Chapter 2 #2
“No,” I lie, my fingers hovering over the screen. A familiar mix of frustration and anxiety bubbles up inside me. My mom has always been a bit overprotective—especially after what happened with Jason—but this? This is next level shit.
“I mean, it’s kind of sweet, I guess?” Heidi says, though her voice is unsure. “Maybe she’s just worried about you after everything.”
I shake my head, my thoughts racing. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’m not some damsel-in-distress.”
“I know, but you can’t really blame her after everything with your ex,” Heidi says, her tone softening. “You know how your mother gets.” Heidi’s been my best friend for years, and sometimes I swear her and my mother are closer than I am with my own mother.
However, she’s right. My mom never really liked Jason, and after everything blew up between us, her protective instincts obviously kicked into overdrive. But this—hiring security? I groan internally, already dreading whatever conversation I’m going to have with her later.
I glance around at the aviary, its peaceful beauty suddenly feeling a little less comforting with this unexpected complication looming over me.
My mother can be a bit... dramatic. I hate that about her sometimes, though I know it comes from a place of love.
She panicked the second I mentioned Jason calling and texting me again.
He hasn’t done anything threatening or dangerous—just his usual desperate attempts to "explain" how he’s not a lying, cheating jerk.
But my mom? She jumped straight to DEFCON 1.
I roll my eyes at the thought. A bodyguard? Really?
I fire off a quick response, trying to reassure her.
Me: Mom, I can’t have a bodyguard following me around at work. I’ll be fine.
I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, feeling the weight of the conversation still hanging in the air. Just another thing to worry about.
With a sigh, I join the rest of the staff, lined up near the entrance to the Wings of Asia exhibit.
Marcie, in her usual authoritarian fashion, stands front and center, arms crossed, her sharp blue eyes scanning us like a hawk.
As always, she’s meticulously put together, her red hair slicked back in a tight ponytail that could probably withstand a hurricane.
She’s tough, no-nonsense, and always demanding excellence—especially from me.
“Now, we have some VIP parties this upcoming week,” she begins, her voice clipped and commanding, “so let’s make sure this cage really shines.”
It’s the same speech she gives before every shift, and yet, the unspoken pressure to make everything perfect seems heavier today.
Clean, clean, and more cleaning. That’s the core of our lives here in the aviary.
No one, especially the high-paying guests, wants to see bird poop when they’re marveling at exotic species.
I glance around at the familiar faces of my coworkers, who seem just as thrilled about today’s work as I am.
Perry stands a little too casually, hands in his pockets, like he’s mentally checked out.
Heidi is beside me, tapping her fingers restlessly against her thigh.
We all know the drill—scrub down the enclosures, polish the windows, make everything sparkle.
But even so, Marcie feels the need to remind us. Every. Single. Time.
“And remember,” she continues, her gaze sweeping across the group, but landing directly on me, “when someone asks you specifically about the species of bird, or anything more technical, refer them to the zookeepers. Don’t try to answer the questions yourselves.”
Her words cut right through me, her eyes boring into mine like she’s already anticipating that I’ll mess up.
I bristle under her stare, fighting the urge to snap back.
I know she’s talking to me. It’s like she enjoys putting me in my place, constantly reminding me of the invisible line between the “real” zookeepers and us grunt workers.
As if I don’t already know.
I glance down at the gloves in my hand, my knuckles white from the tight grip.
I’ve worked here for three years, busting my ass day in and day out.
I know these birds better than most of the keepers.
But does Marcie see that? No. To her, I’m just another cog in the cleaning crew, here to handle the dirty work while the real stars answer questions and get all the glory.
I tuck a stray strand of brown hair behind my ear, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.
In my own defense, I’ve only answered a few questions here and there when the tourists asked.
I mean, what’s the harm? If someone’s genuinely interested in learning about the birds, I’m not going to stand there and act clueless.
They’re here to enjoy their time, and if I happen to know a fun fact or two about parakeets, who am I to deny them that bit of knowledge?
Okay, maybe I know more than a fun fact or two.
The truth is, I’m a walking encyclopedia of bird facts.
Years of obsession and dedication have filled my brain with more bird knowledge than even some of the zookeepers here.
