The party is in the morning. I arrive early at the venue, ensure it’s clean, the bathroom stocked with toilet paper. I arrange the tables, decorate the cake with a wicked witch flying on her broom, black cat as passenger. I blow up the balloons – helium is not allowed, not to disturb the fire alarm. I’ve bought little frozen croissants. I put them in the oven so I can serve them warm and give the impression of freshness. My partner calls, says they’re half-way to the venue, but they forgot the wand. I tell them not to worry, to pick up a stick on the way. When they arrive, my son has in his hand a very long tree branch which he struggles to hold up. He’s trying to cast a spell on his little sister, who is dressed as a pizza, even though I did leave her Elsa costume out. My son is turning five. He chose to be a dark wizard for his birthday party. Pointy hat, plastic broom, crooked nose. Miniature tree as a wand. My son loves all things Halloween and space and asphalt painting. When I ask him what he wants to be when he grows up, he says he wants to be a corrupt cop, an astronaut and a tarmac painter. All in one. He doesn’t say it like that, of course. He says, he wants to be a baddie police officer. He says, he wants to fly into space with hot paint and never get caught. I convince him to leave the tree outside. He’ll need his hands to play and eat cake. He accepts but asks me to pinkie-promise that we’ll take the wand home once the party is over. I hook my pinkie on his and cross the fingers of my other hand behind my back. The children start to arrive. I greet them with a tray of fresh croissants. The parents comment on the delicious smell. I smile and nod in agreement. In-between baking pastries and checking there’s enough coffee and hot water in the dispenser, I don’t realise the entertainer hasn’t arrived. He texts me saying he’ll arrive in five minutes. He apologises for being late. Another fifteen minutes go by and I call him. He says there are road closures and he can’t get through without a permit. He’s about a hundred metres from the venue, but he can’t park where he is because he also needs a permit for that. I walk out of the party carrying my two-year-old pizza who has a half-eaten croissant in her hand. A part of me fears the entertainer is lying. He’s not near. But I do finally see the clown standing by his car in front of the traffic sign that indicates he can’t go through unless he’s a resident. He’s removed his red nose. There are tears in his eyes which brings me some measure of satisfaction. He should have checked his route the day before. I tell myself I cannot lash out at this person; he’s about to entertain my son and his friends. I tell him to go through, I’ll pay the fine. I don’t know how much the fine is. But whatever it is, I can’t afford it. I’ve already gone into overdraft to buy the cake, the balloons, the little croissants. He gets back into his car confused, scratching at the white spandex that covers his head. It’s clear he hadn’t realised breaking the rules was an option. He drives five metres, stops and waves so that I get in the car. He’s put his red nose back on. I get in the front seat with my pizza toddler and her pale croissant, and I realise the pastry in her hand is still frozen. We drive the hundred or so metres to the venue in awkward silence. When my daughter and I get out of the car, the entertainer says he’s okay, he can carry his party tricks by himself. He lugs two blue IKEA bags into the party area. The red around his mouth is melting down his neck. He wipes it on his polka dotted sleeve and my daughter starts to cry. I tell her, it’s okay. Look, it’s paint, not blood. She screams now. And I don’t want to pay the fine anymore. I look at my partner who’s slugging a beer, chatting to one of the parents, a croissant in the other hand. Who’s brought beer? I look around. There are many croissants in many hands. I feel relieved. The children gather around the clown. Some try to pull at his curly red hair. He says, in a rather un-clownish voice, that his hair is not for pulling. It turns out the clown isn’t very funny. The children don’t seem to relate to his jokes and his magic tricks can’t deceive even my two-year-old. Most children eventually give up on him and ask me when we’re going to cut the cake. I give them more croissants fresh out of the oven. I look at my son, one of the few still seemingly amused by the clown. When the entertainment is finally over, we light the candles and sing two versions of the Happy Birthday song. The standard one, and another about the birthday boy putting his head in the loo which rhymes with you and makes the children laugh and the parents look at one another in mild disapproval. The clown is now holding a plunger over my son’s head. And I must admit that even I chuckle at that, even though I wonder where the plunger has come from. My partner takes the kids home and I stay to clear out the venue – there’s another party in the afternoon. I watch them leave through the glass door, and I see my son dragging his wand behind him: my promise kept by my partner. Later, at home, I ask my son if he enjoyed the party. He nods. What was your favourite part? The clown, he says. The clown? I say and I grab one of the leftover croissants. My son nods again and laughs and talks about how funny the clown was, and how everyone loved the clown. I take a bite of the croissant wondering where I was when the clown was being so funny, and I realise the croissant is stale. 

Angélica Pina Lèbre was born in Brazil and has lived in the UK most of her life. Her writing has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine and is forthcoming in Orange Blossom Review and the anthology, Prototype 6. Her work was nominated for Best Small Fictions 2024.