12. Birdie
12
BIRDIE
The sounds coming from the kiln room aren’t good. It’s late, just past dusk, and Professor Hall’s unloading last week’s firing with a series of frustrated grunts and muttered curses that echo through the near-empty studio.
Hall is the opposite of Professor Tanaka in almost every way. Where Tanaka is composed and soft-spoken, Hall is blunt, big-voiced, and completely unfiltered. Tanaka teaches hand building like it’s a meditation; Hall runs his wheel-throwing class like a workout session—loud, gritty, and peppered with an endless supply of commentary.
I hover just outside the doorway, my heart already sinking as Hall shoves his glasses higher up his nose and waves me over with a gloved hand. “Birdie, you’re gonna wanna see this.”
One glance inside the kiln tells me everything I need to know. Three of my newest pieces lie in ruins, fragments of shattered clay and dust scattered across the bottom rack.
It’s a common kiln mishap. A piece must have exploded and hit the others—something that can easily happen during the bisque stage if there’s an air bubble trapped in the clay or residual moisture in the walls. But knowing why doesn’t make it any easier to look at.
“Looks like the kiln gods weren’t feeling too generous this week,” Hall says, shaking his head as he surveys the damage. “Little setback, but nothing you can’t handle.”
I swallow hard, fighting the tightness in my chest, the creeping sense of panic. It’s not that I can’t remake them—they were only in bisque, still unglazed—but the hours I already put in, the careful detailing, it’s all gone up in smoke.
And with my fellowship deadline looming closer, these “little setbacks” feel monumental.
“Guess I’ll just have to redo them,” I mumble.
“Best you can do is roll with it,” Hall says gruffly. “This won’t be your last kiln catastrophe, I can promise you that.”
He pulls out the remaining pieces that survived the firing and sets them on a nearby table. I try to focus on the positives. At least the vase I’ve been perfecting for weeks made it through unscathed. But it’s hard not to fixate on what I’ve lost, especially with time running out.
Hall claps me on the shoulder—a quick, almost awkward gesture, but somehow, it reassures me. Then, with a final grumble to himself, he strides back to his wheel station at the far end of the studio.
Fingers itching for my phone, I consider texting Liam. He’d get it. He’d probably have some dry, sarcastic remark to make me laugh, to brush it off. And I would—reluctantly, but inevitably—feel better.
It’s strange how quickly I’ve gotten used to that, to him being the first person I think of when I want to vent or when something goes wrong. And, if I were lucky enough for something to go right—really right—he’d probably be the first person I’d call to share that, too.
But he’s in the middle of a home game against Pittsburgh right now, sprinting up and down the field, oblivious to my tiny pottery catastrophe. So, I can’t text or call him to calm me down.
I sigh and try to focus on sweeping up the mess instead. But the frustration bubbles up again, and before I know it, I’m pulling out my phone anyway, scrolling past Liam’s name and settling on Sena’s.
Birdie
hi. I’m in crisis mode. three of my pieces broke in the kiln :(
Sena
omg. do you need sympathy, solutions, or sangria?
Birdie
probably all three. but mostly sangria
Sena
say no more. I’ll get started
If anyone can turn a disaster into a half-decent night, it’s my roommate. And I’m grateful for it now more than ever.
Once the broken shards are all swept up, I wipe down the table and take a deep breath, resolving to restart my work with fresh clay tomorrow. There’s no point in wallowing tonight—especially not when Sena’s already texting me about ordering pizza.
When I get home, the kitchen smells like fruit and cinnamon. Sena’s there, slicing up oranges and apples, with bottles of red wine and rum set out on the counter. Music filters through the living room, something upbeat and warm, and she greets me with a grin as I walk inside.
“Well, look who survived the great kiln massacre.” She winks, tossing the fruit into a big glass pitcher like she’s done this a million times. “Feel like a little escape?”
“Definitely.” I drop my bag by the door and lean against the counter, exhaustion melting into gratitude. “You’re a lifesaver.”
She waves me off. “So, what’s the vibe? Just us drowning our sorrows, or should I call in reinforcements?”
I hesitate, weighing my options. Normally, I’d opt for a quiet night in, just me and Sena, but the thought of a lively apartment, full of laughter and distraction, feels like exactly what I need. “Just a few of your girls, maybe?”
Despite my distance from my old friends, I miss certain things about those carefree nights—the way the hours stretched endlessly, filled with laughter and easy conversation. It’s been too long since I let myself enjoy something that simple and light.
Sena’s face lights up. “That’s what I like to hear.” She pulls out her phone and starts texting. “Give me twenty minutes. We’re about to have ourselves a proper girls’ night.”
Within half an hour, Sena’s theater friends have all filtered in, their vibrant personalities filling every corner. Nessa, always the loudest in any room, is holding court by the kitchen counter, gesturing wildly with a glass of sangria in hand. Others mingle around her—Tazi, Leora, and Brynn.
The music gets louder, the sangria gets sweeter, and it’s not long before the night slips into that comfortable blur. Everyone’s cheeks are flushed from wine and laughter, and I’m feeling okay again.
