At exactly seven fifty-eight a.m., I tap my Dr. Kimber bobblehead for good luck and make the short but agonizing trek from my office to Phil’s. When I find the door closed, the pit in my stomach opens wider. He only closes the door when he’s packed hard-boiled eggs for lunch or when he’s doing uncomfortable Boss Things, like explaining to Scotty the intern that yes, Parkour is cool, but no, it’s not acceptable to leap backward off the coffee kiosk and land on an unsuspecting Lottie. I imagine him rehearsing my firing on the phone to his wife while he listens to “Eye of the Tiger” and throws little punches in the air to psych himself up.
Bracing for the worst, I take a deep breath and knock. I hear muffled voices, and my pulse races as I consider who might be in there with Phil. Maybe it’s the suspenders-wearing HR rep who stops by every year to drone on about ethics compliance, except today he’s here to oversee my termination. Or perhaps it’s my buddy Norm the security guard, ready to escort me out of Ape House like a ref dragging a streaker off a football field.
I really hope it’s not Norm, because I’ll fight him if I must.
Before I can practice a karate chop, Phil opens the door. “Morning, Lucy,” he says, his ruddy cheeks showing the effects of a weekend sunburn. “Come in.”
I don’t need to ask who’s waiting for us in his office. Because as soon as Phil waves me inside, I glimpse a flash of hair so auburn and maddeningly lustrous that I’d recognize it anywhere.
It’s Kai Bridges, loyal friend of sun bears and Ellen DeGeneres and enemy of me. And he’s here to seek revenge.
Regret burns in my belly as I step into Phil’s office, my organs melting into a puddle of goo. Why in the name of all that is holy did I run my mouth about Kai in public? Why couldn’t I take Elle’s sunshine-and-rainbows approach and recognize that one negative encounter with someone doesn’t necessarily mean they’re a complete and total asshole?
And most important, why is the real-life Kai Bridges—unlike the smooth-talking, swashbuckling, clean-shaven adventurer he portrays on TV—such a complete and total asshole?
I slide into the chair next to Kai’s while he ignores my arrival in favor of typing on his phone, his fingers flying. He’s left his keyboard sounds turned on like a psychopath, and the flurry of annoying clicks grates my fried nerves even further. I can only imagine the plight of the poor souls forced to sit next to him on transatlantic flights.
“Freya’s on board,” Kai tells Phil. “She says we’re good to go.”
“Who’s Freya?” I ask, convinced she’s the hotshot attorney Kai hired to annihilate me in court when he sues me for slander.
An angry beeping sound from the printer drowns out my question, and if Kai hears me, he doesn’t bother to answer.
I tuck my trembling hands under my legs and decide that before this goes any further, I should make a last-ditch effort to salvage my career. I’m sure Kai told Phil a convincing sob story about my tactlessness at the picnic, but I bet he left out the fact that he was wrong about Majesty on the Mountain—and that he stole my book.
“Before we start,” I say, trying to swallow the mousiness out of my voice, “I’d like to share my version of the events that transpired. And to be fair to everyone involved, I want to apologize for my role in what happened.”
Kai glances up from his phone, and the hint of a smirk tugs at his lips. He must be chomping at the bit to watch my life go up in flames. How is this evil maniac the same guy who swayed his hips so seductively on Ellen? The memory of his booty wiggling back and forth is enough to warm my cheeks, and I find myself glancing at the generous thighs currently taking up Phil’s finest swivel chair.
He doesn’t deserve to look that good in slacks.
Kai’s gaze follows mine to his lap, and the hint of a smirk turns into an all-out snicker. “Are you all right, Lucy? You seem to be sweating a lot.”
I tear my gaze away and make intense eye contact with Phil’s Swingline stapler. “I’m fine, thank you. Again, Phil, about what happened—”
My boss leans across his desk and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “If you’re apologizing about that clogged toilet last week, don’t worry. Maintenance sent a couple guys down with an auger, and they fixed it in no time.”
From the corner of my eye, I note Kai’s broad shoulders shaking in barely contained laughter. Fabulous. Now in addition to getting fired, everyone will think I suffer from GI distress.
“No,” I say, wishing an asteroid would drop from the sky and finish me off. “That, um, wasn’t me.”
“It’s my fault, really,” Phil continues. “I should have known better than to let Scotty participate in the staff chili cookoff. He’s a great kid and he’s learning a lot, but I don’t think he has a full understanding of meat refrigeration protocols.”
“Right,” I say, scratching at the itch crawling up my arms. “Again, wasn’t me. I was actually talking about what happened at Picnic for Paws.”
Phil blinks as if he has no idea what I’m talking about.
Puzzled, I glance at Kai, who leans back in his chair and shrugs like he’s just as bewildered as my boss. “I had a blast at Picnic for Paws,” he says easily. “Great crowd. Good vibe. Did you not have a blast, Lucy?”
