Not a Unicorn

by Dana Middleton

  Sincerely,

  Jewel Conrad

  School drags like a snail across my day. I keep picturing my mom’s sad but firm face as she tells me no. It plays over and over again. I’ve been able to check my email twice, but nothing back from Dr. Stein.

  Why did he call her? How did he even get her number? I would have had to get her permission at some point, but it wasn’t supposed to be yet. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  By French class, my mind is so spun that I hardly hear when Monsieur Oliver calls my name. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I thought we’d start with your essay, Jewel,” he says.

  “Start how?”

  Monsieur Oliver grins. “Alors, will you come up and read your essay to the class, s’il vous plaît?”

  My mouth goes Sahara Desert dry, and I can’t move. What is he thinking? I sit in the back of the class for one reason—not be seen. And now—

  “Jewel?” he says, and everyone turns. Josh Martin, Ethan, Brooklyn . . . I stall until all the stares break me down. Slowly, I rise from my desk and channel a glacier as I step as slowly as possible up the aisle. Please, please, don’t make me do this! I’m screaming silently at him with my eyes.

  Unfortunately, Monsieur Oliver is a terrible mind reader, because instead of sending me back to my desk and apologizing for the inconvenience, he hands me my essay and gestures for me to turn around and face the class. “All right, little French fries,” he says, holding up his hands. “Écoutez.”

  As they quiet down, he whispers to me, “You can do this.”

  He steps away, and there I am, alone. Monsieur Oliver gives me an encouraging nod, and I take a deep breath and—honestly, I picture myself fleeing the room.

  But I don’t do that. Fleeing, screaming unicorn girl would be even more embarrassing than terrified, regular unicorn girl. So, slowly, I turn and face all those eyeballs. Staring at me. Staring at my horn.

  Clearing my throat, I hold up my essay and begin. In French, I mumble: “I am a girl with a horn on her head. In case you didn’t notice.” I glance up. That was supposed to be funny, but no one is laughing. I clear my throat again and try to speak louder. “Some kids call me the unicorn girl. And I understand why. But see, I’m not a unicorn. I’m a girl. I’m just like other girls. Most people don’t see that.”

  No one’s reacting. Okay . . . now I’m starting to wonder whose French is even good enough to understand me. I mean, Josh can understand me. Maybe Brooklyn. But is it possible that, to the ears of most of my peers, all I’m saying is gibberish?

  Still, I’ve never talked about my horn in front of people before, in any language. I’ve never told other kids what it’s like to be me. It feels weird. Uncomfortable.

  But as I somehow string the words together, I start to feel something else swelling inside me. These words, hidden in another language, are the most truthful ones I have ever spoken. The more I say, the more urgent it feels. My voice becomes stronger. By the end of the first page, I’m feeling it. I’m feeling that what I am saying is important.

  It’s an unfamiliar taste, this confidence on my tongue. When I look up, I’m feeling hopeful, somehow connected to these kids I’ve never bonded with before. My eyes are expectant. So is my heart.

  But when my eyes fall on Brooklyn, my insecurities return. She’s watching me, hands tucked under her chin, as still as porcelain. Is she really interested in what I’m saying or is she staring at the freak show that is me?

  Deterred, I glance at Monsieur Oliver. He gives me his trademark encouraging smile, and I plug along.

  My voice warbles through the next few pages, somewhat diminished. The swell inside me contracts, and by the time I reach the last few lines, I’m speaking so softly that I’m practically reading to myself: “There are moments when I forget about this horn and live in the dream of who I really am. In those moments, I can see myself clearly. And so I long for the day when I don’t have this horn anymore, when everyone else will see me clearly, too.”

  I look up, and I’m met with silence. Do they know it’s over? “C’était magnifique, Jewel,” Monsieur Oliver says, beaming. “Merci, merci, for sharing ton histoire with us.”

  I hurry back to my desk, and Monsieur calls on Brooklyn to read her essay. As she strides to the front of the class, I sit down self-consciously.

  Mystic leans across the aisle and whispers, “That was great! I hardly understood a word, but you were awesome.”

