Standing on Robert’s boots so he could shuffle her around the floor, his hands gentle on her waist, her head thrown back in laughter.
Every time the DJ changed the song, the bikers looked like they were being asked to solve algebra without a pencil.
The Hokey Pokey nearly broke them.
“Left foot in,” the DJ yelled.
Half the bikers put in their left arms. A few stuck both feet in and shook their heads, laughing at themselves.
The girls howled with delight.
The Macarena was a mess.
A glorious, flailing mess.
Big men fumbling through the moves, tiny girls earnestly trying to direct them.
“Other arm, Mr. Robert!” Sita cried. “No, other other arm!”
“I only have two, kiddo,” he said, grinning. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
They slow danced. They spun in circles. They attempted whatever TikTok move the older girls shouted out.
At one point, the DJ put on a line dance.
I saw Jerome—the security guard from the bank of my nightmares, in my memory, but just a school guard here—sneaking in at the back with his own little niece, trying to mimic the steps.
Halfway through, I looked around and realized something:
No one was whispering anymore.