Every part of me is resisting this. Not because it’s silly, but because holding on to my dignity has always been important to me.
Growing up, I was the kid who was embarrassed every single day. By the mother who forgot to pick me up. By the lunch I didn’t have. By the birthday parties I couldn’t attend because I had no gift to give or a way to get there.
Poverty has a smell, a look, a weight, and everyone can see it even when you try your hardest to hide. I was nine years old, telling my sister that peanut butter on crackers was a “special treat” so she wouldn’t realize it was all we had.
When you grow up without much dignity, it becomes something you guard fiercely.
But then a funny thing happens in front of me. A little boy with a gap-toothed smile starts copying me with a look of pure concentration. Then a girl flaps so hard she falls down, pops back up, and keeps going without missing a beat.
Even though I’m doing one of the worst chicken dances ever performed, these kids don’t care.
They don’t care if I look stupid. They don’t care about my reputation, my consulting fees, or whether I can hold my own in a boardroom. They just want to have fun.
Fun was something I never had much of as a child. But I can make sure that it’s not the same for these kids.
And let’s face it, my dignity ship has well and truly sailed.
If I’m going to humiliate myself, I might as well do it properly and make sure the children enjoy themselves.
I’m going to be the best damn chicken-dancing unicorn these kids have ever seen.
So I flap with purpose, I wiggle with intent, and the children collectively lose their minds.
I catch Archie watching me with raised eyebrows, so I add a little spin that makes my rainbow mane fly out.
His eyebrows climb higher.
“Well, well,” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear over the music. “Sparkle’s got moves.”
The warmth spreading through my chest is only due to the exertion from the dancing. I’m sure of it.
The song ends, and I’m sweating in places I didn’t know could sweat.
A little girl in the front row beams at me. “You’re funny,” she says.
Funny. I’ve been called a lot of things in my career. Competent. Driven. Intimidating. Never funny.
But from the look of wonder on the girl’s face, it feels like one of the biggest compliments I’ve ever received.
I glance over at Archie without meaning to. He’s watching me, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite name. Not mockery. Something softer.
When our eyes meet, he gives me a small smile, private and warm, before slipping back into performer mode.
“Okay, party people!” He claps his hands twice, and somehow every child in the room snaps to attention. “Sparkle McHornface did such an amazing job getting us warmed up, didn’t he?”
The children cheer. Someone yells “Sparkle!” at a volume that should be illegal.
“Sparkle has officially worn himself out with all that amazing dancing, so now it’s time for him to rest his hooves while I show you something incredible.” He stage-whispers to the children. “He’s very old for a unicorn. Like, ancient.”
“I’m thirty,” I say flatly.
“See? Ancient.” Archie shakes his head sadly. “It’s a miracle he can still trot.”
The children giggle. I roll my eyes, but I’m fighting a smile.
“Now it’s time for the really magical part of our show.” Archie’s voice drops to a theatrical whisper, and every child leans forward instinctively. “Who wants to see somemagic?”
The response is deafening.