  I shake my head, mortified, as Brooklyn faces the class, smiling naturally. She doesn’t clear her throat, or shuffle back and forth awkwardly. She reads her essay clearly, and everyone pays attention. Every eye is on Brooklyn, in a good way. Her pronunciation is decent. Her story is passable. But it’s her confidence that hypnotizes. Everyone wants to hear what comes out of Brooklyn’s mouth.

  Suddenly I’m wading deep in the swamp waters of post-speech shame. There was a moment when I was thinking . . . maybe. Maybe I could compete at the regional competition. Maybe I could stand on that stage in front of judges and strangers.

  But now I realize what a mistake that would be. I can’t be up there in front of all those people looking like this.

  When the bell rings, Monsieur Oliver asks me to stay behind, so I wait by my desk, feeling embarrassed, and a little betrayed.

  After everyone else leaves, he leans against the desk in front of mine. “Alors,” he says, his eyes shining. “How was it? I wanted you to see that you could do it.”

  I struggle not to roll my eyes. “It was a disaster. Didn’t you see that?”

  “Not true at all. You were on a roll, Jewel. I’m sure you felt it,” he says. “I know it took a little time for you to get going, but there was . . . un moment. A moment, vraiment. Tu comprends?”

  I look down. “Yeah, but a moment is not enough.”

  He chuckles. “It’s good, Jewel. What you wrote is really good. And with some practice, you’ll be able to present it like un vrai savant.”

  Me? A true scholar? His words reach my heart, and I want to believe him.

  “I’ll help you get ready,” he says. “We have to submit a name and an essay to the Alliance by next week. What do you say?”

  My eyes meet his, and I want to say yes! I want it to be my name and my essay. I want to be the one to do this. But he doesn’t understand. My horn is what everyone sees. I can’t compete with normal kids. There’s no way.

  My mind flashes to this old black-and-white movie that Grandma was watching not long after she moved in with us. It was about people in a freak show. Yes, believe it or not, there was a time when a freak show was a real, actual thing—where people with weird deformities would be on display in front of heartless, gawking strangers. These “freaks” would travel on circus trains from town to town, and every night they’d suffer a new array of strangers’ eyes.

  Grandma had fallen asleep on the couch and didn’t know I’d come in to watch. When she woke up and saw what was happening, she grabbed the remote and shut it off fast, which told me something that I hadn’t truly realized before.

  I was a freak, too.

  The movie made me wonder what my life would have been like in another time. I pictured the unicorn girl standing alongside the lizard man and the bearded lady, enduring the pointing, and the laughing, and the staring. It wouldn’t matter how smart I was, or how well I spoke French. I’d just be one of them.

  How much has changed, really?

  If I didn’t have this horn, I would say yes to Monsieur Oliver right now. But I do have a horn. And the chances of that changing are dwindling by the second. Because even if Dr. Stein changes his mind, I know my mom will never change hers.

  So I take a note from my mom’s playbook. “No,” I say, sad but firm. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do it.”

  Ghosted

  This is the worst day of my life.

  My mom has destroyed my chances with Dr. Stein, which has destroyed my chances with the essay competition. I feel so dumb. Why did I get
my hopes up?

  I didn’t want to go home, so, feeling like an empty shell, I followed Mystic and Nicholas to his house after school. We’re in Nicholas’s den, surrounded by shelves lined with hardcover books; paintings with actual paint on them; black-and-white photos of Nicholas, his parents, and Sarah at different ages; and a saltwater aquarium with a real live Nemo swimming inside.

  Nothing here reflects my life in any way.

  While Nicholas and Mystic play a video game, I open my email one last and final time.

  Still nothing from Dr. Stein. I’ve been ghosted.

  Gloomily, I pick up a copy of Highwaymen that I’ve read before, and try to block out my life.

  The Watering Hole, with its long counter and assortment of wooden tables and chairs, looks like a regular Western saloon, just like the ones you see in movies. And it is—until you look closer and notice the small cabinet with a sign under it that reads BREAK GLASS FOR GRENADE. (Pro tip: there were no grenades in the 1800s.) Or the intricately shaped bottles behind the bar with labels like Dragon’s Blood and Elixir of Sphinx. Or the bird perched at the end of the counter that happens to be a phoenix.

