Grandpa said, his gnarled, knuckled hand playing in the scruff of Henry's neck. "I still kinda miss it."
Mom was staring into the suitcase, hands on her hips, counting sweaters.
"Show her," she said to Grandpa, not turning away from the suitcase.
"Naw." Grandpa shook his head. "Sarah doesn't want to dance with an old codger like me."
"Yes, I do," she said. "Come on, Grandpa. I even have the right music."
She opened her desk drawer and pulled out one of the CDs Mr. Roche had burned for them.
"Frank Sinatra?" Grandpa said, looking at the cover. "What are you doing with Frank Sinatra?"
"My choir teacher says to listen to his phrasing," she said, putting the CD in the player.
"Well, I'll be damned," Grandpa said.
She pulled on one of his arms.
"Come on, Grandpa," she said again.
He hesitated, then slowly eased himself off the bed. It was hard to do, with his fake leg.
"Take it easy, Dad," Mom said. She bent down and began picking up clothes and old homework assignments off the floor. "I don't want you tripping on all this junk."
Sarah ignored her and held out her arms as "The Best Is Yet to Come" filled the room.
"Mrs. Gretch says to hold my elbow like this," she said.
Grandpa took her hands in his.
"Forget about Mrs. Gretch," he said. "Just follow me."
They danced for half an hour to "The Best Is Yet to Come" and "It Happened in Monterey," "Look at Me Now," and "Young at Heart." Sarah could have kept going, but finally Grandpa had to stop. "Damn leg," he grumbled, settling himself back on the bed next to Henry and Mom, who had given up on folding clothes and watched, smiling, as the dancers rocked and turned in the small, cluttered room.
"I forgot how good you were," she said, putting her hand on Grandpa's arm. "But be careful, Dad. Don't overtire yourself."
Grandpa rubbed his thigh. "That was fun," he said, a little out of breath.
"It's so much better dancing with you than with Dylan Dewitt," Sarah said. "I didn't even have to watch my feet. I just felt the music."
"Now you're getting it," Grandpa said.
"Yes, you are," Mom said. "You looked very graceful, very confident."
"I didn't even know what I was doing," Sarah said. "But then I stopped thinking. I stopped trying. And then I was just doing it."
"That's the idea," Grandpa said. "Your body does the right thing when your brain gets out of the way."
They all laughed, even Mom, who Sarah could see was still worrying about Grandpa's leg.
"You should try it, Mom," she said.
"I don't want Grandpa to strain himself," Mom said, but she looked wistful, as though she had been left out of something magical.
Sarah held out her arms. "I'm not tired at all," she said. "But you have to promise that you'll never tell anyone that I danced with my mom."
Mom pushed herself off the bed and stood squarely in front of Sarah. Sarah took her hands and met her gaze head-on.
"I promise," Mom said solemnly.
They danced to "The Lady Is a Tramp" and "New York, New York" and "Let's Fly Away," until Mom insisted they stop, that they had packing to finish. Energized despite all the exercise, Sarah acquiesced, even though she didn't want to stop. She could have danced for hours. It was so much fun to do something without worrying about whether it was cool, about what other people would have said if they had seen her.
CHAPTER 11
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING Sarah found the choir kids assembled in the front parking lot, watching as their bags were loaded into the school bus that would take them to the airport. She had said good-bye to Mom in the car, assuring her that she would call every night she was gone, that she wouldn't go to any public bathrooms alone, that she would follow directions and not get lost. It was a relief to shut the door and put a definitive end to her mother's lectures and warnings.
Mr. Roche stood at the open bus door, frazzled and short-tempered, running his hand through his hair and checking and rechecking his clipboard.
"Are we all here?" he yelled. "Where's
Mom was staring into the suitcase, hands on her hips, counting sweaters.
"Show her," she said to Grandpa, not turning away from the suitcase.
"Naw." Grandpa shook his head. "Sarah doesn't want to dance with an old codger like me."
"Yes, I do," she said. "Come on, Grandpa. I even have the right music."
She opened her desk drawer and pulled out one of the CDs Mr. Roche had burned for them.
"Frank Sinatra?" Grandpa said, looking at the cover. "What are you doing with Frank Sinatra?"
"My choir teacher says to listen to his phrasing," she said, putting the CD in the player.
"Well, I'll be damned," Grandpa said.
She pulled on one of his arms.
"Come on, Grandpa," she said again.
He hesitated, then slowly eased himself off the bed. It was hard to do, with his fake leg.
"Take it easy, Dad," Mom said. She bent down and began picking up clothes and old homework assignments off the floor. "I don't want you tripping on all this junk."
Sarah ignored her and held out her arms as "The Best Is Yet to Come" filled the room.
"Mrs. Gretch says to hold my elbow like this," she said.
Grandpa took her hands in his.
"Forget about Mrs. Gretch," he said. "Just follow me."
They danced for half an hour to "The Best Is Yet to Come" and "It Happened in Monterey," "Look at Me Now," and "Young at Heart." Sarah could have kept going, but finally Grandpa had to stop. "Damn leg," he grumbled, settling himself back on the bed next to Henry and Mom, who had given up on folding clothes and watched, smiling, as the dancers rocked and turned in the small, cluttered room.
"I forgot how good you were," she said, putting her hand on Grandpa's arm. "But be careful, Dad. Don't overtire yourself."
Grandpa rubbed his thigh. "That was fun," he said, a little out of breath.
"It's so much better dancing with you than with Dylan Dewitt," Sarah said. "I didn't even have to watch my feet. I just felt the music."
"Now you're getting it," Grandpa said.
"Yes, you are," Mom said. "You looked very graceful, very confident."
"I didn't even know what I was doing," Sarah said. "But then I stopped thinking. I stopped trying. And then I was just doing it."
"That's the idea," Grandpa said. "Your body does the right thing when your brain gets out of the way."
They all laughed, even Mom, who Sarah could see was still worrying about Grandpa's leg.
"You should try it, Mom," she said.
"I don't want Grandpa to strain himself," Mom said, but she looked wistful, as though she had been left out of something magical.
Sarah held out her arms. "I'm not tired at all," she said. "But you have to promise that you'll never tell anyone that I danced with my mom."
Mom pushed herself off the bed and stood squarely in front of Sarah. Sarah took her hands and met her gaze head-on.
"I promise," Mom said solemnly.
They danced to "The Lady Is a Tramp" and "New York, New York" and "Let's Fly Away," until Mom insisted they stop, that they had packing to finish. Energized despite all the exercise, Sarah acquiesced, even though she didn't want to stop. She could have danced for hours. It was so much fun to do something without worrying about whether it was cool, about what other people would have said if they had seen her.
CHAPTER 11
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING Sarah found the choir kids assembled in the front parking lot, watching as their bags were loaded into the school bus that would take them to the airport. She had said good-bye to Mom in the car, assuring her that she would call every night she was gone, that she wouldn't go to any public bathrooms alone, that she would follow directions and not get lost. It was a relief to shut the door and put a definitive end to her mother's lectures and warnings.
Mr. Roche stood at the open bus door, frazzled and short-tempered, running his hand through his hair and checking and rechecking his clipboard.
"Are we all here?" he yelled. "Where's
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