what I was going to do next.
What was I going to do next?
I hesitated.
And then I remembered something Max used to say. Do something joyful.
And so I just knew. We were doing this. He didn’t want to, and I sure as hell didn’t want to, but we were doing it anyway.
I looked over at Mrs. Kline, and I gave her a little nod.
Then I said, “Well, if it’s really been a long time, I bet you miss it.”
Duncan blinked.
“I can’t make you dance with me,” I said. “But I’m kind of hoping I can tempt you.”
Duncan shook his head.
“I bet that you can’t resist whatever Babette’s got queued up.”
Duncan shook his head. “I can resist anything. I resist things every day. I am a world-champion resister.”
I raised my eyebrows, like Touché. “So this is a very low-risk proposition for you.”
I could sense his competitive spirit rising. “It’s not low risk, it’s no risk.”
“You don’t know what the song is yet. Maybe it’s irresistible.” I didn’t know, either, but he didn’t know that.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I won’t.”
“Worry about yourself.”
Actually, I should have been worrying about myself. Because I’d just chosen a path that I’d have no choice but to dance my way out of.
Not good. At all.
But this was happening.
“Hey!” I shouted then to the room, before Duncan could stop me. The few teachers in the room who weren’t already watching us looked over. “Principal Carpenter thinks he can resist an irresistible song!” I pointed at him exaggeratedly. “And so I dare him not to dance!”
The room cheered me on.
I glanced over at Duncan. Was he hating this? Or kind of liking it?
Little bit of both, maybe.
Kind of like me.
His face was stern, but his eyes had a challenge-accepted look. “Get ready for disappointment,” he said.
“Get ready to dance,” I said right back.
“Mrs. Kline,” I said, “will you please do the honors?”
Mrs. Kline gave an efficient nod and hit play.
Just percussion at first, a kind of slinky, syncopated, almost tropical sound. The kind of rhythm that just takes hold of your hips and starts swinging them for you.
Duncan cocked his head. “Is this George Michael?”
I pointed at him. “Good ear.”
Then came deep, chunky piano chords underneath. Big. Loud. Filling up the room. The sound system definitely worked.
Duncan looked around for Babette and found her watching from over by the butterflies. “You could pick any song in the world, and you picked ‘Freedom! ’90’?”
“Alice picked it, actually,” she said, pointing at Alice, who waved. “She read an article that said it’s the best dance song in the world. Mathematically.”
Duncan snorted.
“According to Alice, it’s neurologically irresistible.”
Duncan looked back at me, like You minx. Then he spread his feet shoulder width and closed his eyes.
He thought he could resist music by closing his eyes?
Oh, I had this thing won.
The teachers were all watching to see what was going to happen.
It was time to make this work.
The best thing I could possibly do to get Duncan dancing was to do it myself. Dancing was contagious. But that familiar hitch at the thought—that deer-in-the-headlights compulsion to stand very still—had me paralyzed.
I needed to give myself a pep talk, I decided. A good one.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t dance, I reminded myself. I loved to dance. I just didn’t like people to watch me.
But that’s the thing about joy. You don’t have to wait for it to happen. You can make it happen.
And doing this for Duncan? Getting him to have fun? Reminding him of this essential, forgotten part of himself? It would be worth it.
As Duncan stood there, stiff as a board with his hands and eyes squeezed tightly closed, I forced myself to give in to the tug of the song. I had to trick myself into it. I bargained with myself: just do the arms. It’s not really dancing until the booty gets involved.
So I lifted my arms and started moving them around to the rhythm.
Did I look ridiculous?
Oh, for sure.
But as Duncan squeezed his eyes tighter, the urge to win did battle with the urge to hide—and started to get the upper hand.
Once the arms were going, the feet wanted to follow.
All I had to do was let them.
Well, that—and force myself to ignore the part of my brain that really, desperately didn’t want to look ridiculous. In fact, I had to lean in to looking ridiculous. Duncan had said it, himself: that’s part of the joy.
So I closed my eyes, too—and tried to pretend like I was just home in my living