  In the middle of this scene, Esmeralda sits at a table with Wesley and two of his baddies playing poker. That’s Esmeralda’s game, and the fact that she’s willing to sit at a table with Wesley tells me the stakes are high. Her long green-and-black barmaid’s dress is hiked up just enough to reveal the ace of spades tucked into the garter around her left thigh. Spoiler: Esmeralda cheats at cards.

  What I would give to just disappear into Hot Springs and stay there forever.

  “Shoot!” cries Nicholas.

  “Nice one,” Mystic says, her eyes glued to the screen where Nicholas’s guy must have bitten it. She dumps her controller onto the couch and asks, “What’s wrong, Jewels?”

  I look up from Highwaymen. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been really quiet.”

  “Very unlike you,” adds Nicholas.

  “I told Monsieur Oliver that I’m not doing the French competition.”

  “What!” Mystic says. “But you have to.”

  I drop my head. “I just can’t.”

  “Wait, why not?” asks Nicholas.

  I’m afraid to speak. I’m sure I’ll burst out crying. I feel Mystic’s hand on my shoulder. “Well . . . my mom ruined my chances with Dr. Stein,” I say, looking up at her.

  “What happened?”

  “He called her.”

  “He called her? How?”

  “Who knows? What I do know is I’m not getting this thing taken off any time soon.” As I point to my horn, I spot Carmen standing in the rain outside the window.

  “Huh?” Nicholas says. “What are you talking about?”

  “Jewel found a doctor who could take off her horn.”

  Nicholas turns to me in disbelief.

  “Yeah, this doctor in LA thinks he can do it. I was emailing him pretending to be my mom. But then he called my actual mom and it all went . . .” I make an exploding sound.

  “Oh, crap,” Mystic says.

  “Wait a minute!” Nicholas holds his hands up between us. “Is this for real? Why didn’t you tell me?!”

  “We all know your strange attachment to Jewel’s horn.”

  “I don’t have a strange attachment to—”

  “Anyway.” Mystic turns to me, ignoring him. “Do you think you can change your mom’s mind?”

  “I doubt it.” Saying these words literally feels like a dagger in my heart. “She just doesn’t get it. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be a freak.”

  “You’re not a freak,” Mystic says, forcing a smile.

  I force one back. “And you’re not a good liar.”

  “It’s a pretty horn,” she tries.

  “It’s a horn,” I spit. “None of it matters now. My mom told him no, and he hasn’t written me back since they talked, so . . .” I shake my head. I’m done talking about this. Time to move on.

  Nicholas looks relieved. “Good.”

  Mystic pounces on him. “Nick!”

  “I’m just saying. It’s probably not a good idea.”

  “You sound just like my mom,” I say.

  “Um, I highly doubt we share the same reasoning about this.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “It’s actually serious, okay?” Nicholas looks right into my eyes. “Here’s the deal. If you get your horn taken off . . . really . . . you could die.”

  “Dr. Stein is a specialist. He’s not going to—”

  “I’m not talking about the surgery, Jewel.” He waves a hand, batting my words away.

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  “A unicorn can’t live without its horn.”

  Mystic covers a smile with her hand.

  “It’s not funny, Mystic,” says Nicholas. “It’s true. Am I the only one who knows anything about unicorn mythology around here?”

  “Um, yes,” we say together.

  “I’m being serious!” Nicholas says, now frustrated, too. “It’s a well-known fact that unicorns can’t live without their horns.”

  Carmen whinnies on the other side of the glass. I turn to the window and say, “I’m not a unicorn.”

  “How do you know for sure?” Nicholas says.

  I put my hands to my face. Sometimes I wonder about him.

  “You know who would love your horn?” Nicholas says. “Esmeralda.” It’s just like him to use Highwaymen against me. He knows how I feel about Esmeralda.

