Page 120 of What You Wish For

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 tolean into 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 room.

Which helped a lot.

Once I’d started, I’d done the hardest part.

Now all I had to do was keep going.

The music helped. Itwasirresistible.

This was working. I was doing it. Success gave way to more success. I shook my booty a little. Then I spun around. Then I stretched my arms out. Bravely. Defiantly. Even though Duncan couldn’t see me, I knew he could feel me.

So I just did it. Anything that popped into my head, I made myself do.

The easier it got, the easier it got—and before I knew it, I’d opened my eyes.

It was an accident at first. I’d just forgotten to keep them closed. But when I saw all the faces in the room, I realized I didn’t need to keep them closed. The crowd wasn’t cringing, or looking on in horror—which was the usual vibe when a crowd was staring at me. They were smiling. They were rooting me on. They were shaking their own booties, too.

When the lyrics began, I sang along—even though I didn’t know all the words.

I started doing a kind of Charleston, stepping forward, then back, then forward again—close enough to Duncan that he could feel my presence.

At one point, I got so close, Duncan couldn’t resist opening his eyes to look.

The second he did, I crooked my finger at him, likeCome to the dance floor.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m dancing.”

“You said you never dance!”

“It’s a moment of personal growth.”

He squinted and shook his head, but he kept watching me.

Once he was watching, I got sillier. I put a big theatrical smile on my face, likeSee, buddy? Doesn’t this look fun?I added some jazz hands. Then I shifted into the robot. Then I did some “King Tut” moves. Before I knew it, I was flapping my elbows like chicken wings.

That’s when Duncan broke a little. “Oh, God. Tell me that’s not the Funky Chicken.”

“Well,” I said, waggling my wings at him. “It’s a chicken. And it’s clearly funky. So I think we all know what’s happening here.”

“Stop flapping.”

“Make me.”

He frowned and recommitted to holding still.

“Resistance is futile,” I said. “They did a whole study on it. The science doesn’t lie. Just give in.”

I shifted into a kind of salsa thing where I was also spinning an imaginary lasso above my head.

“Why be miserable?” I cajoled. “You’ve got all night to be miserable. Give yourself five minutes to feel good.”

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