But the clock is ticking and I’m the coordinator. When something needs fixing, I fix it. Even if “it” is me stuffing myself into twenty pounds of synthetic fur.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m waddling into the community room, vision limited to a pair of mesh eye holes. I’m already sweating despite the early March chill.
Mayor Barbie’s voice booms through the speakers. “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! The debut of our new official Huckleberry Hill merch, Gus the chickaree!”
I try to wave enthusiastically. The tail swings around and knocks over a display of Fire & Ice Fest merchandise. Keychains scatter across the floor. They’re tiny casualties of my humiliation, a glimpse at my coming failure. Worry weaves through me that not only will I not be able to pull this off, but everything else that’s stitched together with thin thread is going to fall apart.
The crowd erupts in applause and laughter. Kids rush toward me, squealing with delight.
All I have to do is smile, wave, and bounce around. I’ve seen mascots do it plenty of times. Okay, once at a hockey game with my dad and brother, but still. This can’t be that hard.
I got this.
Then, Oreo the Dalmatian sees me.
The station dog, normally chill and friendly, takes one look at the giant squirrel invading his territory and loses his ever-loving mind. His bark is sharp, an aggressive warning that says,Intruder! Threat! Possible monster!
“Oreo, it’s me!” I try to say, but the mascot head muffles everything into what sounds like a cry for help. It very well may be.
The dog is not convinced and might suspect that the giant squirrel ate his favorite Parks & Rec Princess.
He circles me, barking frantically. I try to back away, but the tail throws off my balance. I stumble, windmill my arms, and crash into the hot chocolate station.
Cups topple. Plastic spoons clatter to the floor. Someone screams.
Through the mesh eye holes, Patton pushes through thecrowd, already in his hockey gear. He crouches down by Oreo, calming him, then looks up at me.
Even through my limited vision, I can see him trying not to laugh.
Does he know it’s me inside this suit?
My already fragile nerves and fissured ego cannot handle the man I kissed—though briefly—in the snow to know that I’m wearing this ridiculous costume.
“Need a hand?” His voice is warm with barely suppressed amusement.
Without answering, I attempt to stand. The tail swings again, this time taking out a stack of napkins.
He grips my paw—hand?—and pulls me upright. “I know it’s you in there, Winnie.”
“How can you tell?”
“You make an impression.” He steadies me as the tail threatens to tip me backward.
“The show must go on,” I say in a falsetto.
His laugh is low and kind of cute, if I’m totally honest—or it could just be the restricted air flow to my brain in this suffocating costume is making me imagine things.
He adds, “Try to steer clear of small children.”
“I’ll do my best.” I always try.
As visitors talk about the snow coming down outside, the rest of the mascot’s appearance is a blur of posed photos, high-fives that nearly knock me over, and one terrifying moment where I slip on a patch of melted ice on the way to the rink. Once more, Patton has to catch me before I face-plant in front of hundreds of witnesses.
“Graceful,” he murmurs, arms steadying me.
“The tail has its own center of gravity.”
“Sure. Blame the tail.” He chuckles.
