25
On the subway, thank God, the screech of steel wheels on the tracks drowned out most of Rimbaud’s squawks from inside my bag.
Most.
“Zane Ryder never gets played… but if he does, he’ll get paid!”
“If love feels sweet, it’s a trap… you’ll end up stuffed in a handbag flap!”
“If he whispers soft and low… check your wallet before you go!”
Each rhyme came with a little shake of the bag, like I was lugging around a feather-filled cocktail shaker.
The nearest passengers gave me side-eye, but between headphones, smartphones, and the faint smell of burnt pretzels wafting in from the next car, no one was motivated enough to actually ask questions.
I prayed the plan had worked. In my head, Lucas was currently thinking we were just a pair of rogue animal activists on some rescue mission.
And even when he realized the most famous parrot in the world was missing, he’d assume the bird had simply slipped out in the middle of the chaos along with the rest of the stampede.
The second we stepped into our apartment, I unzipped the bag. Rimbaud shot out like a crimson missile, crossed the living room on a perfect trajectory, and landed on top of the kitchen hood—the highest, most unreachable spot in the room.
From his perch, he fixed us with a mix of suspicion and contempt, head jerking side to side like a judge searching for the right charge. “One day I’ll sing… hot mic on… you two in the front row… stretch pants gone wrong!”
Tess stepped forward, her voice sugar-sweet, like she was coaxing a sulky toddler. “Come on, Rimbaud… you’ll have way more fun here with us than with boring old Lucas.”
She tried bribing him with snacks, but the bird had already demolished an entire sleeve of Ritz and wore the blissed-out look of someone too stuffed to even glance at a sunflower seed.
So Tess shifted to Plan B: her tried-and-true seduction routine.
Half-lidded eyes, soft smile, words dripping honey as she crept toward the hood, every step slow and deliberate, posture on point.
Rimbaud let her get away with it… for three whole seconds.
Then he launched at her like a paratrooper in freefall, claws tangled in her hair, wi ngs thrashing like a tropical storm.
Feathers flew, Tess fought to hang on to her scalp, and the living room spun into a cyclone of shrieks, flapping, and muffled profanity.
Finally, the parrot released her and glided to the shelf above the TV, pecking the remote like it was a war trophy. “Sing of love, cry of pain… I’ll scream louder, that’s my game!”
Tess stared him down, took one deep breath, and smoothed herself back into the kind of stage calm only possessed by someone who will never—ever—admit to being humiliated by a bird. “Fine. Whatever. We’ll let him cool off, then call the hotel and say we found him perched in Central Park.”
We tried to ignore him for the rest of the evening.
Took showers, ate dinner at the counter, and every so often made accidental eye contact with Rimbaud—perched on his shelf, preening with surgical precision, pausing only to shoot us the kind of side-eye usually reserved for nosy neighbors with binoculars.
We agreed that life would’ve been so much easier with Christopher. Christopher wasn’t a troublemaker: sure, he’d resisted at first—who wouldn’t?—but at least he didn’t fight back. And most importantly, Christopher didn’t talk.
We imagined him living his best new life: an aviary all to himself, his broken wing finally healing, regular meals, snuggles on demand. A perfect New York redemption arc: from the streets to the penthouse in one afternoon. Good for him.
After dinner, Tess decided to give Rimbaud another try.
Her dream scenario was Ryder showing up to reclaim his bird and finding him utterly smitten with the mysterious girl who’d tamed him.
Too bad Rimbaud was basically the avian version of a street thug: dive-bombing around the apartment to avoid capture and, when cornered, delivering one perfectly placed bite. Favorite target? Tess.
“He doesn’t look like a poor lost bird we rescued in Central Park,” I said. “He looks like we kidnapped him—and he knows it.”
Tess dropped onto the edge of the couch, elbow on knee, chin in hand—the posture of someone brokering a nuclear disarmament treaty. She sat there for a full five minutes, frozen, staring into the distance.
Then she lit up, leaping to her feet like she’d just solved the Sphinx’s riddle. “I’ve got it! We’ll get him drunk!”
“Excuse me?”
“He’ll get thirsty eventually… and we’ll leave him a little glass of rum.”
“Wait. You’re planning to booze up the parrot?”
“Of course! Just like his pirate ancestors.”
Without wasting a second, she swung open the liquor cabinet, grabbed the rum, and poured a splash into the fanciest shot glass she could find.
She set it carefully on the counter, then cooed like a cocktail waitress at a Vegas high roller: “Here you go, Rimbaud… whenever you get thirsty!” To sweeten the deal, she even placed a couple of Ritz crackers beside the glass, like a welcome appetizer.
“He’s not gonna fall for that,” I muttered, watching the bird glare down at us with the regal disdain of a Roman emperor weighing the worth of two court jesters.
“He doesn’t have to fall for it,” Tess said, eyes glinting with mad logic. “It’s science. He’ll get thirsty sooner or later…”