“Oh, no. No way,” Mason says, arms folded defiantly.
As soon as we got home, I’d grabbed Mason, pulled him upstairs, shut the door behind us, and explained my plan. If he does the dance, the show can go on. And I can also come clean about not learning the dance by myself, which I’ve been feeling worse and worse about as everyone continues to treat me like some ballet miracle girl.
“But it’ll be fun!” I say. “You’ll get to be onstage in front of a whole bunch of people! Just like…” I grope for some comparison that will entice him. “Just like an NBA player.”
Mason exhales. “I’ve never seen an NBA player dressed like a stupid princess,” he says. “And you haven’t, either. Besides, you promised you wouldn’t tell anyone I could do that dance.”
I bounce up and down on my toes. “I haven’t told anyone. But you could save the day. You could be a superhero, like Superman.”
Mason shakes his head violently. “Superheroes do not dance,” he says.
“Oh, yes, they do,” I say, thinking quickly. “They have to learn to dance, in case they need to spy on bad guys at fancy balls.”
He looks as if he may be considering this. “Even if they do, they don’t wear dresses.”
Oops. He’s got that right.
“What if…” I stop and think desperately. “What if the dance isn’t the Three Princesses? What if it’s Two Princesses and a Handsome Prince? Or a Handsome Knight?”
I’ve got his attention.
“A Robo-Knight?” he asks.
“A Robo-Knight,” I say firmly. “A very handsome Prince Robo-Knight who wears a cool costume.”
He contemplates this. “What kind of costume?” he asks.
“Something really great,” I say. “Girls love knights,” I add, to distract him from my lack of concrete costume ideas. “And they love dancers. Remember how Epatha says she wants to dance at her wedding?”
I can tell he’s wavering.
“I’ll bet she’d think you were really handsome in a Prince Robo-Knight outfit,” I say.
“Really?” he says.
“Really,” I reply firmly.
He thinks for another minute. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll do it. But no stupid frilly things. And nothing pink.”
I race down the stairs, Mason at my heels. “Mom!” I yell. “Don’t call Mr. Lester yet!”