He cocks his scarred eyebrow at me, and that’s when I realize: he hasn’t said a word about my tirade to Phil.
“I, um . . . no, I did have a blast,” I stammer, trying to hide my confusion from Phil. I was so convinced Kai ratted me out that my brain can hardly process what’s happening. “The vibe was, as you said, quite excellent.”
“Great.” Kai beams at me and then at Phil, and I wonder what happened to the man who scowled so deeply on Saturday that I thought his face might get stuck. Maybe he found the Lord over the weekend. Maybe he got laid. Or maybe he knows that if he keeps my outburst between us, he’s got the upper hand.
Whatever dastardly plan he’s crafting, he gives Phil a Boy Scout–wholesome smile and taps the desk with his palm. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Phil grins at Kai like he’s Jesus Christ and Barack Obama rolled up into one person, and jealousy surges through me. I want to be the one on the receiving end of Phil’s approving smiles.
“Yes, let’s get down to business,” I agree, tucking a hand under my chin in what I hope is a confident pose. “What’s the business?”
And why the heck is Kai here for it?
“Yesterday I got a phone call from Alexandra St. John, lead curator at the Miami Zoo,” Phil explains. “They’ve been trying to match Keeva with a surrogate.”
I nod. I know exactly who Alexandra and Keeva are. Keeva, a four-month-old infant gorilla born at the Austin Zoo, was the only survivor of a disastrous E. coli outbreak that killed three adult gorillas in her troop, including her parents. Little Keeva was transferred to Miami in hopes of connecting her with a surrogate mother, and I’ve followed her story closely.
“So far, Alexandra’s team hasn’t had any luck getting one of their females to act as a surrogate,” Phil says. “They’re worried for Keeva, and they want to move her here.”
If my heart had legs, it would leap out of my chest with excitement at this incredible news. “Here? To Columbus?”
Phil nods. “Exactly. And I want you to help lead the charge on her transition.”
The nervous butterflies that conga-lined in my stomach earlier take flight again, but this time out of elation instead of terror. Not only am I not getting fired today, but Phil wants me—me!—to help integrate an orphaned baby gorilla into our troop. I feared today might be the worst day of my life, but instead it’s Christmas and Halloween and the time I spotted Ali Wong at the O’Hare Airport all at once.
“It’ll be a team effort, obviously, but I want you to see this as a chance to step into a leadership role,” Phil adds.
My brain translates his words into I want you to see this as an audition for the senior keeper job, and I’m tempted to cartwheel around his office.
“Obviously, the plight of an orphaned baby gorilla will be catnip to viewers, and I want to capture every second of Keeva’s journey for the show,” Kai says. “So get ready for your close-up.”
A prickly sensation creeps up my spine. The breezy way he describes “Keeva’s journey” makes him sound like the host of The Bachelor describing the fantasy suite escapades of an airheaded twenty-something. I imagine him sporting a designer tux in the Ape House nursery, offering the terrified baby gorilla a rose if she’ll do him the honor of reeling in a million viewers.
But Keeva’s not entertainment for the fans who shell out for Kai’s exclusive T-shirt line; she’s a living, breathing creature who lost her entire troop—the very foundation of her existence.
“What do you mean, close-up?” I ask, imagining a team of frustrated stylists trying to blow-dry the frizz out of my hair. “You’re the host of On the Wild Side. I’m just a keeper.”
I planned on spending the summer safely behind the scenes, far away from the cameras.
Kai shakes his head, and his hair’s so magnificent that he looks like a majestical Andalusian horse shaking out his mane. If I weren’t half convinced this was all an elaborate plot to tank my career, I might ask if I could touch it.
“I’m the host, yes, but I don’t want this season to be about me,” he says.
What a regular Mother Teresa.
“I understand that most people don’t have the opportunities I do,” he continues. “They’ll never get to swim with tiger sharks in the Gulf of Mexico or bottle-feed baby bonobos at a rescue in the Congo. But most people can experience the magic of wildlife at a zoo, and keepers are an essential part of that magic. So I don’t want this to be another regular season of On the Wild Side with Kai Bridges. I want it to be On the Wild Side with Keeva. On the Wild Side with Lucy. On the Wild Side with Phil.”
He fixes my boss with a smile that could blind the sun, and Phil beams back at him.
“Yeah, so, the thing is, I don’t do cameras,” I declare, causing Kai’s dazzling smile to deflate like a balloon.
“Like, they’re in opposition to your beliefs?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“No, nothing like that. I did read the Say Cheese and Die! Goosebumps book a few too many times as a kid, but I’m not, like, ethically opposed or anything.”
Kai doesn’t laugh. Instead, he glances at his watch like my rambling is keeping him from something important. “So, what’s the problem?”