  Mystic looks confused, then says, “You mean that lady from the comic book?”

  “Graphic novel,” Nicholas and I say at the same time.

  “It comes out every month?” she says. “Doesn’t that make it a comic book?”

  Nicholas and I look at each other. Mystic has a point. But Nicholas thinks that “graphic novel” sounds more legit than “comic book,” so that’s what we call it. Nicholas blanks the question altogether and turns things back to me. “Plus, without your horn, don’t you think your nose would look big?”

  “Cut it out, Nick.” Mystic throws a sofa pillow his way. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “You’re not really thinking about it, are you?” he asks, now seriously.

  “Of course!” I exclaim. “If my mom would let me, I’d be in LA tomorrow.”

  “Jewel,” Nicholas says, “you’re the only one with a unicorn horn in the whole entire world. You need to keep it.”

  Mystic shakes her head. “Get a grip, Nick.”

  But his words seep into me. What if I am a unicorn? What if I do need my horn? I sneak a glance at Carmen and try to push these thoughts away.

  Carmen is the unicorn. I’m just a girl with a horn.

  One is distinctly magical. One is distinctly not.

  Right?

  At dinner I take the silent treatment to the next level. Okay, so this may not be the most mature thing I’ve ever done, but begging and well-reasoned arguments have gotten me nowhere.

  Mom doles out our plates of chicken fingers, mac and cheese, and broccoli salad, bought with her discount at the Walmart deli. When she starts to cut up Grandma’s chicken, Grandma clucks her tongue. “I can do that.”

  “It’s easier for me,” Mom says, cutting the strips into manageable pieces. Mom’s right, of course. It’s still not easy for Grandma to use her left hand.

  “Angela, please. I’m not a child,” Grandma says, annoyed, but she waits for Mom to finish.

  When Mom sits down, she looks at me deliberately. “Eat.”

  I fold my arms across my chest instead.

  “How was your day?” Grandma asks Mom, trying to lighten the mood.

  “It was fine, Mama. Thank you for asking.”

  Grandma fixes her eyes on me. “Tell me something you got up to today.”

  I’m stuck. I hate ignoring Grandma. But I have to make my point. So of course the mood doesn’t lighten. There’s just more uncomfortable silence.
After about a minute of that, Grandma breaks. “Okay, I can’t take it. Somebody say something.”

  Mom heaves a gigantic sigh. “I don’t know what there is to say right now.”

  Grandma looks at me again. “I hate to say this, darlin’, but you’re being childish.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re punishing your mom, and that’s not fair.”

  Not fair! I make my wide eyes do the talking for me.

  “Not fair,” Grandma repeats, and we go back to eating silently. Mom glances my way, but then looks down at her food.

  This is my last chance. I can feel it. I can either sulk away to my room and be disappointed for the rest of my life, or I can say something. It might not change anything—in fact, I’m pretty sure it won’t—but a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.

  So I clear my throat and stand up. “I understand, Mom.” She looks up at me, either surprised or wincing, it’s hard to tell which. “I’m your daughter, and you don’t want anything bad to happen to me.”

  They’re both looking at me now. I take a breath and plow on. “BUT,” I say. “This is my life. I’m thirteen years old. That may not sound old to you two, but thirteen years living with a horn on your head is a long time. If I don’t try this, how will I ever do the things I want to do? Can you imagine me at the Eiffel Tower looking like this? And I want to see the Eiffel Tower. Up close. In person. I want to ride the elevator to the top and look over the city that I think might be the greatest place in this whole entire world. I don’t just want to imagine it. I want to be there. I want to speak French with real Parisians. I want to eat croissants and see the Mona Lisa. And I want to be in a French competition for my school—and win.” I pause, gathering myself together. “I have tried. I have endured a million stares. But there’s just so much a person can take. So much a girl can miss out on. If I don’t try now, I’m afraid I’ll be disappointed for the rest of my life. I’ll quit expecting anything good. I can already feel that happening.” I search my mom’s eyes. “So, don’t be mad at me if I become that messed-up girl. Because the way I feel, I don’t know who else I can end up becoming.”