding, my lips kissed into a smile. Maybe there was someone for me to be friends with. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. What are you smiling like? What are you smiling like, an idiot? Kennedy typed out, ruining the moment. Nothing you could possibly wrap your head around. She sighed with yet another eye roll. One day they were going to get stuck in the back of her head, and I couldn't wait to witness it. Folding the letter, stuck it back in the envelope, and pulled out my note, drafting the next one.