Page 121 of What You Wish For

“This song is actually six minutes and thirty-four seconds.”

I frowned at him, but I kept dancing. “That’s awfully specific.”

“I used to be a DJ. So. I know some things.”

I did a jumping-jack kind of thing. “So this is extra torturous for you—because, as you’ve stated, you actually really know how to dance.”

Duncan confirmed, “I actually really know how to dance.”

“Which truly begs the question of why a guy who can really dance would choose not to.”

Duncan flared his nostrils.

“And it doesn’t make you want to dance when I do this?” I pretended to spank myself.

“Um. This is a PG event.”

“Or this bad backward Moonwalk?” I slid my feet backward in the worst Moonwalk ever performed.

“Actually, the Moonwalkgoesbackward. So that’s technically a badforwardMoonwalk you’re doing right there.”

I turned to the crowd, pointing at Duncan over and over in rhythm. “He used to be a danceinstructor!” I switched into a terrible version of the Running Man. “So seeing me do this is probably almost physically painful for him.”

Duncan wanted to give in.

I could feel it.

Before the song started, he hadn’t even wanted to hear it, but that irresistible backbeat had shifted his mood. The hardest part was already done. Now the only thing holding him back was the idea of losing the bet.

Or, more specifically: the idea of me winning it.

So I kept going. I could feel the expression on my face: one part triumph, one part gloating, and one part just genuine joy of my own. I crouched down into a littleWest Side Storyposition and dance-walked toward Duncan, snapping. It was so goofy, he couldn’tnotsmile.

He tucked his chin to try to hide it.

“Give it up, Duncan,” I said. “You’ve already lost. Might as well enjoy it.”

Duncan shook his head. “This song is cheating. They sampled that beat from James Brown. And they definitely took the chorus from Aretha Franklin.”

“So you’re not just fighting one musical titan—you’re fighting three!” I spun around. “You’re doomed.”

Duncan flared his nostrils and pushed out a sigh like he was blowing smoke. “This is so wrong.”

“How can it be wrong,” I said, “when it feels so right?” And with that, I spun away and launched into the Hustle. Step, step, step, clap—out and then back. Then I threw in an Egg Beater. Then a few John Travoltas.

“Please tell me you’re not doing the Hustle,” Duncan said.

“I most certainly am.”

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Spin, spin, spin, clap. “If it’s so wrong, then get over here and do it right.”

He shook his head.

“You realize that you are shaking your head to the beat.” I pointed at his head and turned toward the group, nodding. “Is that dancing, y’all?” I demanded.

The room cheered.

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