Take a road trip
“Absolutely, categorically no way.”
“But whhhhhhy?” wailed Polly.
“Because it’s my car. We are not having ABBA on. I forbid it.”
Polly, who was of course occupying the front seat, turned around to the others. Annie, Costas and George were all squeezed in the back of Dr. Max’s Renault, padded about with Polly’s things. Polly raised her eyebrows at Annie. You ask him.
Annie shook her head. “So what music do you like, then?” she asked him. Polly mimed sticking fingers down her throat. Annie ignored her.
“Your usual dad-rock. Clapton, Fleetwood Mac. And jazz, of course.”
George groaned. “Dear God, not jazz. How about show tunes? I’ve got the Miss Saigon soundtrack on my Spotify.”
“Why not some disco?” Costas said, muffled by Polly’s ski coat. “Donna Summer! Frankie Go to Hollywood!” At his feet Buster squeaked in agreement. Dr. Max had reluctantly agreed to bring him as long as he sat on newspaper. “As if a bit of puppy wee could make that car any worse,” Polly had remarked.
George ruffled Costas’s hair. “That’s so passé. You’re cute.”
“No show tunes,” Dr. Max said firmly. “I’m sorry, George. I’d literally have to give myself a lobotomy if I listened to show tunes for the next ten hours.” He met her eyes in the mirror. “Annie, why don’t you pick? You’re sensible.”
“Um…” Annie tried very hard not to look at Polly. “To be honest, I love ABBA, too.”
“Fine, I’m overruled.” He sighed and jabbed a finger at the stereo, which began pumping out “Dancing Queen.” As everyone—even Dr. Max—lifted their voices to the chorus, the glorious rise of notes that couldn’t help but tug your heart up with it, Annie looked up to see Polly had her eyes closed, a blissful smile on her wan face.