Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
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.