Friday brought a fragile sense of relief for Burdine. The day, lighter than the rest of her chaotic week, gave her a sliver of clarity. She awoke early, gripping a pamphlet in her hand, her reflection glaring back at her in the harsh, fluorescent glow of the bathroom light. Her hair, tangled and neglected for over a week, finally saw the brush. The small act of self-care felt monumental, given the state of overwhelm she'd been drowning in.
As she reached for her toothbrush, the door creaked open behind her. The sudden intrusion startled her.
"Burnice!" she exclaimed, spinning around to face her older sister.
"Don't act like you didn't know we've been trying to call you for two weeks now!" Burnice's voice was sharp, her concern poorly masked by frustration.
Burdine placed a hand over her chest, trying to steady her racing heart. "Mother of pink, you scared me."
"You scared us! We've been worried sick!" Burnice snapped back, her expression fierce. "And then we see you on the news Thursday—harassing Byron Powell of all people!"
The word harassing hit Burdine like a slap. Her lips parted, but no words came. In her mind, all she had done was approach Byron for a simple conversation. Misunderstood again, she thought bitterly.
Before she could defend herself, Burnice seized her arm and marched her into the living room. The tension in the house was palpable, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Their mother, her niece Prudence, and Burnice's husband sat waiting, their faces grim.
"I don't know who you think you're convincing with these people," Burdine muttered under her breath, glaring at them.
Burnice's eyes narrowed. "These people are your family. Show some respect. And stop chasing after some British guy who pranked you on TV! Do you even realize the damage you've done? Stephen lost his job because of you!"
"That's not true," Burdine protested weakly, her voice trembling.
"Yes, it is!" Burnice fired back. "He works for the same company. And let's not forget how you used Prudence to spy on Bratz. Real mature, Burdine. You haven't even bothered to call us back. Do you know who did call? Your doctor! You missed your therapy appointment yesterday!"
"I know, I know," Burdine whispered, her shoulders sinking under the weight of the accusations.
"You're acting like a child!" Burnice's voice broke slightly, frustration giving way to desperation. "Do we need to send you back to the hospital to get through to you? You need help, Burdine. And for the record, your rent is late again."
"I was going to pay it!" Burdine snapped, but the defensive edge in her voice was weak, almost pleading.
Burnice was unmoved. "Pack your things. On Monday, I'm coming to get you, and I'll be back for the rest later."
"You can't evict me from my apartment!" Burdine cried, her voice rising in anger.
"As your caretaker, yes, I can." Burnice's tone was icy, resolute.
Unable to bear the confrontation any longer, Burdine fled to her room, slamming and locking the door behind her. She collapsed onto the floor, curling into herself as tears streamed down her face. The sound of Burnice pounding on the door echoed around her, relentless and loud enough to alarm the neighbors. The commotion drew the attention of the authorities, and soon the police arrived.
When they forced open the door, Burdine's world went dark.
For the first time in weeks, there was peace—a strange, empty stillness that enveloped her like a comforting blanket. The sounds of ambulance sirens and flashing lights became a distant hum, and her mind drifted to memories she'd long tried to suppress.
The year was 2006, and she was in the middle of the America Rocks competition with Bratz Magazine. It had been her chance at redemption—a rare opportunity to prove herself. But the pressure, the overwhelming crowds, and her deep-seated fear of humiliation had followed her like a shadow.
Back then, she had been on the road with Kirstee and Kaycee, sharing rare moments of vulnerability in the cramped truck. The hum of the motor filled the silence as the three of them gazed at the moonlit mountains in the distance.
"I really hope we win this competition," Kirstee said, breaking the quiet. "Can't wait to meet our first contestant."
"This could change everything for the magazine," Burdine replied, her voice unusually soft. "Imagine… millions of copies sold after the show. You two could write the most brilliant articles ever."
"Write? We don't even write," Kirstee said with a laugh. "This is just a gig to keep Dad off our backs."
"I know," Burdine admitted. "But when you two work together, regardless of whether you succeed or fail, the results are never disappointing."
"Do you really think so?"
"I do."
Burdine's fingers tightened on the steering wheel, avoiding eye contact. "As much as I hate to admit it… you two are the best employees I've ever had. Heather disappearing didn't even compare to the mess we had when you were gone. That's why I posted that internship ad last year—to give you two a break. It backfired, but it showed how resourceful you are. Even if you're rude about it."
"Wow," Kirstee said, her voice tinged with surprise. "That's… actually really nice of you, Burdine. I guess we think of this job as silly, but it's fun. Quirky tasks, no stress, and… well, you're not always bad."
"See? This is the fifth time this summer Kaycee had to leave for her nose job, and you still let her go. Not everyone would."
"Well," Burdine said hesitantly, "I guess I just… think of you two as my daughters."
Kirstee smiled and laid her head on Burdine's shoulder, a rare moment of affection that surprised them both.
"No matter what happens," Kirstee murmured, "we still rock—even if Byron Powell says no."
The name jolted Burdine out of her nostalgia.
She woke up in an unfamiliar room, the clock flashing 5:37 PM. The autumn air seeped through the window as she realized she was at her father's house. Groaning, she grabbed her coat and prepared to leave, only to realize she'd forgotten her phone and wallet.
By the time she arrived at the event, the night had already fallen. She was greeted by Sasha, who confirmed her attendance, though the conversation felt forced and awkward. As Burdine found her seat, her gaze fixed on the number six on her card. It was supposed to be an unlucky number, wasn't it?
The buzz of activity around her felt distant, her thoughts swirling in a chaotic storm. She noticed a strange box suspended from the ceiling, its presence unsettling her. Before she could make sense of it, someone bumped into her, snapping her out of her thoughts.
For the first time in weeks, Burdine felt present. But the night was far from over.
