“Leo.” Archie’s voice pulls me back. “Are you going to stand there brooding in your space suit, or are you going to help me inflate Jupiter?”
“Jupiter’s mostly hydrogen and helium. Technically, it inflated itself four point six billion years ago.”
Archie pauses to stare at me. “Did you just make an astronomy joke?”
“I made a factual observation.”
“You made an astronomy joke. Sergeant Twinkle is developing a personality. I’m so proud.” He presses a hand to his chest. “They grow up so fast.”
“I haven’t grown. I’ve been coerced.”
“Coerced into making an astronomy joke. Yes, that’s definitely how coercion works. You were held at balloon sword point.”
“I’m simply stating that Jupiter’s composition is common knowledge.”
“It’s common knowledge that you just deployed for comedic timing. That’s growth, Leo. You’re wearing a glitter helmet, and you made a joke about gas giants. I’ve been a wonderful influence on you. Accept it.”
“I’m not accepting anything.”
“Your mouth is doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where it’s trying not to smile. Which means you know it’s funny, but you’re just being stubborn.”
He’s right. My mouth is doing that thing. It’s a tic that I’ve developed around Archie.
Luckily, the first children start to arrive, saving me from having to reply.
Archie introduces me as “the bravest astronaut in the whole galaxy, who once saved a planet made entirely of cheese from an asteroid, and who is definitely not scared of anything, especially not the Space Dance.”
Of course there’s going to be a Space Dance.
It’s the Macarena, but Archie has renamed all the moves to space terminology. “Activate your thrusters!” means hands on hips. “Deploy the satellite!” means jazz hands. “Engage hyperdrive!” means spin around, which in my inflatable suit means wobble dangerously and pray.
The kids lose their minds.
“Sergeant Twinkle, show us your moonwalk!” Archie commands.
I moonwalk. Or I attempt to, which in the astronaut suit looks less like Michael Jackson and more like a man trying to walk backward through wet cement.
A boy in the front row shrieks with laughter. “He’sso badat it!”
“He’s not bad,” Archie corrects gently. “Gravity works differently in space. Sergeant Twinkle is actually an incredible dancer on his home planet.”
“What’s his home planet?” a child asks.
“Planet Grump,” Archie says without hesitation. “It’s a very serious place. No laughing allowed. That’s why he came to Earth. To learn how to have fun.”
The children accept this origin story without question.
“Is he learning?” the boy asks.
Archie looks at me. There’s a flicker of something underneath the performer smile. Something real and warm and just for me. “Yeah,” he says. “I think he is.”
During the magic show, I hand Archie his props and watch him work.
I’ve watched Archie do this enough times now to understand how skilled he actually is. He can read a room full of children better than I can read quarterly earnings reports. He knows when to ramp up energy and when to bring it down. He can spot the shy kid at the back and draw them in without making them feel singled out. He can defuse a meltdown with a well-timed joke and a balloon sword.
