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“MOM AND DAD are dancing in the dining room,” Rex told Odette.
He was interrupting her, which he knew he wasn’t supposed to do, so Odette ignored him, pretending that she hadn’t heard, keeping her eyes tight on the screen of her phone, thumbing through the pictures the kids at school were posting of the last few days of the year: the quad brim-full during the final assembly; Principal Williams yelling something into a megaphone.
Rex didn’t go away. “They’re slow dancing,” he said. “Like people do in movies.”
Odette abandoned the pretense of disinterest and stood up from the couch. Rex led the way, bouncing up onto the balls of his feet with each step.
Rex never lied. Never. So they must be dancing. But, still, seeing them there—slow dancing—Mom’s arms around Dad’s neck, her head resting on his chest, Dad’s chin on her head, his arms around her waist, was not only surprising but also . . . weird. For one thing, there wasn’t even any music on.
“See?” Rex whispered.
“Yeah,” Odette answered. “Come on.” She tugged on his arm, pulling him away from the doorway.
“They’re really bad dancers,” Rex said, in the kitchen.
Odette pulled out a box of macaroni and cheese. “Are you hungry?”
Rex shrugged. “I could eat.”