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“That’s a long name,” I try, realizing too late I’ve gone and told something the mortals refer to as ‘a dad joke.’
“And that was a bad joke.” Lucy shakes her head, her tone matter-of-fact but mostly disgusted. She shakes herself off as if I’ve doused her in a coat of baby powder.
My little one’s observation is ruthless, her execution a double-edged sword. My parental pride eases the pressure rising in my chest a little. I don’t need her stating the obvious right now, so I want to call what I’m feeling embarrassment. Though it warrants a stronger word. Shame maybe. Shame and a sliver of comfort.
“Fair,” I reply, stepping closer despite wanting to dash out of the room.
What’s making this so difficult? I’m normally good at flicking away petty sensations. Caring for what others think is a Topside fault. At least, I thought it was until now. Maybe there’s a price to pay for living among them as openly as I have.
“I assume I can trust you not to tell Felicity,” she says, hopping onto the trampoline.
“How you choose to hurt yourself is up to you,” I reply, wondering if I can make this apology less painful. Quick, too, with any luck. “I’m assuming you have questions for me.”
It’s not an apology, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I watch her bounce from her trampoline to her bed, then nod in my direction. “The world’s richest dad and poorest husband.”
The words don’t sound like hers.
“Those sound like Felicity’s words.” My voice is more gravelly than I wanted it to be. Preferably, I would have said the words evenly.
“Beatrice and Lashandi,” Felicity answers, gesturing to two of the new Sketch Pets I’d purchased. She waves to the tiger and octopus from their spot in the corner of the room. “We were watching one of those stupid love movies and a character said it.”
“Did they explain the meaning?” I ask, letting Lucy hop from the bed back to the trampoline, then to the bed again, before falling into the pile with a grunt.
She shakes herself off and adjusts her mountain of clothes. I fight the urge to grab her pillow and tell her to fortify better. Fluffy shirts, dresses, and jeans are only going to do so much. I nod my approval as she grabs her pillows and lays them around the base of her jumping stack.
“They say you’re poor because you’re not rich in brownie points like the husband who earned a bunch in the movie we watched.” She tests out her new mount, leaping from her trampoline straight into its center. She lands gracefully for a kid with her eyes closed. “You can’t eat them or nothing,” she continues.
I note she’s not yet out of breath and decide the less Felicity knows about our daughter’s pretend games, the better. Her mother will thank me when she’s capable of outrunning her enemies. While my goal is to show Lucy that brains and brawn are both excellent skills, relying on one makes you stupid.
“Are there dad brownie points?” I ask. Being told I’m a bad husband isn’t something I thought would come up in our discussion, so it takes a lot of focus to keep my face from falling.
She stops before hopping from her pile up to the bed, shooting me a serious look from the corner of her eye. “You don’t want to know. It might make you feel like a loser.”
These are typically fighting words. But what can I do when I agree with them? I cross my arms and wait for her to continue. She gives me a shrug, one that says, ‘It’s not personal or nothing.’
“I used to think you were smarter than I think you might be now,” she continues.
I step back and wonder whether I should just blurt out an ‘I’m sorry’ and tell her about the ferret. An easy, effortless way out, but one I think I might regret later.
“Because I manipulated you,” I try, mentioning the day at the orphanage.
“Oh, that? No.” She jumps from her bed to the trampoline, then leaps into the laundry, landing on her knees and skidding into the pillows. “Me helping you helps me.” She climbs to her feet, and then stops me from interrupting with an outstretched hand. “But you not helping Felicity doesn’t help me at all. And honestly, I don’t know how you think that helps you. Don’t you like her?”
“Yes.” It doesn’t feel nearly as bad to admit as I thought.
“Leopold,” Lucy says, pointing past me to the snake Sketch Pet in the same corner as the rest of her collection. “You owe Fancy Tom Carl an ice cream.” She points to a whale Sketch Pet in a top hat and monocle, covered in flower doodles and tea cups, next to Beatrice. “Fancy Carl didn’t think you did,” she explains.
“Fancy Carl is entitled to his opinions,” I try.
Obviously, Lucy’s been using her pets to internalize her own opinions. A genius move, really. Creative and useful.
“And I just have to agree with him,” she says. “When you tell lies, people don’t like you that much. You should be nicer to Greiko. Because you like him, too. Even though you don’t show it.”
I don’t know why, but I tell her about Greiko’s deception. A dumbed-down version but still.
“If I were you, I’d never do that again,” she offers. “Like if you ever have a real friend.”
I nod and accept my punishment as she explains how Greiko is the coolest ever, since he was the only adult at my birthdayparty who would watch her bad magic and tell her the truth about it.
