Chapter 12
Andrew
As it turns out, more parents than expected turn up to chaperone. Richard tells me I’m off the hook but welcome to hang around for the fun. I choose to accept his offer.
Here’s what I expect:
1. Loud music—rap, hip-hop, pop, alternative, dance, rock.
2. Lots of flirting and some covert necking in the shadows.
3. Line dances, a conga line, dance circles.
4. The RW fan club ogling in the wings.
Here’s what I don’t expect—Robert, dancing like Usher and Justin Bieber rolled into one with a little Shakira thrown in for flavor. I’m, frankly, a little stunned.
I try not to be one of the oglers, but when he takes the center of the dance circle and goes low low low low, low low low low to the Flo Rida song, I can’t help watching and thinking, Damn, that kid’s got some strong thighs.
“He’s good, huh?” Richard shouts over my shoulder.
“Really good.”
“I swear every joint in that kid’s body is a double. You know he was voted homecoming king, right?”
“Yeah, I heard that somewhere.”
“Well, there you go. He had the band vote hands down, and that’s a block of kids that can sway any election.” He laughs. “I’m really glad to see him here tonight. He’s been kind of withdrawn the last couple of months, and, well, I’ve been worried about him.”
“Yeah. Same here. Does he talk to you about what’s going on?”
“He doesn’t talk about his home life much. I think he’s more concerned with disappointing me, if you can believe that. He never misses a rehearsal, never complains. I didn’t even know his dad was sick until I got that e-mail. In fact, I wasn’t even sure he had a dad; I’ve never seen him. I don’t think he came to games or concerts. Makes sense now that I know about the cancer. I just never asked. I’ve got new twins at home, so I’ve been a little distracted.” He pulls out his phone and proudly shows me a photo of two tiny babies. I acknowledge the passion and trials of new fatherhood. He takes another long look at the twins and puts his phone away, then shrugs. “I assumed Robert’s dad was out of the picture,” he says a little too loudly as “Low” fades out and “Cupid Shuffle” fades in. “Not unusual,” he continues. “His mom’s a rock though. They’ll get through this.”
“Come on, Mr. Gorman!” a pigtailed girl shouts, grabbing his arm. He tosses me a smile over his shoulder and joins the line dance. I wander over to the food table and get a cookie.
I’m enjoying watching Richard dance with the kids. It’s always the same with older guys—the hunched shoulders that carry all the movement, the bent elbows and the fists that follow the shoulders. He’s only in his thirties, I’m guessing, but hip-hop he is not. He’s having fun though, and the kids clearly love him for trying.
I notice the RW fan club in the line behind Robert. When the dance turns him in their direction, he seems not to notice. I realize I’m marking out the song with my body, even though my feet stay firmly planted on the floor—To the left, to the left, to the left, to the left.
After just one line dance, Richard begs off and allows himself to be sucked in by a group of moms manning the door prize table. Keeping one eye on the dance floor, I tour the band hall and take in this corner of Robert’s world.
What strikes me is how the kids have made this space their own, and how the band directors have let them. It’s a mess. In one corner I find an artificial Christmas tree still decorated with different-colored Post-its on which kids have written Dear Santa notes. There are requests for ponies and sophomoric stuff like this one:
Dear Santa, Please bring me some clam shell boobs like the Little Mermaid has.
And this one:
Dear Santa, I’d like a unicorn, and a rainbow, and the color purple. But don’t leave them under the tree or Luke will wear my rainbow, eat my purple, and assault my unicorn. He’s like that.
I look, but I don’t find one from Robert. I guess wishing your Dad would die is uncool, even for these goofballs.
I’m standing near the Igloos sometime later when Robert takes a break. He’s sweaty and flushed as he reaches into one of the coolers and grabs a soda.
“Hey, Mr. Mac,” he says, popping the tab on the can. He takes a long drink. “You don’t dance?”
“I dance.”
He grins and waves at someone across the room, then turns back to me. “It’s okay, Mr. Mac. I can teach you if you want. Me teacher, you student for a change. Ha.” He slaps me on the shoulder.
I can feel myself slipping into defensive mode. “I may be a teacher, but I’m not dead yet.” I immediately regret the Monty Python words, but Robert just laughs.
“Ah, don’t feel bad. Maybe Mr. Gorman could give you some lessons. His dancing is probably more your style anyway.”
“That’s low.”
He gives me a mischievous look. “Prove me wrong, then. Show me what you got.”
“Why do you just assume that anyone over eighteen can’t dance?”
“Why would I assume they can?” He shrugs. “Seeing is believing. Put your money where your Nikes are.”
“Go dance,” I tell him with mock severity.
The dance is winding down, and I head out before I get roped into cleanup duty. A couple of the kids are heading out early, too, but otherwise the parking lot is quiet. Even though I hear the footfalls slapping the concrete behind me, I don’t think anything of it until Robert calls out my name.
