Little Bird Criminally Yours Audition

The narrator is struggling with a creative writing assignment and is disappointed that someone named Easton has not written back to them. They have a tense relationship with their roommate, Kennedy, who has spread secrets about them. The narrator goes for a run and is surprised to find a letter from Easton in the mailbox. They open the letter and find that Easton is willing to answer their questions and wants to be their pen pal. The narrator feels hopeful and starts drafting their next letter. Tapping my pencil against the notepad, I glanced around my room, seeking inspiration. My professor knew creative writing wasn't my strong point, yet he insisted on this assignment for my portfolio. It had been three days since I sent my letter to the local prison, and every time I checked my mailbox, my heart sank with disappointment. Easton 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? We weren't supposed to overwhelm them 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 clicking with every word she typed out to her equally annoying boyfriend. "'Can you stop that?' she asked, her nasally voice piercing my ears. "'Can you stop texting?' I threw back, to which she just rolled her eyes, furrowed her blonde brows, and sighed. "'Why do you always have the biggest stick up your arse?' "'Oh, I don't know, Kennedy,' I sighed. Throwing the notebook down on the bed, sliding my feet into my sneakers, 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. Ugh. Taming my messy locks into a tight ponytail, I stretched quickly before tapping my smartwatch and selecting the outdoor run option. Running always made everything better. An hour later, sweat was dripping down my hollow cheeks and my heart was hammering against my chest. I sucked in greedy breaths of air as I stopped at the mailbox, surprised to see an envelope there. My name was messily scrawled in black ink with Easton Diggs in the top left corner. He finally answered me. Kennedy was still lounging on her bed when I unlocked the door and breezed past her. She didn't even glance up long enough to stop texting. Her straight, platinum blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, tan legs on display with her tiny, barely-there shorts, covering only what she deemed necessary. She ate whatever she wanted and still looked like a damn model. I wasn't as lucky. When we moved in here, I thought we'd be friends until she started spreading my secrets around campus. She didn't have to tell everyone my secrets, and everyone started to hate the weird girl with two different coloured eyes. I'd worn a contact for as long as I could remember to hide the fact that I was different. But Kennedy couldn't keep it between us. And then she told everyone about my parents, who never wanted to spend the holidays with me. Secret after goddamn secret, she shared with our peers, pushing me father and father away from making any friends. Some days, I really hated her. Flopping onto my bed, I ripped open the letter. Glancing at the top corner, I saw it 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? This one piece of paper roll is bullshit. But 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 to me. I haven't had any contact with the world aside from my lawyer, and he isn't the friendly type. You need to graduate, and I need to get out of here. Everyone asks 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 then 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. Eight, baseball. Nine, coke. Ten, chocolate. Did I pass the test? Can't wait to read back from you too, smiley face. Your best pen pal, East. My heart fluttered at the little smiley face. He passed the test with flying colours, alright. We had some of those things in common. Realising the breath I didn't realise I was holding, my lips tipped into a smile. Maybe there was someone for me to be friends with. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. What has you smiling like an idiot? Kennedy piped up, 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, I stuck it back in the envelope and pulled out my notebook, drafting the next one.