I shrug. “Me either.” That doesn’t convince him. “Do you think those kids know how to dance? That’s what we’re here for, to show them it’s okay to look stupid and have a little fun.”
His eyes skirt to the floor and he chuckles. “I think my brother is proving that to them right now.”
I look and shake my head. Sure enough, George is wiggling around under the disco ball, arms waving, hips shaking, paving the way for the kids to feel confident in making a fool of himself. Poor Miranda.
“Okay give me one second.” He moves back to the computer and presses a few buttons. Then he takes my hand, leading me back down the steps. We join the others in the center of the gym. We have an awkward moment while the music shifts, Charlie’s hands lowering to my hips while mine link around his neck. I recognize the music immediately. It’s one of the songs played all the time at the Wayward Sun. Landslide, by Fleetwood Mac.
“I love this song.”
“I know,” he says, looking down at me. “You sing it all the time.”
This boy. He surprises me all the time. I always think he’s in his own world, playing and plotting games, but he’s not. He’s here with us, with me. He applies a little pressure on my waist and I run my fingers through the shaggy hair at the back of his neck. I let him lead me around the floor.
“What’s going on with that?” He nods to Dexter and Christina talking near the snack table. They didn’t make it to the dance floor but things look civil.
“He’s thanking her for stepping forward on New Years.”
He nods. “Good.”
The song comes to an end and Charlie’s fingers squeeze against my sides one last time. Margaret rushes around to each couple on the floor. “Okay, go, ask a kid to dance. Make this party happen, people!”
With our own insecurities in check, that’s exactly what we do. Over the next hour we encourage the kids one-by-one to join in the fun, each of us taking a special interest in someone that needs a little extra motivation.
After most of the kids are on the floor, I spot a girl lingering by the bleachers. Her hair is dark and twisted into two braids, her dress made of light blue crushed velvet. Sparkly shoes, with scuffed toes, cover her feet. She’s probably in fifth or sixth grade. I walk through the crowd and approach her.
“Hi,” I say, sitting beside her. “I’m Starlee, what’s your name?”
“Brianna.”
“Don’t you want to dance with everyone else?”
“No thanks. I’m good.”
Her unease is visible, palpable, and I feel something strange in my chest. I look out at the kids finally loosened up a little and having fun. “What grade are you in?”
“Sixth.”
Bingo.
“I used to get so nervous about things like this—social things. I actually ended up being home-schooled because of it.”
Brianna looks me over. “Really?”
“Yes. I was so intimidated by the other kids at school and just really anxious all the time.”
“I hate school,” she admits.
“Why?”
Her eyes slide toward a group of kids. They were the first and easiest ones to get on the dance floor. Even at twelve, the confidence rolls off them in waves. My heart breaks for this little girl.
Across the gym, Jake cuts through the crowd and our eyes meet. He gives me a small smile. I incline my head and he starts to walk over.
Brianna notices. “Do you know him?”
“I do. He’s one of my friends.”
“Wow…he’s like, he looks like one of those guys you see on TV—like on the CW.” I laugh because it’s so ridiculously true. “He’s really your friend?”