“No, ma’am,” I said. “Duprees don’t need liquor to make rip-roaring idiots of themselves. We do that just fine on our own.”
“Well, get him down from there,” she commanded.
Bowen held up his hand and made his expression severe. “Ma’am,” he said in a deep police officer tone. “We’ve got the matterhandled.”
He and Cash were up, each grabbing one of James’s arms, and lifted him up and over his chair, knocking it to the ground. They steered him toward the exit.
But James wasn’t having it. He wrenched this way and that, fighting to break free. “No! I’m not leaving here until I keep my promise and sing terrible karaoke! Unlike some people! I keep my promises!” he yelled, accidentally elbowing Cash in the face.
“Sheesh.” Cash let go, wincing. “I’d better not have a black eye.”
James sprinted for the stage, like he hadn’t nearly died three months ago, and cleared the lip with one giant leap. We followed, probably mostly to make sure we were there to put out the flames when God struck him down. Or catch him when his injuries caught up to him and he fainted.
He squatted, frantically swiping through the list of songs on the karaoke machine touchscreen. “Where is it?” His hands were shaking with anger, hurt, and all the bottled-up crap he’d been holding back all these months. “It’s gotta be here.”
Bowen bent down to help. “What’re you looking for?”
“Get back,” James snapped. “I’ll find it myself.”
I paced, hands tugging at my hair, wondering if we needed to have him committed.
“Victory!” he shouted, sounding deranged. Then he punched play on…
“Lil Boo Thang” by Paul Russell.
As the dramaticbum-ba da-da… da-da da…echoed through the room, a laugh escaped. Sage—may she rest in peace, right after this song—had the patience of a saint. But this little ditty? Was her villain origin story. I think it was the termboo thangitself that made her want to “slap somebody.” But James used to amplify her discomfort every time it came on anyway. He’d crank the volume and break out into his car dance, a routine reserved exclusively for antagonizing his wife.The second those opening notes hit, his shoulders started shimmying, followed by a ridiculous doggie-paddle with his hands up by his head, like he was fighting for his life in invisible water.
So stupid.
But not as stupid as what he was doing now. This was no car dance. If Sage were here to see it, she would crawl under one of the tables and hide. As soon as Paul Russell started to sing, James belted the lyrics loud and proud, absolutely massacring the tune while simultaneously …
Twerking.
Emphatically.
The only thing Sage despised more than this song was somebody having “the audacity” to twerk.
Oh man, I hoped lightning did not come straight through the ceiling and strike James dead.
But I was wise enough to recognize this for what it was. Albeit insane and painfully embarrassing, this was James giving his wife and the man upstairs the middle finger for breaking his heart. And I loved my brother too much to let him go viral alone.
My brother and cousins must’ve felt the same because we traded looks, and then, at the same time, we each broke out into our own obnoxious dance.
Theo started doing the Griddy, knees bent as he bounced from foot to foot, arms taking turns tipping side to side like a bird who couldn’t decide which direction he was going.
Cash went with some kind of seductive full-body ripple, running his hands down his chest, stomach, and thighs, complete with biting his bottom lip.
Bowen and I turned, grinding butt to butt.
All of us sang as loudly and terribly as we could. Except for Cash. I don’t think that man could sing badly if he put every ounce of effort intoit.
Of course, the restaurant goers hooted, catcalled, and cheered us on. And filmed. But the rhythm of the song and the laughter were contagious, and a quarter of the way through, whoever ran karaoke night cranked the volume, and most of the room made their way to the dance floor.
Halfway through, out of nowhere, my sister Sophie screamed, “Oh, heck yes!” I glanced down to see her jogging toward us. Where had she come from? “James has finally lost his mind, and I am here for it!” She jumped onto the stage wearing a pastel plaid shirt, tight jeans, and her favorite cowgirl boots, red hair in two long braids, like she was going line dancing. “James!” she yelled. “NKOTB!” Short for New Kids on the Block.
Immediately—because Sophie had drilled it into us like a deranged dance captain—she and James launched into what we called “The Right Stuff” dance, kicking one leg out, snapping it back in, then switching sides in perfect sync. “Bowen, Finny!” she hollered, ordering us to join.
We laughed and did as our baby sister commanded. Cash and Theo, too.
