1
LUCIE
Jerome, my ex, is wearing a yellow wig and a clown nose. He starts the music, and on his signal, I open the big box and release a bunch of colorful balloons onto a gaggle of six-year-olds.
They squeal with delight, running around the festive room, decorated with custom banners, flags and garlands.
In case you were wondering why I’m here with the man who fired and dumped me two days ago, then you’re not alone. I’m wondering, too.
Over the three years of organizing children’s parties with Jerome, I’ve learned that the thing about balloons that fascinates the rug rats isn’t their defiance of gravity. Once the balloons are in the room, stuck to the ceiling like magical flies with long shiny tails, the kiddies lose interest. What they love is having a balloon thrown at them so they can try to catch the wayward thing or tap it and pass it on to the next garden gnome.
The birthday girl, Anette, was involved in every step of the planning process, as is Jerome’s MO. He treated her like a grown-up, running ideas by her and asking for hergreen light. How can somebody who’s such a jerk with adults be so thoughtful with kids? I hate the man, vehemently and irreversibly, but I must admit he has a knack for making children happy.
Dressed in a pink bunny suit, I climb on a chair and start my juggling number.
Within seconds, a small crowd has gathered around me, cheering and clapping. My hands move in a turbo blur, tossing and catching five red beanbag balls. I’m pretty good at this, considering that I learned the skill on the job.
It wasn’t hard as great manual agility runs in my family. It’s a big part of why Mom is one of the best fan makers and period fan restorers in France.
When I’m done, Jerome announces that it is story time. He sits down on a floor cushion in the middle of the room. The kids gather around him in a circle and listen with enchantment to his original fairy tale called “The Punk Princess.”
While he’s at it, I prepare for the magic tricks.
Thing is, I hate letting people down. As for letting down a kid, the very thought repulses me.
After our epic row and my termination, Jerome found himself in a predicament for today’s event. He didn’t have time to hire someone new, and his only other employee who could step in was unavailable. So, he worked up the nerve and called me.
While I relished the idea of angry parents assailing him and demanding refunds, it turned out I didn’t have it in me to ruin a six-year-old’s birthday party. I agreed on the condition that Jerome apologizes to Natasha, our office manager, for the horrible things he’d said to her. Things that had led to the heated argument between us, which led to Jerome losing it, which led to me losing my job. And my boyfriend.
He refused to take back that she’s a grifter but promised to apologize to Natasha for his tone.
And voilà.That’s why I’m here today.
Let it go, I tell myself as I fetch a fishbowl with alcohol-free punch from the kitchen. Karma is a bitch. He’ll get his just deserts sooner or later.
Two hours of magic tricks, singing, dancing, games, face painting and a puppet show later, we wrap up.
I can tell the kids had a blast. Their parents had fun watching them having a blast. Those among them still in touch with their inner child enjoyed our activities as much as their offspring did.
One of the parents says, “Thank you so much! This was fun!”
“It was our pleasure,” I say.
“Would it be possible to take one of the half-used painting kits home?”
“Absolutely.”
On my right, Jerome claps to draw everyone’s attention. “You can keep the banners, balloons, magic hats, and painting kits.”
People rush to the items he mentioned.
Jerome leans toward me, murmuring, “And you can take home the beanbag balls as a souvenir.”
The gall of him!
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say, half aware my voice isn’t as low as it should be. “You can keep your shabby balls, Jerome. I deserve better.”
The parents within earshot look away and smother their giggles.
