Chapter 1: The Peacock’s Jealous Stare

My agent scored me a spot on a pet-raising reality show. No, seriously—this is my life now.

Honestly, I never thought I'd end up here—me, Maya Quinn, a minor celebrity with a knack for stumbling into bizarre situations, about to be broadcast into living rooms across America, all because I can handle animals better than I can handle people. No pressure, right? Sometimes I think my agent is either a genius or just has a wicked sense of humor.

Originally, the script had me as a snake handler, but one of the top actresses kept stalling, claiming it was too hot and she didn’t want to get sunburned. She kept dragging things out, stalling until winter finally rolled around. Just as I was getting attached to the python I was caring for, it went into hibernation.

I’d spent weeks learning how to handle that python—feeding it, cleaning its enclosure, even talking to it like it was my roommate. Yeah, I know. I need a life. But showbiz waits for no one, not even cold-blooded reptiles. So there I was, standing in the chilly zoo air, sniffling as I said goodbye to my big python, watching the crew haul away the last of its heat lamps. I never thought I’d get emotional over a snake, but hey, life’s full of surprises.

While I was still wiping my eyes over the python, the crew handed me a new assignment: a peacock.

He strutted in like he owned the place, feathers trailing behind him like some kind of feathery prom king. I wiped my nose, trying not to look like I’d just lost my best friend, and braced myself for whatever came next. I mean, a peacock? At least it wouldn’t try to eat me.

For some reason, the second the peacock spotted me, he couldn’t wait to fan out his dazzling feathers, practically screaming, “Look at me!” Pause. I mean, the drama.

It was like he’d been waiting for an audience. Those tail feathers snapped open in a blaze of blue and green, and he gave me this look—equal parts challenge and invitation. I couldn’t help but laugh. "Okay, buddy, I see you."

No matter where I went, the peacock could always find me, rushing in front of me and frantically showing off his tail.

I’d duck behind a tree, and there he was. I’d try to sneak a snack in the break room, and suddenly, feathers. He was relentless. If he’d had a cell phone, I swear he’d have been texting me memes all day.

He even chased me everywhere, blocking me with his huge tail whenever I tried to talk to other guys. Like I needed that.

It got to the point where the crew started placing bets on how many times per hour he’d cut off my conversations. A couple of the guys even started calling him my jealous boyfriend. I rolled my eyes, but secretly, it was kind of flattering.

The zoo director shook his head in amazement. “That’s odd, it’s not even spring—why is he strutting around like it’s mating season?”

He said it with that bewildered tone only someone with thirty years of wrangling otters to ostriches could muster. Honestly, I just shrugged.

Mating season?

My face must have given me away, because one of the camera guys started snickering. I tried to play it cool, but the idea of being the object of a peacock’s affection was… well, awkward.

Realizing something was off, I deliberately kept my distance from the peacock.

I started taking detours, ducking behind enclosures, even timing my breaks to avoid him. The crew noticed, of course, and started making jokes about me playing hard to get. Great, just what I needed—romantic rumors with a bird.

Aside from the feeding and playtime scenes we had to film, I pretty much stopped hanging out with the clingy bird.

I felt guilty, but boundaries are important, even with birds. Besides, the last thing I needed was for the internet to start shipping us. (Little did I know…)

I even took time to visit the hibernating python, and while it slept, I shamelessly stroked its cold scales.

There was something calming about it—maybe because the python didn’t expect anything from me except food and the occasional scratch. I’d sneak into the reptile house, whispering apologies for being a two-timer.

Every time I returned to the peacock after seeing the python, he seemed unhappy.

He’d sulk in the corner, feathers drooping, shooting me the avian equivalent of a death glare. I half-expected him to start playing sad country music.

And when he was unhappy, he liked to screech.

You haven’t lived until you’ve heard a peacock screech at 5 a.m. Let’s just say, if you’re looking for a natural alarm clock that’ll make you question your life choices, look no further.

A peacock’s call is really... ear-splitting.

It’s like a car alarm crossed with a banshee. The neighbors—by which I mean the flamingos and a very unimpressed llama—were not amused.

Animals have sensitive noses. I had to sneak over to visit the python, then rush to shower and scrub off the scent before seeing the peacock.

I became an expert at speed-showering and swapping out my zoo uniforms. The crew probably thought I was auditioning for a laundry detergent commercial.

This busy life made me feel like a total jerk.

I started to feel like I was cheating on both of them. It was ridiculous, but that’s the emotional toll of reality TV and possessive pets, I guess.

But unexpectedly, the peacock—whose head isn’t even as big as my fist—turned out to be pretty smart.

He started watching me with these sharp, knowing eyes. Creepy. I swear, if he’d had thumbs, he’d have been scrolling through my text messages.

After just three or four days, he caught on and realized I was deliberately ignoring him.

He stopped strutting. He stopped screeching. He just… stared at me. The silent treatment, peacock edition.