“I . . . well . . .” I trail off, glancing to Phil for help. He saw me pass out at my first Critter Chat, coming dangerously close to smashing my head on the outstretched iron hand of the Rock the gorilla statue. He witnessed the 10TV anchor’s annoyance as I tried, take after failed take, not to choke on my words while filming a news clip about the zoo’s new red ruffed lemur. He watched Jack take my place and deliver his lines like a natural-born star while I dry-heaved in the bathroom.
He knows that when it comes to anything performance related, I’m an unmitigated disaster.
“I’m not comfortable on camera,” I explain, leaving out the more excruciating details of my history. “The thought of being on TV makes me nauseous.”
Kai, probably puzzled by the existence of a human being who doesn’t want to be the center of attention, shrugs. “You’ll just be doing your day-to-day work. Nobody’s asking you to be the next Meryl Streep.”
Phil knits his hands together and gives me an encouraging nod. “I’m going to be frank with you, Lucy. You’re the most dedicated junior keeper I’ve got. You’re sharp, you’re focused, and I think you could run this place with your eyes closed.”
He pauses, and I hear the but coming a mile away.
“But,” he continues, adjusting his glasses, “you don’t take risks. You don’t put yourself out there. Like at the picnic this weekend: how many donations did you get?”
I blanch, not wanting to admit the only success I had was getting myself recruited for an exciting career as a skinny tea sales rep. “None,” I say finally. “But—”
“I know how passionate you are about our animals, but passion doesn’t pay the bills,” Phil says gently. “If you want to be a senior team member someday, I need you to show me that you’ve got what it takes. And that means being able to get donations and serve in a public-facing role. And this summer, it means working with Kai and Keeva and, yes, being on camera.”
He raps on his desk and nods at me. “Capisce?”
It’s not capisce. It’s not the least bit capisce. It’s capisce if capisce set itself on fire and jumped off a cliff.
My fingers tingle, and a pulsing sensation throbs at the back of my head. I’d rather Phil assign me to perpetual poop-scoop duty with Scotty the intern than ask me to be on camera.
It’s never going to happen.
“Don’t worry, we’ll do some practice camera work to get everybody comfortable,” Kai says.
Phil nods. “We’ll start this afternoon. Can you let the team know to be ready to roll at the bonobo exhibit at three?”
I’m ready to roll right into an anxiety attack, and my head suddenly weighs too much on my tired shoulders, but I force myself to nod. “Ready to roll. Right.”
Ready to rock, ready to roll. Ready to humiliate myself and the zoo I love and lose any shot of getting my dream promotion.
“And I need the nursery set up for Keeva by the end of the week,” Phil adds. “Can you organize a team to help you with prep?”
“Of course,” I say, trying to muster up a facade of confidence.
“Thanks, Lucy.” My boss, perhaps registering a fraction of the terror I’m trying to hide, gives me a reassuring nod. “This is a big opportunity. Seize it, okay? I know you’ve got what it takes.”
“Right. Thank you.” Of course I’m going to seize this big opportunity. Of course I’m not going to be such an epic disaster that Jack and Lottie and even Scotty the intern will have a better chance of getting the senior keeper job than me. Of course I’m not going to panic so badly that I break out into hives the size of golf balls.
Of course my dream isn’t dead.
“See you this afternoon, then,” Phil says, politely cueing my dismissal.
Kai, who doesn’t seem to notice that I almost fall sideways as I stumble out of my chair, doesn’t glance my way as I head for the door. Instead, he crosses one leg over the other and leans forward to ask Phil about exhibit lighting.
When I leave the office, I barely make it to the coffee kiosk before I fling myself into the chair of an intern cubicle. Cold sweat trickles down my hairline, and I press a hand to my chest to slow the thudding of my heart.
Phil might think he’s simply asking me to step outside my comfort zone, but he’s asking much more than that. Managing to stay conscious during a Critter Chat is outside my comfort zone. Asking me to appear on an international television show is like asking Stubby the manatee to cartwheel into the sky.
It’s impossible.
My phone vibrates, and I wrench it from my pocket with shaking fingers. Maybe Phil, sensing that I’m three seconds away from having a heart attack, has come to his senses. Maybe he’ll let Jack and Lottie steal the show and spend their summer tolerating Kai’s incessant smirks while I do the real, behind-the-scenes grunt work of welcoming Keeva to the zoo.
But it’s Sam, not Phil. Hell yes to Liberty Tavern, she writes in the group text. How’d your meeting go, Lucy? Everything OK?
I clutch my phone to my chest and close my eyes, trying to steady the frantic pace of my breathing. Elle and Sam will be thrilled to learn that Kai, for whatever reason, had enough mercy not to rat me out to Phil. But try as they might to see things from my point of view, they won’t understand why spending my summer on camera feels like a career death sentence anyway.
Well, Kai didn’t snitch and Phil didn’t fire me, I write back.
But considering the bomb they just dropped on me, they might as well have.