“Again, from the top!” Dixie calls out, cueing up the music. The speaker thumps to life, pumping out the opening bars of “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” because, of course, it is.
I brace myself, feet planted, shoulders squared. On Dixie’s cue, we launch into the routine. Three steps, snap. Side step, pivot, and…jazz hands. I have never in my life felt more like a malfunctioning scarecrow.
Felix glances over. “You look like you’re attempting the white-man chicken dance,” he observes, not unkindly.
“That’s generous,” Anna tosses in. “I’d say he’s more ‘middle-aged dad at a bar mitzvah.’”
Patti nearly chokes on her coffee. “Baby, if you’re going to do a jazz square, at least pretend you like it.”
I groan. “I am trying. My hips don’t move like yours do. It’s a medical impossibility.”
Dee sidles up next to me and demonstrates the move again, slow and exaggerated. “It’s all in the ankles, sweetheart. Loosen up. Pretend you’re seducing the front row.”
“Or at least not threatening to tackle them,” Felix adds.
I inhale. Exhale. I picture May in the front row, those dark eyes locked on me, that wicked grin curving his mouth. I try again. Three steps, snap. Side step, pivot, jazz hands. Somehow, it feels a little less catastrophic.
“Better!” Dixie crows, clapping. “Now from the top, with feeling. And more butt, honey. We want the ladies at table two to sprain an ovary.”
I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I commit. I pop my hips, shaking it for all I’m worth. The queens cheer as Patti tosses a feather boa at me, and I somehow catch it.
“Give us your best walk, Dalton!” Anna demands, giddy, bouncing like an overcaffeinated chihuahua.
I strut across the room, channeling every bad music video I’ve ever seen. There is, mercifully, no video evidence. Or at least I hope not. If any of these menaces are filming me, I will be enlisting Mal to help me hide a body.
Dee and Anna collapse into each other, cackling. Felix gives me a slow, exaggerated golf clap. “Not bad. A little ‘Magic Mike at the PTA fundraiser,’ but not bad.”
I take a bow.
“Okay, okay,” Dixie says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “Now let’s get serious. We need to pick your number.”
My stomach flips. “My number? I thought that’s what we’ve been doing all morning!”
They all turn to me, faces suddenly deadly serious.
“Oh, Shnookums,” Dee says, her voice dripping with mock pity. “That was just the warm-up.”
“We need something that’ll absolutely destroy May,” Anna explains, eyes gleaming. “Something legendary.”
Patti leans in, chin propped on her fist. “I vote something with a reveal. Tear-away pants, maybe a sequin surprise underneath.”
Dixie grins. “Or a power ballad. Something that’ll turn everyone in the audience into a sobbing mess.”
Dee makes a face. “No, no. He needs a showstopper. Like ‘It’s Raining Men,’ but sluttier.”
Anna’s already scrolling on her phone. “What about a mashup? Something with costume changes. Or at least a dramatic cape.”
There’s a beat of silence as they all consider this.
Dixie looks at me, an eyebrow cocked. “You got any secret fantasies, Dalton? Musical-theater-wise, I mean.”
I sputter. “I…honestly have no idea what I’m doing. My only experience with choreography is line dancing at a wedding once, and I’m pretty sure I stepped on the bride.”
“That’s a tragedy,” Dee intones, “but also, you are now legally obligated to do a hoedown number at some point. Preferably shirtless.”
The rest of the queens immediately start throwing out suggestions.
“Sexy cowboy!”