And if I occasionally outshine them with my enthusiasm?
Well, that’s not really my fault, is it?
I can’t help but smirk at the memory of a group of tourists last week, wide-eyed and completely captivated as I talked about the parakeets' natural habitats, feeding habits, and quirky behaviors. The zookeeper on duty had shot me a look that could kill, but it’s not like I was trying to show him up on purpose.
I just love what I do. I love birds, and I’m not about to let anyone dim my brightness just because I know my shit. And I so do.
Still, I give Marcie a quick, tight nod, signaling my agreement.
“Yes, Marcie,” I say, my voice flat but polite.
“I’ll keep the bird facts to myself.” Even though every fiber of my being rebels against that idea.
It feels wrong to hold back when people are genuinely curious, but I know how it works around here.
Play the game, Briar. Just play the game.
I glance around the aviary, taking in the lush greenery and hearing the soft flutter of wings as the birds move through the space.
I know every inch of this place, every bird call, every branch in the trees.
I’ve worked so hard to get here, and I’m not going to let a little thing like being “too knowledgeable” hold me back.
If they don’t want me to answer questions, fine.
I’ll play along for now. But one day, I’ll be the one they come to for the answers.
Marcie moves on to the next set of instructions, oblivious to the internal pep talk I’m giving myself. But I’m not just a grunt worker cleaning cages. I’m a future bird trainer—and a damn good one.
“Also, try not to get in anyone’s way. Remember, a hidden cleaner is the best cleaner,” Marcie repeats, her usual mantra.
We all mumble the words back in unison, like a group of bored school kids who have heard the lecture a thousand times.
With a dismissive wave, she sends us off to do our glamorous duty—cleaning bird poop, but discreetly, of course.
As soon as we break formation, Perry strides past, lobby broom and dustpan swung over his shoulders like some kind of avian sanitation cowboy. “I can’t take another day of cleaning parrot shit,” he groans, shooting a wink at Heidi, who blushes faintly and pretends not to notice.
“I’m right there with him,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.
The monotony is wearing me down. Sure, I love the birds, but cleaning up after them day in and day out without any sign of advancement?
It’s starting to feel like a cruel joke.
I know I’m more qualified than whoever they brought in to fill the bird trainer position.
I’ve paid my dues, worked harder than anyone, and yet here I am, scrubbing cages.
As if on cue, the new hire walks in, and my stomach drops.
Speak of the devil.
“Name’s Heath Hone, new bird trainer,” the new hire says with a smug smile, adjusting his black-rimmed glasses and tugging at the sleeves of his tweed jacket.
A tweed jacket? At the Saint Pierce Zoo.
In the middle of Summer? In ninety-degree heat.
I bite back a snort, but seriously, who wears tweed to a zoo job?
He looks like he belongs in a lecture hall, not among the exotic birds here at the zoo. I can practically feel my blood pressure rising just looking at him. He oozes pretension, like he thinks he’s too good for this place already.
Heidi leans in and whispers, “Who wears tweed to work with birds?”
“Someone who clearly hasn’t met the humidity yet,” I mutter under my breath, crossing my arms over my chest. Heath flashes a too-wide grin, oblivious to the side-eye he’s getting from the rest of us.
“Pleasure to meet you all. I’ve got a few fresh ideas on how to improve the bird training program here. Just wait until you see what I’ve got planned for the shows,” he says, puffing out his chest.
Oh, give me a break. I can’t believe this is the guy who got the job I’ve been busting my ass for. Fresh ideas? Please. He probably learned everything out of a textbook. Does he even know the difference between a True Parrot and a regular parrot?
Perry catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. He can sense my irritation bubbling beneath the surface. I grit my teeth and force a smile, determined not to let Heath Hone and his tweed-jacket arrogance get under my skin.
“Welcome, Heath. We’re excited to see what you bring to the team,” I lie through my teeth, trying to keep things professional, even though all I want to do is throw him into a cage with the loudest, most obnoxious macaws and see how well his fresh ideas hold up.
This is just another roadblock, I tell myself. I’ve worked too hard to let some tweed-clad know-it-all stand in my way. My time will come.