MALLORY BLAIN
God, I hate this small hillbilly town. Growing up here ruined my life. I’ve hated my life since the day I was born.
First, schools. There's always competition. In big cities, if you don’t make the cut, you can find a different clique, a new gang, and get away from all the idiots trying to harass you.
Not Burnville.
Alysha was always the bossy one. Victoria the pretty one. Both popular girls, raised by single mothers who spoiled them rotten.
Me, I was always, “Do that, Birdie.” “Don't be a wuss, Birdie.” “Just follow my lead, Birdie, and maybe one day, you’ll get to shine.”
They both hated it when I shined.
My folks were the drinking kind, from a farm property outside town, with a dilapidated barn and a junkyard that code enforcement got tired of fining.
My brother was an idiot. My father an abusive asshole.
My parents stayed away from the police, unlike Al’s and Vic’s moms, who had connections with the chief of police and basically ran the town.
I couldn't get away with half of what my friends did.
But I was proud to be friends with the two popular girls. Admittedly, I was willing to do almost anything for them. Beggars can’t be choosers, but I hated every one of them.
I was used to being invisible. A sidekick. White trash, they used to call my folks. I didn’t even know why those two ever took me under their wing. That’s what they called it. “Stick with us, Birdie.”
Much later, after what happened, I understood that mean girls always need someone to watch their backs and clean up their messes.
Or in case of a "breakup.” And those two fought like cats.
Mostly over boys, though the dating pool in Burnville wasn’t impressive.
For them, I was always the Just-in-Case-Birdie, and they made sure to remind me.
“Know your place”—Al’s exact words when, at a tailgate party before the Super Bowl in high school, she saw Dougie sling his arm over my shoulder and whisper, “How about we go back to my truck, blow off some steam?”
Al didn’t hear what he said and wasn’t even dating him at that time. They’d broken up. For the dozenth time. But she took me aside and hissed a reminder that her leftovers were off-limits.
Dougie was just that, leftovers.
We were drunk one night, after a house party, when Al and Vic snuck out to the nearby town.
That was another thing about Al and Vic.
They’d do anything to kill time, and growing up in Burnville, there was a lot of time to kill.
Their moms worked the bars and didn’t want their daughters to be “in that business.” Like they were raising them for something better.
But I was fine. I worked as many shifts as I could at Ma Shirley’s.
As a minor, I couldn’t serve, except behind Karen’s back.
So I scrubbed the floors, the bathroom, the dishes.
All while Al and Vic were living it up. Get that—Al forbade me to tell Karen, her mom, that we were hanging out together.
She called it a “conflict of interest.” I called it what it was—Al was ashamed of me, even in front of her mother.
Only their mamas didn’t know what their precious girls did, where they went when they drove out of town. That they drove to other places. Hooked up with boys. Partied where no one knew them, then came back before midnight so they didn’t get caught.
The moral of their little inglorious adventures? Don’t tell your secrets to your sidekick and treat her like shit. I knew that one day, those secrets would come in handy.
Then one night, at a party, those two were ready to leave. Al swung her blond hair over her shoulder. Vic puffed up her brunette mane and adjusted her lipstick.
“We have better things to do,” they announced and left. Without me.
The rest of the house guests were either obliterated drunk or high. Dougie suddenly materialized out of nowhere and made a move on me. Not the first time, but that night I was tipsy and simmering in the jealousy and self-misery of being left behind.
He was intimidating. A bully. But I wanted to see what Al saw in him, see what all the fuss was about. Or maybe I just wanted to gloat at the thought that I’d have a piece of something Al thought was hers.
So I let him have his way that night.
The moral of the story comes in three parts.
One, Dougie Hartzel was sloppy seconds—the type that made it obvious the main dish had sucked, even when served hot. Quite awful in bed, not that I had anything to compare him to. What he considered fun reminded me more of insect mating. Same visual.
Two, he started blackmailing me into doing it again, used it to bully me. Even when he and Al got back together again.
“What if I tell Al?” he taunted me with that smug grin on his face. “How would she feel if she found out that her little sidekick blows her man?”
“Man” was an overstatement, but I went along. In his truck, in his cabin, at his house—yes, his place, where he would take Al.
My third point is that despite the disgust I felt for him, I did gloat.
After all, he came back to me even when he dated Al again.
She obviously didn’t give it up often enough.
Or maybe I was better at it. Every time he came—pun intended—a spiteful satisfaction coiled inside me that she was getting my leftovers now.
Screw mean girls.
When Derek showed up in town, Al’s eyes lit up at the new candy.
I knew the cycle would repeat itself. There’d be another adventure, a game of seduction, secrets from their current boyfriends, rivalry, cheating, a fight always following.
I’d be the intermediary who’d get all the shit and drama.
But eventually, when they made up, I’d be Know-Your-Place-Birdie again.
The first time I talked to Derek was at Ma Shirley’s.
The second time I ran into him was at a tailgate party when I was with Al and Vic. Apparently, that wasn’t their first time seeing him either. But as I stood slightly behind them, his eyes caught sight of me. “Is that Birdie?”
The look on their faces was priceless. “How would he know your name?”
My pride flared up. That was the thing with Derek, I soon learned—he had a great memory.
And he knew how to keep everyone’s attention.
Mine included. That evening, though he was surrounded by girls, his eyes now and then locked with mine.
Just for a short while, but long enough to make my heart flutter.
You know what that feeling does to the bullied ones? It gives them hope. Hope turns into determination. And determination can be reckless.
The next time I saw Derek was on the opening day of the fair. That was when I knew it was my chance to win in life.