“Unicorns don’t walk, Leo. It’s not majestic enough.” I gesture at his hooves. “Little bouncy steps. Occasional head tosses to make your mane flow. Maybe a canter if you’re feeling ambitious.”
“I’m definitely not feeling ambitious.”
“Well, we’ll work up to that. Second, when I introduce you, you need to whinny.”
The silence that follows is profound.
“Whinny,” he repeats finally.
“It’s an authentic unicorn greeting. Like this.” I demonstrate, and it comes out somewhere between a horse and a dying kazoo. “But, you know, better.”
“I’m not making that sound.”
“The children will expect it. You can’t disappoint the children, Leo. If you don’t want to whinny, you could maybe attempt a neigh? Whatever feels authentic to your unicorn journey.”
His jaw tightens. I can actually see him weighing his guilt against his dignity in real time.
For a second, I almost feel bad about it.
But then my ankle throbs, right on cue, and I remember I didn’t break my own leg. Leo Brennan chose to pour syrup on my head. He just picked the wrong head.
“Fine,” Leo grits out. “What else?”
“When I do a call and response with the kids, you have to participate. With enthusiasm.”
“What call and response?”
“I’ll shout ‘Who believes in magic?’ and they shout ‘We do!’ and then I point at you and you say…” I pause for effect. “‘I’m the proof!’”
Leo pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s warding off a headache. It’s a gesture I suspect he’ll be making a lot over the coming weeks.
“That’s nonnegotiable,” I add. “It’s in my standard routine.”
“Your standard routine involves someone saying ‘I’m the proof’ while dressed as a unicorn?”
“Usually, it’s a child volunteer. But you’ll bring a certain gravitas to the role.”
He blows out a breath. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“One more thing. After the call and response, I need you to do a little hop and blow a kiss to the audience.”
“No.”
“It’s a signature Sparkle move?—”
“No.”
There’s something different about this refusal. His other objections had negotiation potential. This one has the energy of a door being bolted, chained, and bricked over.
Blowing kisses at the audience is apparently Leo’s hard line.
I know when to fold. Occasionally.
“Fine. No hop and blow. But you’re still doing everything else.”
“Noted,” he says dryly.
“You’re my legs today, Leo. My sparkly, prancing, unicorn legs.” I smile beatifically at him. “But the whole underlying philosophy is just to play along and roll with anything, okay?”
