Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Leo
Never in my life did I expect to be standing, dressed as a unicorn, in a museum full of taxidermy, about to be publicly humiliated for the entertainment of strangers.
Parents are holding up cameras to record the proceedings because, apparently, modern parenting requires documenting every moment, including the psychological breakdown of a grown man in hooves.
Luckily, I’m fairly sure no one is going to connect the man inside this fleece monstrosity to the guy whose face is on the NovaCore Wikipedia page. The onesie is essentially a disguise. A humiliating, sparkly disguise.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome to the most magical party in all of London! I’m Captain Giggles, your guide to wonder and amazement!”
Archie grins at the children from his position on a tall stool, his broken ankle resting on a cushioned support that’s been decorated with stars and moons.
The yellow tailcoat and crooked bow tie he’s wearing should look absurd.
Instead, he looks like he was born to do this.
His whole energy has transformed from the dry, witty guy I’ve been living with into something bright and magnetic.
The children cheer. I stand off to the side, sweating in my fleece prison.
“Now, I couldn’t do any of my amazing tricks without my very special helper. He came all the way from the Rainbow Mountains to be here today!”
I did not agree to a backstory.
“He’s a little bit shy, so we need to give him a big, loud welcome,” Archie continues. “Can you do that for me?”
“Yes!”
“Can you do it louder?”
“YES!”
I feel my stomach drop. Archie turns toward me with a grin that promises nothing good.
“Say hi to my assistant, Sparkle McHornface.”
Sparkle McHornface? You’ve got to be kidding me.
The kids try to follow Archie’s instructions, and the name comes out as fifteen different variations. Sparkle McMuffin. Sparkle Corn Face. Sprinkle McHorseFace. One child just yells “Unicorn!” at maximum volume, apparently deciding the name is too complicated to bother with.
Then the questions start.
“Why is he pink?”
“Can he fly?”
“My mum says unicorns aren’t real.”
“Does he poop rainbows?”
That last one comes from a boy who looks far too pleased with himself. His mother, standing beside him, mouths “Sorry” at me. I attempt to convey through eye contact alone that no apology will ever be sufficient.
“Sparkle McHornface will answer all your questions later,” Archie says smoothly. “But first, he’s going to help you get into the party mood by doing the Chicken Dance! Now, Sparkle is a very good dancer, so watch him closely and copy everything he does. Ready, Sparkle?”
I am not ready. I will never be ready.
The music starts anyway. I begin moving my arms in the universally recognized chicken-flapping motion.
I’m a unicorn doing the Chicken Dance. No one warned me that guilt came with cross-species choreography requirements.
I start stiffly, arms moving in what probably looks like a malfunctioning robot attempting poultry mimicry.
Every part of me is resisting this. Not because it’s silly, but because holding on to my dignity has always been important to me.
Growing up, I was the kid who was embarrassed every single day. By the mother who forgot to pick me up. By the lunch I didn’t have. By the birthday parties I couldn’t attend because I had no gift to give or a way to get there.
Poverty has a smell, a look, a weight, and everyone can see it even when you try your hardest to hide. I was nine years old, telling my sister that peanut butter on crackers was a “special treat” so she wouldn’t realize it was all we had.
When you grow up without much dignity, it becomes something you guard fiercely.
But then a funny thing happens in front of me. A little boy with a gap-toothed smile starts copying me with a look of pure concentration. Then a girl flaps so hard she falls down, pops back up, and keeps going without missing a beat.
Even though I’m doing one of the worst chicken dances ever performed, these kids don’t care.
They don’t care if I look stupid. They don’t care about my reputation, my consulting fees, or whether I can hold my own in a boardroom. They just want to have fun.
Fun was something I never had much of as a child. But I can make sure that it’s not the same for these kids.
And let’s face it, my dignity ship has well and truly sailed.
If I’m going to humiliate myself, I might as well do it properly and make sure the children enjoy themselves.
I’m going to be the best damn chicken-dancing unicorn these kids have ever seen.
So I flap with purpose, I wiggle with intent, and the children collectively lose their minds.
I catch Archie watching me with raised eyebrows, so I add a little spin that makes my rainbow mane fly out.
His eyebrows climb higher.
“Well, well,” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear over the music. “Sparkle’s got moves.”
The warmth spreading through my chest is only due to the exertion from the dancing. I’m sure of it.
The song ends, and I’m sweating in places I didn’t know could sweat.
A little girl in the front row beams at me. “You’re funny,” she says.
Funny. I’ve been called a lot of things in my career. Competent. Driven. Intimidating. Never funny.
But from the look of wonder on the girl’s face, it feels like one of the biggest compliments I’ve ever received.
I glance over at Archie without meaning to. He’s watching me, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite name. Not mockery. Something softer.
When our eyes meet, he gives me a small smile, private and warm, before slipping back into performer mode.
“Okay, party people!” He claps his hands twice, and somehow every child in the room snaps to attention. “Sparkle McHornface did such an amazing job getting us warmed up, didn’t he?”
The children cheer. Someone yells “Sparkle!” at a volume that should be illegal.
“Sparkle has officially worn himself out with all that amazing dancing, so now it’s time for him to rest his hooves while I show you something incredible.” He stage-whispers to the children. “He’s very old for a unicorn. Like, ancient.”
“I’m thirty,” I say flatly.
“See? Ancient.” Archie shakes his head sadly. “It’s a miracle he can still trot.”
The children giggle. I roll my eyes, but I’m fighting a smile.
“Now it’s time for the really magical part of our show.” Archie’s voice drops to a theatrical whisper, and every child leans forward instinctively. “Who wants to see some magic?”
The response is deafening.
