Da-adcatches my eye for a second. I can see his gears turning, trying to determine how to make the water lion introduction distinct from the standard lion.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special treat for you today. An extremely rare animal. In fact, many of you may never have heard of this beast who…lives in the water…but is covered in fur? Maybe? I’m not sure about the anatomy of this creature. Anyway, I present to you,the water lion!”
The little girl does the exact same burst out of the water, same roar. She takes a bow. Again, her dad dutifully mimics a crowd noise.
To some people, a doting father wouldn’t be noteworthy. To me, their interaction—a dad letting his child oversee the game—is fascinating.
I’m not one of those people who fawns over little kids. Mostly, I find them sticky. Even when Iwasa kid, I preferred adults. There was no greater point of pride than when a grown-up would compliment my behavior or conversational skills.
But I’m a bit indignant that no one else is acknowledging the little girl’s performance. Not the retirees, not the little boys whipping a foam football at each other in the shallow end. Not even the other divorced dads make a sound.
This girl isn’t embarrassed to be pretending in front of strangers, which is, frankly, more impressive to me than any feat of physical strength. I, on the other hand, will endure any discomfort, pay any price, not to embarrass myself in front of other people.
God, grant me the confidence of a child who has not yet known the humiliation of a random Tuesday in seventh grade.
So I clap.
The water lion and the ringmaster look up atme.
3
“The water lion is myfavorite animal,” I tell her, removing my headphones. “And that was very accurate.”
“My favorite animals are dragons,” the girl says. “And alicorns. And raccoons.”
She submerges to perform another somersault.
“What’s an alicorn?” I ask when she surfaces again.
“A horse with a unicorn hornandwings.” The girl places her elbows on the edge of the pool. “Like a unicorn mixed with a…” She tilts her head to the side, water dripping from her hair. “I can’t remember what the horses with wings are.”
“Oh, they’re called…” This is my cue. My opening to provide an assist. I’m an adult; I should have this data at the ready in the storage area of my giant grown-up brain.
Fuck, whatisa winged horse?
The term is on the tip of my tongue.
We’re both looking at each other, half sounding out words that begin withpunder our breath.
Suddenly, it comes to me: “Pegasus!”
“No, that’s not it,” the little girl exclaims. She pushes herself up and climbs onto the pool deck. “Can I use your phone to look it up?”
“Uh…” Amazing segue. She takes her shot before I have time to question my command of English vocabulary. “You can’t see my phone because I’m a government agent,” I say. “There’s very sensitive material on here.” This isn’t a lie; there are some nudes recklessly scattered throughout my camera roll that I should hide in a password-protected vault. I’m not prepared for a scenario where a kid would be looking through my phone.
“Okay,” she says with a casual shrug. “Then pretend you’re the horse trainer and I’m a horse.”
“Me?” I glance around in case she’s addressing the potential horse trainer just behind me. “I’m the horse trainer?”
Kids stress me out. I think they can smell my fear.
“You have to stand in the pool because that’s the center of the ring—”
“Oh, I wasn’t planning on getting wet.”
“—and you give the horse commands for different tricks.”
There’s no graceful way to get up from this lounge chair, let alone plunge into the pool, but the girl is standing in front of me, waiting.
