“Roll with it. Sure.”
Chapter Nine
Leo
Never in my life did I expect to be standing, dressed as a unicorn, in a museum full of taxidermy, about to be publicly humiliated for the entertainment of strangers.
Parents are holding up cameras to record the proceedings because, apparently, modern parenting requires documenting every moment, including the psychological breakdown of a grown man in hooves.
Luckily, I’m fairly sure no one is going to connect the man inside this fleece monstrosity to the guy whose face is on the NovaCore Wikipedia page. The onesie is essentially a disguise. A humiliating, sparkly disguise.
“Welcome, welcome,welcometo the most magical party in all of London! I’m Captain Giggles, your guide to wonder and amazement!”
Archie grins at the children from his position on a tall stool, his broken ankle resting on a cushioned support that’s been decorated with stars and moons. The yellow tailcoat and crooked bow tie he’s wearing should look absurd. Instead, he looks like he was born to do this. His whole energy has transformed from the dry, witty guy I’ve been living with into something bright and magnetic.
The children cheer. I stand off to the side, sweating in my fleece prison.
“Now, I couldn’t do any of my amazing tricks without my very special helper. He came all the way from the Rainbow Mountains to be here today!”
I did not agree to a backstory.
“He’s a little bit shy, so we need to give him a big, loud welcome,” Archie continues. “Can you do that for me?”
“Yes!”
“Can you do itlouder?”
“YES!”
I feel my stomach drop. Archie turns toward me with a grin that promises nothing good.
“Say hi to my assistant, Sparkle McHornface.”
Sparkle McHornface? You’ve got to be kidding me.
The kids try to follow Archie’s instructions, and the name comes out as fifteen different variations. Sparkle McMuffin. Sparkle Corn Face. Sprinkle McHorseFace. One child just yells “Unicorn!” at maximum volume, apparently deciding the name is too complicated to bother with.
Then the questions start.
“Why is he pink?”
“Can he fly?”
“My mum says unicorns aren’t real.”
“Does he poop rainbows?”
That last one comes from a boy who looks far too pleased with himself. His mother, standing beside him, mouths “Sorry” at me. I attempt to convey through eye contact alone that no apology will ever be sufficient.
“Sparkle McHornface will answer all your questions later,” Archie says smoothly. “But first, he’s going to help you get into the party mood by doing the Chicken Dance! Now, Sparkle is avery good dancer, so watch him closely and copy everything he does. Ready, Sparkle?”
I am not ready. I will never be ready.
The music starts anyway. I begin moving my arms in the universally recognized chicken-flapping motion.
I’m a unicorn doing the Chicken Dance. No one warned me that guilt came with cross-species choreography requirements.
I start stiffly, arms moving in what probably looks like a malfunctioning robot attempting poultry mimicry.