“But first,” Archie says, “we need to make sure there’s enough magic in this room. So when I shout ‘Who believes in magic?’ I need you all to shout ‘We do!’ as loud as you can. Ready?”
“Who believes in magic?”
“We do!”
“Louder!”
“WE DO!”
“Perfect.” Archie turns to me. His eyes are sparkling with the particular malice of someone who’s been waiting for this moment all day. “And now, Sparkle…”
Oh no.
He points at me.
I know what’s coming. We rehearsed this. I agreed to this. But agreeing to something in private and doing it in front of all these children and their camera-wielding parents are two very different experiences.
“Tell everyone what you are, Sparkle.”
The children’s expectant faces stare at me.
“I’m the proof,” I say.
“Sorry, Sparkle, I don’t think they heard you. Unicorns need to project.”
“I’m the proof.”
“Sparkle, those children in the back row believe in magic, and they deserve to hear you. One more time?”
“I’m the proof!”
The children erupt. Archie beams at me like a proud parent, which is deeply patronizing given that he’s the one who wrote this material.
“Beautiful,” he says. “Really felt that one.”
I’m going to get him back for this. I don’t know how. But it’s happening.
“Now, everyone find a spot to sit down, crisscross applesauce, eyes on me.” Archie waits while fifteen children scramble into position with varying degrees of coordination.
“Perfect. Now, I’m going to need my lovely assistant Sparkle to bring me my magic bag.
Sparkle? The sparkly one. Yes, that one.
No, the other sparkly one. There are several sparkly bags, as you can see. ”
I grab the bag covered in sequined stars and bring it to him, feeling the children’s eyes tracking my every move.
“Excellent. Now, for my first trick, I’m going to need a very special volunteer.” Archie scans the crowd of eager faces, hands shooting up everywhere. “Someone who looks like they have magic in their soul. Sparkle, do you have magic in your soul?”
“I have sweat in my onesie. Does that count?”
The parents laugh. The children look confused.
“Sadly, no. Sparkle is what we call ‘magically challenged.’ It’s a real condition. Very sad.” Archie shakes his head mournfully. “But he makes up for it by holding things and looking impressed. Sparkle, can you show everyone your impressed face?”
I stare at him.
“That’s his impressed face,” Archie tells the children. “I know. It needs work. We’re trying.”
I should be annoyed. I am annoyed. But I’m also fighting the urge to laugh, which is an uncomfortable combination.
The first trick involves silk scarves that Archie pulls from a hat. Except it quickly becomes apparent that the hat isn’t the only source.
“Sparkle, could you turn around for the audience?”
I turn. The children gasp. Archie pulls a bright yellow scarf from the back of my hood, and I have absolutely no idea how it got there.
“Sparkle, could you check your left pocket for me?”
I reach in. There’s a red scarf. I pull it out slowly, staring at it.
“And your right pocket?”
Blue. I didn’t put any of these here. When did he—
“Sparkle, there seems to be something coming out of your horn.”
A green scarf is dangling from the tip of my light-up unicorn horn. The children are in hysterics. I reach up and tug it free, and it keeps coming—three feet, four feet, an impossible length of green silk unspooling from a plastic horn.
“Sparkle is full of magic,” Archie tells the audience solemnly. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
I stare at the pile of scarves in my hands. The children are screaming with delight. And I genuinely have no idea when he planted any of this.
“That’s a better impressed face,” Archie says.
The scarves trick transitions into a card trick that requires me to hold up a giant deck of cards while Archie shuffles a regular-sized deck.
“Now, Sparkle is going to pick a card from this deck. But here’s the thing about unicorns.” Archie leans in conspiratorially toward the kids. “They’re not very good at picking cards. Their hooves get in the way.”
The children giggle.
“So, Sparkle, pick a card. Any card. Show it to the audience but not to me.”
I draw a card. The seven of hearts. I show it to the children, who immediately start whispering loudly about what it is, completely defeating the purpose of not telling Archie.
“Excellent. Now put it back in the deck.” He shuffles elaborately, angling his body so every child can see.
“And now, Sparkle, I need you to hold up the giant deck again.”
I’ve been wondering what the oversized cards are for. I hold them up, fanned out toward the audience. They’re all blank on the face side.
“Everyone, look at Sparkle’s big cards. Are there any pictures on them?”
“NO!” the children shout.
“Sparkle, say the magic words.”
I was not informed about magic words. I was told about saying “I’m the proof,” but from the gleam in Archie’s eye, this is something else.
“Go on, Sparkle. Say the magic words,” he instructs.
“What magic words?”
“You know.” Archie gestures encouragingly. “The ones all unicorns know.”
I stare at him blankly.
“Fine, I’ll help you out.” He cups his hand around his mouth and stage-whispers to the children. “Everyone help Sparkle remember. The magic words are ‘I am a pretty, pretty unicorn, and I believe in magic.’ Ready? One, two, three…”
The children scream the words at me expectantly.
I am going to switch his phone language to Mandarin. I am going to replace his coffee with decaf. I am going to sign his email address up for every mailing list I can find.
“I am a pretty, pretty unicorn,” I say through gritted teeth, “and I believe in magic.”
“Louder! The magic can’t hear you!”
“I am a pretty, pretty unicorn, and I believe in magic!”
Archie beams. “Beautiful. Now turn the big cards around, Sparkle.”
I turn the giant deck to face me. Every single card now shows the seven of hearts.
I stare at them. I genuinely have no idea when he did this. The cards were blank thirty seconds ago, and I’ve been holding them the entire time.
The children erupt into excited squeals.
“Nice work, Sparkle,” Archie says in an undertone.
“You too, Captain Giggles.”
He flashes a grin at me, and it’s his real smile, not his Captain Giggles one.
I blink.
Fuck. For a second there, he almost had me believing in magic.