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“Sir, yes, sir,” he teased, saluting me.
I volleyed a little laugh in his direction, and, as I walked away, I mumbled, “Douche canoe.” I was only loud enough for him and me to hear. And he seemed to appreciate my quip because I heard him laughing in my wake.
As I made my way through the room saying my goodbyes to the key members of the student government, I couldn’t help but continue to notice her. She had her eyes closed and was holding the headphones, cradling them to her ears, concentrating on the music and swaying her body. She wasn’t dancing per se, more like vibing to the sounds. Beyond her T-shirt, her passion for music seemed obvious to me. She wasn’t at this event to dance and be silly. She was here to listen. I circled the room slowly, savoring my last glimpses of her.
Eventually, I got to Dr. Ford, who said, “Mr. Worthington, I’m surprised you're still here.”
“On my way out, ma’am.” I smiled. “Just saying my goodbyes.”
She pointed up toward the glass doors we had entered through. “Yes, but isn’t that your crew getting in the elevator?”
I looked in the direction she was pointing, just in time to see the gleeful look on Ashton’s face as he herded our brothers into the elevator.Sneaky bastard.
“It is. I just wanted to check that you didn’t need anything.”
“No, I think we can manage without your assistance,” she snickered. “But I appreciate the offer.”
A shade embarrassed but still poised, I shrugged. “Alrighty then, I’m gonna head out.”
“Or you could take my original suggestion and dance.”
I held out my hand for a third time in one evening. “Have a good night, ma’am.”
I had no intention of dancing, none. But instead of shaking my hand, Dr. Ford handed me a pair of headphones. “You can use mine. They’re clean. I promise I don’t have germs.”
Damnit.“Perhaps for one song.” I smiled tightly at her.
“Or two,” she offered.
My smile still stiff, I turned to the dance floor and put on the headphones. When it came to dancing, I was pretty much daft, unless it was ballroom, of course. My parents had made sure I was proficient in terms of the foxtrot and the waltz, but having fun and going freestyle on the dance floor was not in my wheelhouse. After pressing the channel button on the side, I eventually landed on Chubby Checker’s “The Twist.” I could handle that. It had prescribed movements, and I knew what they were.
I crossed onto the dance floor, far enough that I blended into the crowd and got a bit closer to my punky pixie. I absolutely wasn’t going to dance with her, but I thought I could mitigate the suffering associated with this trial by having her in my line of sight. Reluctantly, I began to twist. At first, I felt ridiculous, Iike everyone was watching and judging, but after a few moments, I started to take in the joy on the faces around me, and my anxiety abated. Surrounded by all the others dancing to whatever beats they could hear, I felt camaraderie. We were a ragtag group of oddballs, jiggling our limbs this way and that, and yet, it didn’t feel foolish—it felt inspired.
When “The Twist” ended, it was replaced by Whitney Houston cooing “I Wanna Dance with Somebody,” and just like that, I lost sight of the plan.
I shifted through the crowd, milling this way and that, until I was standing just in front of her. As if she sensed my presence, she opened her eyes. I had this hound dog stuffed animal when I was a kid. Its eyes were massive, way too big for its face. She reminded me of it. Something about its disproportionate glance was irresistible.
She studied me politely. I smiled, not a practiced one, just the natural elation that was coursing through my body. She smiled back, and I started to dance.
I was sure I was terrible, but she seemed to love it. I even mouthed the lyrics.
She laughed and mouthed, “Whitney Houston?”
I nodded and popped my eyebrows, silently saying,oh yeah, I’m rockin’ out to Whitney.
She gave me a thumbs-up. And then she started to dance with me, following my lead. We shimmied and shook. We wiggled and waggled. We tweaked and twerked. We made faces, and sang lyrics and played air guitar. We were unhinged and silly together, and it was genuinely fun. More fun than I remembered having, ever.
I had no idea how much time had passed, but eventually a tall girl with frizzy blonde curls came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned to respond, I stopped moving, as if my newfound ability to dance with reckless abandon hindered on her gaze. Suddenly still, I became aware that my breathing was labored and my heart was pounding from exertion.
I slid off my headphones, letting them wrap around my neck. Only then did I realize she was still wearing hers. My ears free, I could hear the blonde girl speaking to her.
Blondie said, “We’re leaving if you still want a ride.”
With her headphones on, my punky pixie wasn’t hearing her words. Instead, she focused on her friend’s hands moving quickly in front of her. They were speaking in American Sign Language.
She turned back to me. Smiling, she signed, “Thank you.”
I took sign language as an elective in my junior year of high school. I’d thought it would be an easy “A” and look interesting on my college applications, but it was actually quite demanding, and ultimately I was irritated that I took it.
Her friend interpreted for her. “She said thank you.”
I looked to her friend and then back to her. I was totally confused. Why was she signing? She wasn’t deaf. She couldn’t be. We were just listening to music.
“I know,” I said tentatively and then looked at her friend again. “Why is she signing?”
The blonde girl rolled her eyes. “Because that’s how she communicates. Duh.”
Shocked, I looked back at my punky pixie, just in time to watch the smile I’d delighted in slip away.
