Page 89 of Little Miss Fortune

Will I need to jump in the water?

‘I’ve seen what you wear to the club. This is a family event. Don’t want to fight some 6-year-olds to lower their gaze. I kid. I knew we were going to be outside. I assume the bug issue might be worse for you if they are right on your skin.’

‘Wow, a knight in shining armour,’ I lilt out. ‘So are you telling me I could’ve worn something cuter?’

‘What do you mean? You look plenty cute.’

The rubber ducks aren’t the only ones racing, seems like my heart is joining in too.

‘Are we betting on duckies?’ I ask, trying to distract from my blushing face.

‘We are so racing.’

‘What?’

‘C’mon. This is going to be so fun. We can make a bet like you suggested.’

‘Like what? Loser pays for dinner?’

‘Loser cooks dinner.’

‘What if I can’t cook?’

‘What if you don’t lose?’

His gaze is so piercing, that it feels as if he can see through my skin, through the cogs that are ticking in my head. He is not saying that he sees that I am in a slightly off mood, but his encouraging motherly tone suggests that he did actually pick up on my quietness. Which sucks, because that means I am not as good at hiding things as I wish to be.

‘Fine.’ I muster up the courage and go to put my name down and select the duck for race number four.

They are planning for sixty races today. Ambitious.

Ten ducks are lined in a row with a stick by a man with extremely long wellies. The river will take the rubber down the stream, where two volunteers are going to catch the ducks after they cross the finish line, about 20 m away.

On your marks, get set, go. The ducks are released and taken away by the stream. Toby’s red duck is a runner. The other ducks (yellow, pink, green, and red) belong to the children and are lagging. My blue one is speeding ahead. I can really win this—only 10 m left.

‘C’mon, blue duckie!’ I scream and hear Toby wheezing with laughter.

The finish line is so close, you can almost smell it. You can almost taste it. You can almost—

What the actual fuck?

A fat-bellied heron drops down from the sky and picks up the blue duck. My blue duck. It lifts back up, toy in its beak. It drops my duck-shaped racehorse on the grassy ground, probably realising that it’s not edible.

The audience roars in shock. Laughter breaks loose from all corners. They have never seen anything like this, the parents tell their children. Toby’s duck is proclaimed winner.

‘This is unheard of, Fuko,’ he whispers to me in awe, the last stage of a hysterical giggle.

My face is in my hands, as I crouch away from people. I don’t move, as I do not know what to do to process what I just witnessed. I was so close to winning, but nature itself intervened.

‘I need a moment,’ I say quietly and walk towards the park’s cafe.

The bathroom smells damp. I don’t even need to use it. I just sit on the toilet without pulling my trousers down. It’s not that I am upset about the silly duck race—that would be childish. But I am... something. I guess I just really wanted to impress Toby.

The water runs over my hands, even though I didn’t need to wash them, but I don’t want other people to think that I’m a gross and unhygienic individual.

When I walk out back into the light, Toby is talking to the people in the coffee shop. All of them: the staff, the old ladies, the families are talking to him as if he is an old friend. Moments before, neither of them probably uttered a single word to each other, but now there is a discussion about the children’s program, old ice cream flavours that went out of fashion, and what they are going to do with the building that used to be a popular pizza chain about a week ago.

Toby hands me a coffee, and we sit down in the courtyard.