“Wait up!”
“Is the dance over?” I ask as he draws up in front of me.
“Nope. Well, almost.” He’s got this impish grin on his face, and I know he’s got something up his sleeve.
“What?” I ask.
“You didn’t think I was just going to let you off the hook, did you?”
“Let me off the hook?”
“Yeah. Come on.” He gives my sleeve a tug, then jogs to his car, which is parked a little ways away under one of the parking lot lights. I follow more slowly, as I’m just a little wary about what he’s up to. He unlocks the door, then climbs in and turns the ignition so just the power comes on. As I approach I see him plug in his iPod, then scroll through the songs until he finds what he’s looking for. He hits Play, then turns up the volume and gets out.
“No,” I protest. “ ‘Stereo Hearts’? Not fair.”
He grins and leans against the car, folding his arms, then gestures for me to go.
I look around at the parking lot. There are still quite a few cars, but no people at the moment. “You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?”
“I’m sure going to try.”
I figure I have two choices—refuse and say good night, or dance. Oh, what the hell. “Okay.” As Adam Levine’s hook segues into Travie McCoy’s rap, I spin three-sixty, crack my knuckles, and then I show him what I got.
The look on his face is first one of surprise, but soon he’s watching my footwork, moving his shoulders and head to the music.
“Woo-hoo. Dance party!” someone calls out. We’re joined by three other kids leaving the party, attracted to the music like moths to a light. Among them is one of my former freshmen, Aneecia Moore. She’s a big girl, maybe five-ten, but damn she can move. She dances with me, then grabs Robert’s arm and pulls him away from the car. Two more join our group.
When the song is over, the kids move on as quickly as they arrived. Aneecia turns to walk backward and gives a hoot. “Mr. Mc-Nel-is can dance! You been holding out on us, Mr. Mac.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I respond and wave her on.
When I turn back to Robert, he’s smiling broadly.
“Do I pass muster?”
“Hmm. I’ll get back to you on that.”
“You’ll get back to me on that,” I mutter, smiling. I take out my phone to check the time.
“Is that your daughter?” Robert asks, craning his neck to get a look at the background photo.
“That’s my Kiki,” I answer, holding it out to him for a better look.
“She’s very pretty.”
“That she is.”
“Do you have some more?”
He’s going to wish he never asked that. I pull up my photo album and flip through the photos, explaining where each was taken and why. There’s even a photo of Maya in a baseball cap and big sunglasses. Her hair is stuffed up in the cap and she’s holding Kiki in the air. I snapped the photo just as she was turning away. You can’t see her face, but her smile is mirrored in Kiki’s. It’s one of my favorite photos of them. When Robert asks about her, I say, “Long story. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
I slip my phone back in my pocket, and that’s when I see the guard practice rifle on his backseat. I can’t resist. “Can I?” I ask, opening the back door to get it out. It’s white with a black bolt and a black strap, and scarred—the end pads scuffed and pitted from repeated drops on the concrete.
I think it must be a law of nature—if you find yourself with a baton in your hand, you’re going to twirl it. Same thing with a guard rifle. I give it a spin and a toss, then duck when it clatters down over my head.
“You okay?” Robert asks.
“Shit. That hurts.”
“It’s almost five pounds of wood designed to injure anyone within a three-foot radius of the tossee, including the tossee. If you want to play with my rifle, then you gotta learn to handle it.”
“Oh, I do?” I say, biting back a grin despite the pain in my cranium.
“Yeah, you do.”
He picks up the rifle and for the next ten minutes or so—despite good-natured taunts from other friends leaving the dance—he teaches me to do a single rifle toss, which consists of holding the rifle palm up in my left hand, and palm down in my right, then pushing the butt down with my right and up with my left and releasing when the nose is pointed at the ground. The rifle rotates once, and I catch it with my hands in the opposite position, the rifle pointing in the opposite direction. Or something like that.
It’s tricky, but with some focused practice, I finally get it.
“Guard rocks!” someone shouts. Robert waves back.
He hops up onto the trunk and watches me with amusement as I flip the rifle over and over again.
“You want to know the top-ten reasons you should date a guard member?”
“Let’s hear ’em,” I say, giving the rifle another toss.
“Ten, we know how to keep people in line. Nine, we’re always working on our technique. Eight, we wear tight clothes. Seven, we do it on football fields and gym floors. Six, we’re used to poles of all sizes. Five, we strive for the perfect performance. Four, we work well with our hands. Three, we’re very flexible. Two, we always want to be on top. And one, we love making people scream and yell.”
He says all this with a straight face until he gets to number three. By then I’m laughing so hard that I lose my timing and miss a catch, almost breaking two fingers in the process. It’s not that the reasons are all that funny. They’re just so damn funny coming from him.
I shake out my smarting fingers.
“You want to learn a double toss?” he asks, still grinning.
Actually, I do.