28. Jake #2
Maddy’s got one arm around his neck and the other pumping through the air. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her laugh this hard. Beside me, Mo watches them with her hand pressed over her mouth.
Thelma Robinson then appears out of nowhere, zeroing in on Wayne with the focused determination of a heat seeking missile. “Waaayne,” she calls.
He hears it. I know he hears it by the way his shoulders lift slightly before he turns around. “Miss Robinson,” he says solemnly. “I can’t hide it anymore.”
Thelma straightens and smooths a hand over her hair. “My heart belongs to another.”
Then Wayne lowers Maddy back onto her scooter and hops onto the back platform. “FLOOR IT.”
Maddy cackles and slams the scooter throttle forward.
Thelma barely jumps out of the way in time. Then she shrugs, scans the crowd, and turns her attention toward the unsuspecting cameraman.
By eleven o’clock, three women are attempting a synchronized booty pop that looks more likely to pop a hip than a booty.
Miss Hattie finds me near the edge of the floor, pink cheeked and listing slightly left. “Jake Wheeler,” she says, very seriously, “this is the best night of my life.”
“Miss Hattie, have you been in the cups?”
“I have been in the punch.” She leans in. “Maddy put something in it.”
“I figured.”
“She said it was a special juice.”
“I bet she did.”
“I’m going to dance now.”
Ten minutes later, I find her on Maddy’s scooter.
Driving.
Maddy is splayed inside the front basket, holding a Solo cup, her arms and legs hanging over the sides. Somewhere, she found a New Year’s party hat. “YOU DRIVE LIKE AN OLD WOMAN,” Maddy hollers. “GET THE LEAD OUT!”
“MADDY, THIS IS AS FAST AS IT GOES!”
They’re doing a loop around the outer edge of the dance floor. The crowd parts for them the way crowds part for things that have momentum and no clear path. Someone cheers. Someone else grabs their drink out of the way.
Mrs. Kravitz raises the scoring paddle. A nine.
The scooter clips a lamp post. “Whoomp there it is!” Maddy announces.
Mo rushes up beside me. “Should we—“
“Nah.”
“They could—“
“They won’t.”
“Jake.”
“Mo. Your grandmother is inside a basket on a scooter being driven by her best friend, who has had, at last count, three cups of spiked punch. There’s no intervention that ends well.”
She stares at the scooter completing its second lap. “I hope you’re right,” she says. “Granny’s scheduled to get her cast off in a few weeks.”
A few weeks.
Hattie waves at us as they pass.
I wave back.
“Don’t encourage them,” Mo says.
“I’m establishing trust in case we need to negotiate later.”
She looks at me, then laughs. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be here.”
The scooter makes it one more lap before Bethany steps into its path with both hands up and the expression of a woman who has ended bigger threats.
Miss Hattie stops.
Maddy points at her. “You’re a party poop.”
“I can live with that,” Bethany says.
I see Mo walking toward Willard, watching everything from his bench. Chip is nowhere to be seen, probably smart enough to avoid tonight.
She extends her hand and says something that makes him look up. He looks at it. Looks at the dance floor. Then takes her hand.
The band starts the next song with something older, disco-ish. Mo leads him onto the floor. At first, people make room because he’s Willard. Because he’s older. Because they think this is going to be sweet.
It’s not sweet.
It’s spectacular.
Willard, it turns out, has moves.
The man dances like he used to close down rooms and still remembers exactly how it’s done. His hat tips back. His feet find the beat like they’ve been waiting on it all night.
Mo’s face is pure delight.
The whole crowd shifts to watch. Not in the way people watch someone embarrass themselves. In the way they watch something unexpected and perfect, the kind of thing you tell someone about tomorrow and hope they believe you.
Mrs. Kravitz gives him a ten without hesitation.
Willard laughs like I’ve never seen him do before.
Mo did that. She walked over to a man who spends most nights sitting with memory, held out her hand, and gave him a piece of himself back.
The song ends, and the applause that follows is loud enough to make Willard give a small bow. Mo walks him back to his bench, and he says something to her before she leaves him there. Whatever it is makes her hug him.
The crowd starts cheering. I turn to see Walt now on the dance floor with Elizabeth’s cameraman—a tall guy named Pete—doing an electric slide with terrifying enthusiasm.
The Tail Flickers slow things down. I find Mo just as the opening notes of You’re Still The One roll across The Green.
“Nice timing,” she says.
“Wasn’t me.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll take credit if you want me to.”
“I want you to,” she says.
I hold out my hand. She takes it. I draw her in. For a few seconds, we just move. She tucks against my chest like she’s been doing it her whole life, and my hand finds the small of her back.
I lower my mouth near her ear. “Remember when you thought you ruined everything?”
She looks up at me.
“I want this,” I say. “I want to be with you. Not just tonight. Not just for the summer. Not only until your grandmother’s cast comes off.”
“Jake,” she whispers.
“I’m not asking you to solve it right now.” My thumb moves along her back. “I’m just done pretending I don’t want more.”
She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, and then her hand slides from my shoulder to the side of my face.
“Me too,” she says.