Eggo looks at me. He wants me to be the one to announce the dance routine. I take a deep breath. I’ve already resigned myself to what this will involve—three weeks of cramming moves, followed by five minutes in the spotlight, and then it’ll all be over, and I’ll finally be able to rest.
“We were wondering if maybe . . . we could do a . . . live performance of sorts,” I say to absolute silence.
“What kind of performance?” Darby asks with his mouth full of jacket potato.
“A . . . boy band song type . . . thing,” I reply.
“What we’re thinking,” Eggo cuts in. “Is that we could do something that incorporates all of it. Singing, dancing, instrumentals, costumes, pyrotechnics . . .”
“I’ve already said no to pyrotechnics,” I say.
“Hands up for pyrotechnics,” Eggo yells. All hands besides mine and Gadget’s go into the air. He flashes me a smug smile, then speaks to everyone again. “Pi and I—why does that sound so wrong?—me and him will create a masterpiece that comprises everyone’s unique strengths. Doesn’t just have to be dancing, but if you have no discernible talents, you’ll have to be a backupdancer. Pi’ll play the keyboard, and Abs can do vocals, because he’s good at singing—”
“Gadget’s better at singing,” Snatch yells.
Harry glares at Snatch as though he’s trying to explode his face using thought control only. Snatch puts his palms up in a surrender gesture.
“I don’t mind doing backup dancing,” Gadget says. “So long as I get to stand right at the rear.”
“What’s your secret talent, then?” Snatch asks Eggo, raising his brows in pre-emptive disbelief.
“My talents are boundless,” Eggo booms. “I will of course be the lead dance . . . person. The lord of the dance, if you will.” He’s grinning his head off, in his absolute element, and part of me wonders why I ever tried to fight him on something that I knew would bring him so much joy.
This is the type of shit he lives for.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and open my notes app.
“Okay, so what hidden talents do all you wankers possess?” Eggo asks.
We go around the room and I write down each person’s input to the routine as we discuss them. They’re sometimes very random. One guy plays the bagpipes, one moonwalks, one beatboxes. We have one lad who roller skates, one who’s very skilled at doing “the worm,” and another who can walk on his hands.
Dan knows only a single dance move, his sole contribution to the performance. It’s something he’s deemed “the lawnmower,” and it looks exactly like a person pulling an invisible cord on a petrol mower a few times before the machinery drags him off.
Darby claims his talents extend to rugby and scrapping only, but he owns an inflatable pink unicorn costume, which in his words, “Can compensate for a lot.”
Everyone is roaring with laughter.
Snatch raises his hand and clears his throat. Silence settles. “I can pole dance.”
“What the fuck?!” about five lads say at once, and the laughter and chatter kick up again.
“Laura does it every Tuesday and Thursday. Fucking amazing for fitness. I got a pole installed at home for her, and yeah . . . she might have taught me a few things.”
“Can you teach me?” Abs asks.
“Yeah, and me!” Darby says.
Eggo rubs his palms together like a praying mantis. “Yes, mate. It’s all coming together.”
I scroll through my notes. It’s honestly a mess, and I can’t envision anything “coming together” from all this nonsense, but I’m going to put my full trust in Eggo this time.
Besides, he’s not a plan guy. Turning a bunch of random dance-adjacent words into an actual routine will be a mission. A display of organisational skills, managerial skills, and forward thinking. I’m sure it’ll be more than enough to prove to Eksteen that he’s been working on his weaknesses. Okay, it’s not exactly rugby related, but if he can convince thirty dudes to don sequins and move in sync for three minutes, coaxing them to do what they’re getting paid for should be a walk in the park.
“Who wants to be in charge of costuming?” Eggo asks.
“Are we doing this in drag?” Snatch says, and I get the sinking sensation he’s hopeful.
“Abso-fucking-lutely. Right, who’s sorting the clothes out, then?” Eggo says.
