I scroll through titles, my thumb hovering over a few options before landing onGrease. I love this movie. Mom and I watched it together a couple of times, and she sang along terribly while Dad pretended to be annoyed.
“This one?” I say, trying to sound casual even though my voice comes out smaller than I want it to.
DJ raises an eyebrow. “Really? A musical?”
“I used to do theater,” I admit, feeling my face heat up. “I actually love to sing.”
I wonder sometimes what would’ve happened if I’d kept going. If maybe I’d be one of those people who do community theater on weekends, who have friends who come to watch their shows and bring flowers afterward.
“As long as you’re not one of those types to sing along during the movie,” DJ says.
“DJ, if you’re no fun, just say that,” I say.
I press play, then glance around for Bob, my chest tightening when I don’t see his little body curled up somewhere nearby.
“Bob is sleeping on his bed in your room,” Benji says without me having to ask. “I checked on him ten minutes ago.”
The tightness releases. “Thank you.”
Benji gives me a boyish salute. His shoulders have dropped from around his ears, and his eyes are already starting to get that glassy, peaceful look. I wish smoking did that for me, but the only time I tried it, it made me paranoid as hell. I spent three hours convinced someone was whispering my name from the corner of the room. I figured the weed didn’t agree with me, but now I realize it was probably real.
WatchingGreasewithout singing along is torture. I manage to get through the opening song without singing, but I’m sitting on my hands and bouncing on the couch. The alcohol is lowering my impulses, which isn’t helping, and this is also the first time I’ve watchedGreasesince Mom died. I got too excited about the idea of watching the movie before turning it on to anticipate the ache it would plant inside me. Mom would say it’s a crime to listen toGreasewithout singing along. When Rosie and I were little, she had a song for everything. Doing the dishes. Tying our shoes. She took us to see plays and musicals put on by the theater around the corner as soon as we were old enough to understand them. She played the album in the car or at home for weeks leading up to it, so we’d know the songs by the time we saw the show.
As serious as Dad was in his professional life, he wasn’t serious at home. He might not have been a singer, but he was the first to jump in and dance with Mom, or with me. He always encouraged me to be completely myself and told me that if any kids at school made fun of me for singing, laughing, or loving things, I was supposed to hold up my hand, say ‘whatever,’ andwalk in the other direction. I got called into the principal’s office for that one.
Our house was messy and loud and full of laughter, and when they died, I thought the person I was then died, too. But I guess there’s still more of it in me than I gave myself credit for because all I want to do right now is sing.
“Oh my God, you’re adorable,” DJ says. “Just sing already before you explode.”
I grab DJ’s shoulders with both arms, singing straight into her face with zero shame, doing all the dramatic hand gestures Mom used to do. Soon, DJ’s on her feet with me, her hands in mine, and jumping around, laughing because she doesn’t know the words. We’re being so loud that I’d put money on Donny being able to hear us from his apartment over the garage.
I wonder if Nico can hear us. I can only imagine how annoying he must find this.
DJ catches her breath on the couch. The opening notes ofGreased Lightnin’are playing when a throat clears from the doorway. I spin around to find Griffin watching me.
“I’ve never heard singing in this house before.” His eyes find mine. “I assume you picked this?”
The smile wanes on my face, and I lower the vase I’ve been using as a microphone. “Got a problem?”
“Just didn’t peg you as the type.”
“The type to feel joy, or who knows how to have fun?” I jab the end of the vase toward him. “What kind of movies did you think I liked?”
“YouTube compilations of crow calls.”
“Hardy har har.” I swing my hips back and forth in my best impression of John Travolta. “Are you going to stand there and provide commentary, or are you going to join in?”
Griffin charges in, singing the lyrics so loudly I can only stare at him. I know I just urged him to join me, but I wasn’t expecting him to actually do it. He knows thewords?
A laugh explodes out of me so suddenly that I snort. Griffin points across the room while bouncing his knee, still singing, and I jump in again.
I match his energy, letting myself be big and loud and ridiculous. Griffin leaps up on the coffee table as DJ claps, absolutely delighted. He exaggerates every hip thrust until my ribs hurt from laughing. He jumps onto his knees. His prosthetic buckles and he almost goes down, but he recovers enough to keep from falling off the coffee table.
The song ends, and both of us collapse onto the couch. My face hurts from smiling. It’s been a while since I last felt a good type of pain.
“I didn’t think you’d know that song,” I say, running my hands down my face.
“I have sisters,” he tells me.
