I don’t want to throw up inside my costume or take off my plush head in view of the backyard birthday party guests, so as soon as the music stops, I quit dancing to The Wiggles’ greatest hits and stumble through a confusion of azaleas to get to the front lawn. I am on my knees when I finish, head bent over sweaty spirals of stinky hair that nearly reach the burnt blades of manicured grass, and I look up to find a little girl of about seven staring at me through a curtain of very long dark bangs. You have curls, she says, and I feel bad because it’s a sacred part of the gig to maintain the illusion I’ve just broken. The girl is holding a plastic cup in one hand and with the other she swipes at her forehead and I can see her eyes now, large and apocalyptic. I’m sorry, I tell her. I wish you were my mother, she says and I can’t think of how to respond to this, so I get to my feet and wipe my face with a furry green wrist. The girl hands me her cup, and I say thanks and mime putting a hand over my heart. It’s Mom’s, she whispers, and I ask her won’t she miss it, and she shakes her head. I take a sip of the purple liquid she’s given me and it’s something like half vodka, and I try not to react as I swallow it. She reaches for the cup and covers the top with her other hand and runs back to the party without spilling a drop, her knobby knees drawn towards each other like magnets, each steady stride a strike against the strikes against her. She’s going to crush the odds, I think, and I go to find her mother and her car keys.