Page 14 of Darling Beasts

Chapter Eight

Gabby

By Tuesday, the flamingo deportation plan was in place.

A sanctuary in Miami agreed to take them—wouldloveto take them—and Diane was at present checking one of the aviation companies she’d previously used to see about renting a cargo plane. It was not lost on me that we were paying tofly birdssomewhere. PBS had a way of jacking with one’s shit in unnecessarily complicated ways.

After solidifying the details with Diane, I biked over to the Collective’s administrative yurt, which sat on the opposite end of the property from my house. Beyond the yurt were two performance spaces—a converted barn and a black box theater—and an amphitheater cut into a hill. There was a meadow, and a few cabins, which we rented out to performers, directors, and writers.

As I lowered my bike onto the ground, I peered through the yurt’s open door to see a woman in a pinkish-maroon full-body leotard standing at Sydney’s desk. There was almost always someone around completing paperwork, or discussing schedules, or very occasionally receiving a check. Often, they wanted Sydney’s advice, or to complain about whoever they were beefing with that week. The feelings at SHCC ran strong.

The actress whipped around when I walked in. Beneath herarm she held a long, curved hat topped with a white ball of fluff. It took a second to piece together that this woman was a uterus, holding her own fallopian tube. “Oh! Hi, Gabby,” she said, and for the life of me I could not remember her name.All uteruses look the same, I joked to myself. “Anyway.” She flipped back to Sydney. “Sorry for complaining but—gah!—it’s so hard to play the role when the script never mentions how bad hormonal birth control is for women. Maybe we can hand out DIVA Cups during the performance?”

“I’ll talk to Ginny about it,” she said.

“I’d appreciate it!” With that, the actress bounded out of the yurt, ovary bouncing as she went.

“Perfect timing,” Sydney said, tying her wavy brown hair into a knot on top of her head. “We need to nail down the fall calendar. We’ve never had this many performances happening at the same time.” She hauled a paper calendar onto the desk. “The playback group is settled, but the climate change people need more dates.” She gnawed on the unicorn horn capping the end of her pencil. “Maybe we can move the bullying folks? We also have the Plant Cabaret, but need a few weeks of downtime to repair the roof of the theater barn.” Sydney glanced up, and I was glad for the break because I was already exhausted from all thiswork. “I got an estimate. It’s not going to be cheap, but more economical than the lawsuits when it inevitably caves in.”

“Fine. Whatever it takes,” I said and sat at my official desk, though I only came to the headquarters once, maybe twice per week. The Collective didn’tneedme, because as the front of house manager, Sydney was brilliant, and organized, and, unlike some people (me), would never double-bookSex Worker Monologuesand a children’s Christmas play in the same space. She was also strict about our published facility rental rates, whereas I tended to waive any fee if the person asked nicely enough.

If we don’t try to make money, then this is just a hobby, Sydney said more than I thought was necessary or even polite.

“Sooo... we didn’t really have a chance to chat yesterday,” I began.

“Yeah, you were dodging my texts,” Sydney said, smirking as she reached for her MALE TEARS mug. “I heard your voice memo, but it was kind of crackly. Something about your dad getting a new office?”

“Runningfor office,” I said. “As a Democrat. In California.”

Sydney wrinkled her freckled nose. “A Democrat? I assumed—”

“Same. And he wantsusto work for him. As in, me, Talia, and Ozzie.” I checked my phone. No message yet from Diane confirming Project Flamboyance was a go. “Obviously, none of us agreed. He might be able to trick Talia into it, but it’s a no for me. What the hell would I even do? I refuse to be, like, the campaign’s quirky sidekick.”

“For what it’s worth, youdohave management experience. You run this place.”

“Sort of.” We both knew Sydney ran the show, and our “employees” were basically an assemblage of our oddest but most dedicated friends. Some might have called them outcasts, but not wanting to waste your twenties working eighty hours a week on Wall Street seemed normal to me. “Plus it’s going to be a catastrophe. How do I know this? One word.” I paused for effect.“Flamingos.”

Sydney’s eyes flew up. “No! Shit, Gabs. I’m sorry. How many are there?” She reached again for her mug, her middle finger covering theTas she drank. I wondered whether MALE EARS was the funnier slogan.

I shrugged. “A thousand?” Sydney’s brows popped. “I mean, not literally. It’s like a dozen, but they have the spiritual energy of a thousand.”

“Totally,” Sydney said, nodding earnestly. She was the only person aside from Diane who’d known about every flare.Sydney was like a sister to me. Better than a sister because she didn’t judge, and we had something in common. “Have you told anyone else? Your family?”

I shook my head. “Only Diane. The rest are so weird about the PBS and my dad will just chalk it up to changing migration patterns or whatever,” I said, checking my phone again. “I’m so tired of this. I know what you’re thinking. Hasn’t it been a while? It’s happened eighteen previous times, so what’s the big deal?”

“I wasn’t thinking that at all.”

“There’s something aboutthisone...” In the past twenty-six months while I’d been symptom-free, I’d bought this farm, started the Collective, and acted like a grown-up for the very first time. Part of me believed we were different people, city and farm Gabby, and PBS wouldn’t follow me into this new world.

“So, what do you think this flare is warning you against?” Sydney asked.

“Dad’s campaign is for sure doomed. Another reason to stay far away.”

A look passed over Sydney’s face, as though she’d been waiting to say something and I’d granted her permission to spit it out. “Have you ever considered...” She sucked in her breath. “That if a fiasco is imminent, maybe you shouldn’t run and hide. Perhaps the animals are a sign to do the opposite of whatever your natural instincts are telling you?”

“Fun theory, but it could also make the situation worse. Imagine more animals. Animals upon animals. What if they started eating each other?” My phone vibrated with a text.I would like to go on record as saying I hate this idea, Diane wrote. But the plan is a go.“Thank you, Jesus,” I said, looking up into the rafters, or whatever you’d call the top of a yurt. “Once again, the Big D came through.” I glanced at Sydney, but she wasn’t listening, too occupied by something on her computer, whichwas strange, because she was a real analog girl. “Hello? You alive over there?”

“I’m looking at the Ring feed.” She offered a weak smile. “You should go back to the house. A new creature is waiting on your front porch.”

---