Page 122 of What You Wish For

Duncan froze.

I dance-walked up to get in his face. “Some people would say you’ve already lost.”

“Nope.” He squeezed his eyes closed again.

“Hey,” I said, trying to get him to peek. “I’m doing the Scissors.”

He peeked.

I moved my arms up and down—totally wrong.

“That’s totally wrong,” Duncan said.

“So you claim,” I said, switching into another dance. “But who’s to say? What else did you invent? The Blender? I’m going to guess that looks like this.” I spun myself around.

“Incorrect!”

“What else?” I said, still dancing. “The Bring It On!” and I dance-walked toward him, motioning with my arms for a hug. “Making up dances is fun!”

Duncan shook his head. “Don’t make up dances.”

But I just said, “Here’s one: theMatrix.” I leaned all around like it was bullet time.

“Are you Keanu Reeves right now?”

“Or how about theTerms of Endearment?” I waggled my hands in a boo-hoo motion in front of my face.

“Nothing about that works.”

“How about this?” I pointed at him and then started flapping my arms. “The Jonathan Livingston Seagull.”

“You are the actual worst.” Duncan squeezed his eyes closed. Again. But I could see that smile trying to burst through.

“He’s tapping his toe!” Alice yelled with delight.

“He’s nodding his head!” Carlos called out.

And then Babette stepped up with a triumphant announcement: “He is shaking his booty!”

The booty made it official: victory. I put my hands on my hips in mock shock and said, “Principal Carpenter, are you shaking your booty?”

And so, at last, four minutes into a six-minute-plus song, he sighed, shook his head like I was a plague upon humanity, and then lifted his arms to wave me closer.

I raised my arms in victory as I stepped closer, and I was just about to say, “Told you,” when Duncan grabbed my hand and pulled me into a partner dance, a kind of Swing-Hustle hybrid. Before I knew it, he was pushing me out and pulling me back in like a yo-yo.

“This,” Duncan said, “is how you do the Hustle.”

I’m not going to lie.

It was a pretty sexy move.

The whole room cheered, and I looked around to realize that everybody was dancing now—with wildly varying levels of ability. But nobody cared. Even Mrs. Kline was clapping along. It was like a faculty production ofSoul Trainin that room.

And now Duncan was teaching me, locking his arms with a hand on my lower back. “Just forward, then back, then rock back.” I watched his feet, and mirrored them, and we repeated for a few bars before he spun me out again. Next thing I knew, he was leading me around, and as soon as he realized everyone was watching us—just as George Michaelwas dying down—he turned to Mrs. Kline and said, “Mrs. Kline, you beautiful traitor… would you be willing to put on ‘The Hustle’?”

Mrs. Kline nodded, and as she walked away, Alice called after her, “It’s on that same playlist!”

Duncan and I turned to Alice. “You have ‘The Hustle’ on a playlist?”

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