I needed to give myself a pep talk, I decided. A good one.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t dance, I reminded myself. I loved to dance. I just didn’t like people to watch me.

But that’s the thing about joy. You don’t have to wait for it to happen. You can make it happen.

And doing this for Duncan? Getting him to have fun? Reminding him of this essential, forgotten part of himself? It would be worth it.

As Duncan stood there, stiff as a board with his hands and eyes squeezed tightly closed, I forced myself to give in to the tug of the song. I had to trick myself into it. I bargained with myself: just do the arms. It’s not really dancing until the booty gets involved.

So I lifted my arms and started moving them around to the rhythm.

Did I look ridiculous?

Oh, for sure.

But as Duncan squeezed his eyes tighter, the urge to win did battle with the urge to hide—and started to get the upper hand.

Once the arms were going, the feet wanted to follow.

All I had to do was let them.

Well, that—and force myself to ignore the part of my brain that really, desperately didn’t want to look ridiculous. In fact, I had to lean in to looking ridiculous. Duncan had said it, himself: that’s part of the joy.

So I closed my eyes, too—and tried to pretend like I was just home in my living room.

Which helped a lot.

Once I’d started, I’d done the hardest part.

Now all I had to do was keep going.

The music helped. It was irresistible.

This was working. I was doing it. Success gave way to more success. I shook my booty a little. Then I spun around. Then I stretched my arms out. Bravely. Defiantly. Even though Duncan couldn’t see me, I knew he could feel me.

So I just did it. Anything that popped into my head, I made myself do.

The easier it got, the easier it got—and before I knew it, I’d opened my eyes.

It was an accident at first. I’d just forgotten to keep them closed. But when I saw all the faces in the room, I realized I didn’t need to keep them closed. The crowd wasn’t cringing, or looking on in horror—which was the usual vibe when a crowd was staring at me. They were smiling. They were rooting me on. They were shaking their own booties, too.

When the lyrics began, I sang along—even though I didn’t know all the words.

I started doing a kind of Charleston, stepping forward, then back, then forward again—close enough to Duncan that he could feel my presence.

At one point, I got so close, Duncan couldn’t resist opening his eyes to look.

The second he did, I crooked my finger at him, like Come to the dance floor.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m dancing.”

“You said you never dance!”

“It’s a moment of personal growth.”

He squinted and shook his head, but he kept watching me.

Once he was watching, I got sillier. I put a big theatrical smile on my face, like See, buddy? Doesn’t this look fun? I added some jazz hands. Then I shifted into the robot. Then I did some “King Tut” moves. Before I knew it, I was flapping my elbows like chicken wings.

That’s when Duncan broke a little. “Oh, God. Tell me that’s not the Funky Chicken.”

“Well,” I said, waggling my wings at him. “It’s a chicken. And it’s clearly funky. So I think we all know what’s happening here.”

“Stop flapping.”

“Make me.”

He frowned and recommitted to holding still.

“Resistance is futile,” I said. “They did a whole study on it. The science doesn’t lie. Just give in.”

I shifted into a kind of salsa thing where I was also spinning an imaginary lasso above my head.

“Why be miserable?” I cajoled. “You’ve got all night to be miserable. Give yourself five minutes to feel good.”

“This song is actually six minutes and thirty-four seconds.”

I frowned at him, but I kept dancing. “That’s awfully specific.”

“I used to be a DJ. So. I know some things.”

I did a jumping-jack kind of thing. “So this is extra torturous for you—because, as you’ve stated, you actually really know how to dance.”

Duncan confirmed, “I actually really know how to dance.”

“Which truly begs the question of why a guy who can really dance would choose not to.”

Duncan flared his nostrils.

“And it doesn’t make you want to dance when I do this?” I pretended to spank myself.

“Um. This is a PG event.”

“Or this bad backward Moonwalk?” I slid my feet backward in the worst Moonwalk ever performed.

“Actually, the Moonwalk goes backward. So that’s technically a bad forward Moonwalk you’re doing right there.”

I turned to the crowd, pointing at Duncan over and over in rhythm. “He used to be a dance instructor!” I switched into a terrible version of the Running Man. “So seeing me do this is probably almost physically painful for him.”

Duncan wanted to give in.

I could feel it.

Before the song started, he hadn’t even wanted to hear it, but that irresistible backbeat had shifted his mood. The hardest part was already done. Now the only thing holding him back was the idea of losing the bet.

Or, more specifically: the idea of me winning it.

So I kept going. I could feel the expression on my face: one part triumph, one part gloating, and one part just genuine joy of my own. I crouched down into a little West Side Story position and dance-walked toward Duncan, snapping. It was so goofy, he couldn’t not smile.

He tucked his chin to try to hide it.

“Give it up, Duncan,” I said. “You’ve already lost. Might as well enjoy it.”

Duncan shook his head. “This song is cheating. They sampled that beat from James Brown. And they definitely took the chorus from Aretha Franklin.”

“So you’re not just fighting one musical titan—you’re fighting three!” I spun around. “You’re doomed.”

Duncan flared his nostrils and pushed out a sigh like he was blowing smoke. “This is so wrong.”

“How can it be wrong,” I said, “when it feels so right?” And with that, I spun away and launched into the Hustle. Step, step, step, clap—out and then back. Then I threw in an Egg Beater. Then a few John Travoltas.

“Please tell me you’re not doing the Hustle,” Duncan said.

“I most certainly am.”

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Spin, spin, spin, clap. “If it’s so wrong, then get over here and do it right.”

He shook his head.

“You realize that you are shaking your head to the beat.” I pointed at his head and turned toward the group, nodding. “Is that dancing, y’all?” I demanded.

The room cheered.

Duncan froze.

I dance-walked up to get in his face. “Some people would say you’ve already lost.”

“Nope.” He squeezed his eyes closed again.

“Hey,” I said, trying to get him to peek. “I’m doing the Scissors.”

He peeked.

I moved my arms up and down—totally wrong.

“That’s totally wrong,” Duncan said.

“So you claim,” I said, switching into another dance. “But who’s to say? What else did you invent? The Blender? I’m going to guess that looks like this.” I spun myself around.

“Incorrect!”

“What else?” I said, still dancing. “The Bring It On!” and I dance-walked toward him, motioning with my arms for a hug. “Making up dances is fun!”

Duncan shook his head. “Don’t make up dances.”

But I just said, “Here’s one: the Matrix.” I leaned all around like it was bullet time.

“Are you Keanu Reeves right now?”

“Or how about the Terms of Endearment?” I waggled my hands in a boo-hoo motion in front of my face.

“Nothing about that works.”

“How about this?” I pointed at him and then started flapping my arms. “The Jonathan Livingston Seagull.”

“You are the actual worst.” Duncan squeezed his eyes closed. Again. But I could see that smile trying to burst through.

“He’s tapping his toe!” Alice yelled with delight.

“He’s nodding his head!” Carlos called out.

And then Babette stepped up with a triumphant announcement: “He is shaking his booty!”

The booty made it official: victory. I put my hands on my hips in mock shock and said, “Principal Carpenter, are you shaking your booty?”

And so, at last, four minutes into a six-minute-plus song, he sighed, shook his head like I was a plague upon humanity, and then lifted his arms to wave me closer.

I raised my arms in victory as I stepped closer, and I was just about to say, “Told you,” when Duncan grabbed my hand and pulled me into a partner dance, a kind of Swing-Hustle hybrid. Before I knew it, he was pushing me out and pulling me back in like a yo-yo.

“This,” Duncan said, “is how you do the Hustle.”

I’m not going to lie.

It was a pretty sexy move.