By midnight, the four of us are sprawled across the couch together, tangled in a chaotic puzzle of limbs and wineglasses. Someone’s foot rests on my lap—I don’t even care to figure out whose—and my cheeks ache from smiling too hard.
“Alright, next question!” Nessa declares, holding up a half-empty wine bottle like a scepter. She slumps dramatically back into the armchair, squinting at a notecard through bleary eyes. “Who . . . in this room would you most want as a partner in a zombie apocalypse?”
Everyone groans, a mix of laughs and tipsy whines, and then we start debating. I barely register the answers, my head all heavy and warm. I’m on my fourth glass of the night, and the edges of the world have softened into a haze.
Sena’s next to me, practically curled into my side, and I can’t stop humming, this light, floating sensation buoying me up even though we’re talking about something as ridiculous as zombies.
“Birdie,” someone calls out, their voice cutting through the haze in my mind. “Would you bring Sena, or is she the first to get eaten?”
“Oh, she’s definitely zombie bait,” I reply, giggling as Sena elbows me, feigning offense. “But if she were a zombie, she’d be the type to incite riots.”
Sena gasps in mock horror. “As if! I’d be the strong, silent type! Like a stealth zombie!”
Everyone bursts out laughing, and the last bits of stress from today slowly dissolve. The kiln disaster, the critique, even the looming fellowship deadline—they’re all miles away.
Hardships that belong to someone else. Someone who isn’t lounging on a couch with a glass of sangria in hand, wrapped in this moment of messy joy.
Sena nudges me. “Come on, Collins, you don’t have to play hard to get. You know I’d be on your zombie team.”
“That’s because you’re so lovely. So thoughtful and noble,” I say with exaggerated sincerity.
She snorts. “You’re damn right, I am.”
That random foot presses into my bladder, and I wriggle out from under it, laughing as I push it away. “Alright, alright, I surrender. I’m tapping out for a second.”
I stand and wobble down the short hallway to the bathroom. With the door behind me, I flip on the light and grip the edge of the sink for balance as the room spins in soft, blurry circles around me.
In the mirror, my face looks different, somehow. Flushed and alive. My hair’s doing its usual wild thing, frizzing up around my face, and my mascara’s smudged just slightly, but there’s a hint of something in my eyes—something that feels good, if unsteady.
I can’t remember the last time I had a girls’ night like this, let alone drank enough to feel ... well, drunk and out of control. I grin, swiping a stray curl out of my face, and dig my phone out of my pocket.
I should text Liam, shouldn’t I?
The idea pops into my head like a spark catching dry wood, quick and insistent. I could tell Liam about the disaster in the kiln, about the ridiculous zombie debates, or I could just say. . . Something. Anything, really.
Birdie
hi *butterfly emoji* *fairy emoji* *zombie emoji*
I’m having a mini breakdown bc my pieces blew up today but sena’s making it better with sangria and zombies. would you survive an apocalypse?
Liam
are you drunk?
Birdie
miiiiight be. why? would u judge me if i am?
Liam
never
Birdie
good bc I would totally survive an apocalypse better than you
Liam
wanna bet?
My heart gives this funny lurch, like a little somersault I don’t entirely understand. It feels nice, though, whatever it is—light, unguarded, the kind of ease I’ve been needing.
Birdie
would you save me? If it came down to it, would you fight them off to rescue me???
Liam
always
Birdie
thought so. you know I’m rly glad I met you, right? for more than just the pottery stuff, I mean
Liam
yeah. I know. me too, birdie.
There’s a knock on the door, and then Sena shouts, “Birdie, you okay in there?”
“Yeah!” I call back. “I’ll be out in just a second!”
I stare at the screen for a long while, feeling that little flutter again, that mix of excitement and warmth that seems to bubble up every time we talk. It’s silly, but I feel like I can hear his voice, steady and strong, cutting through the fog in my head.
“Birdie!” Sena’s still knocking on the door, a bit more insistent now. “Stop flirting with yourself in the mirror and come out here!”
I lock my phone, tuck it back into my pocket, and take a steadying breath. I don’t know why my chest feels so light, why the corners of my mouth keep trying to pull into a smile that I’m not sure I can suppress.
Maybe it’s just a little crush, or maybe it’s something else entirely—something I’m not quite ready to name.
When I finally open the door, Sena’s standing there, one hand on her hip and the other holding a freshly poured glass of sangria. “Good God, woman! Thought we’d lost you to the depths of the toilet.”
I laugh, stepping out into the hallway and playfully nudging her. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m still alive and well.”
“For now,” she quips, holding the glass out to me like a peace offering. “Drink this and get back to the couch. Nessa’s declared herself the queen of the apocalypse, and I’m about to stage a coup.”
I take the glass, the warmth of the moment wrapping around me like a blanket, and let her pull me back to the living room. Whatever’s happening in my chest—the lightness, the fluttering—it can wait.
Right now, there’s alcohol to drink, theater majors to debate, and a fleeting kind of happiness I’m not ready to let go of.