Lupe Wong Won't Dance: Chapters 4–6

I’m pretty sure Andy’s mom single-handedly keeps HomeGoods in business.

I avert my eyes hoping she won’t snag my arm into a twirl.

I flop onto Andy’s bed. Her new soft, cream comforter is like an alpaca and a Snuggie had a baby.

My bed still has the Barbie: Mermaidia comforter I insisted on in the first grade. I’ve flipped it over to the bubble side, but Andy still knows what horror lurks on the other side.

Undissected owl-puke balls sit in a shoebox on one half of a long table.

Tiny bones she’s extracted from the owl pellets are carefully placed in piles next to an X-Acto knife.

Besides the twelve-year-old English girl who creates sonatas and concertos, the kid from Memphis who fused an atom, or the Indian boy who created the smallest operational satellite, it’s about the most impressive thing I’ve seen a kid our age do.

Besides the twelve-year-old English girl who creates sonatas and concertos, the kid from Memphis who fused an atom, or the Indian boy who created the smallest operational satellite, it’s about the most impressive thing I’ve seen a kid our age do.

Somewhere in mouse heaven, Paco’s hobbling around on a prosthetic toothpick.

Somewhere in mouse heaven, Paco’s hobbling around on a prosthetic toothpick.

At least Jordyn won’t humiliate her on a daily basis.

Tonight we’re chewing the fat on the old time favorite, ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe.’ ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’ predates the Civil War.

The man winks and continues. “But why are his eyes white as cotton?” The farmer guy’s eyebrows rise so high they disappear under the brim of his hat. “Could be glaucoma? Or maybe cataracts?”

The man winks and continues. “But why are his eyes white as cotton?” The farmer guy’s eyebrows rise so high they disappear under the brim of his hat. “Could be glaucoma? Or maybe cataracts?”

My hands go a little clammy.

It’s Andy’s idea to make all the words swirl or ripple into the screen to hint at something wobbly and disorienting.

Andy’s mouth and nose skew to one side. I don’t think she gets it.

Principal Singh opens her door the next day during lunch. She’s holding a cup of coffee and wearing what my mom calls a “serious suit.” Steam spirals up ominously to her face, making her look even more stern.

If speech class taught me one thing, it’s how to get an emotional response. Visual props for emphasis are best. Evoking a gag reflex to square dancing will definitely get it banned.

Principal Singh spits her coffee back into her cup. Her entire body lurches forward.

“Well Lupe, that was quite a slide show.” Principal Singh folds one hand over the other on her desk. I'm not sure where you are getting your correlations, but I appreciate your concern and effort. I will take all that Eve heard under advisement and do what’s best for the students.”

The gap-toothed smile he's had on during this entire square-dancing debacle falls.

They sway from one foot back to the other, arms folded in front of them like a metronome of synchronized ridiculousness.

They sway from one foot back to the other, arms folded in front of them like a metronome of synchronized ridiculousness.

“Aces high, deuces low, promenade all the way you go. Little bit o’heel, little bit o’toe. Promenade and don’t be slow.”

A cackle from behind us drowns out the caller’s next words. “Wow! Troglodytes really can dance.”

A cackle from behind us drowns out the caller’s next words. “Wow! Troglodytes really can dance.”

We try to ignore him, but now he’s planted himself on the couch, one arm behind his head, the other cramming chicharrones in his mouth. Ironically, just like a troglodyte.

I grip Andy’s arm. Paolo doesn’t bluff. But he also drives a hard bargain.

He closes his eyes. But now, he doesn’t look so smug. Paolo winces like he’s reliving some awful nightmare.