Page 52 of The Dysasters

Rockin’ robin

Blow rockin’ robin

’Cause we’re really gonna rock tonight!”

The air around them was filled with music. It was like someone had plugged nature into one of those electric keyboards that could make a zillion different musical sounds—only it wasn’t electric—it wasn’t man-made at all—it was their element, air, playing around them.

“Look, Foster! Look around us!”

Foster whistled the melody in time with the air orchestra as she danced in his arms. She tilted her head back and together they stared at the amazingcurrents of twirling, trilling air that glowed wisps of music in all the colors of a rainbow.

“It’s unbelievable!” Foster said, and when she began singing the last stanza the world was her accompaniment.

“Pretty little raven at the bird-band stand

Told them how to do the bob and it was grand

They started going steady and bless my soul

He out-bopped the buzzard and the oriole!”

Tate guided Foster through one of his favorite swing moves, the pretzel. Her grin blazed as they sang the chorus together again,

“Rockin’ robin, rock rock

Rockin’ robin

Blow rockin’ robin

’Cause we’re really gonna rock tonight!”

And then he tried to do a classic hip lift with her, which failed epically as he tripped over an unfortunately placed rock and fell on his butt with Foster flopped over his legs, giggling hysterically as the wind around them stilled and then faded to the normal sound of swishing through willow leaves.

Wiping her eyes, she stood and held out a hand to help him up, which he took, brushing grass and dirt off his butt.

“How in the hell do you know that old song?” she said between giggles.

He grinned back at her. “Whodoesn’tknow Motown?”

“Um, lots of people. Well,youngpeople. The same people who don’t know how to dance like that.”

“Well, I have a grandpa who insisted I learn how toreallydance.”

“Your grandpa made you take dance lessons?”

“Not just any dance lessons—swing dance. And, yep, twice a week for years. I used to love/hate it. A lot.”

“And now?” she asked, her eyes still shining with humor.

“I got to dance you aroundandmake you laugh, so I’d say I’m feeling pretty good about G-pa’s weird obsession. Who got you into Motown?”

“Cora, of course. She loved Motown. And the Rat Pack. And what she calledreal deal blues. I don’t think she liked anything that wasn’t recorded last century. She was pretty stuck up when it came to music.”

“You can really sing,” Tate said.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

When the silence threatened to get awkward, Tate shook himself mentally and reminded himself to do more than stare at her eyes, because for some reason he suddenly remembered how he’d felt the first time he’d looked into them—totally shell-shocked by their deep green beauty.