He’d parked his wheelchair at the edge of the dance floor for purposes of amusement, and he could see that it had been an excellent decision. His parents were out there, swinging up a storm. Or trying to. He didn’t think he’d ever seen them dance before. Now he understood why. They looked like buffoons. His dad kept trying to lead his mother one way, but she kept trying to go another. They had absolutely no rhythm, either. But still, he had to hand it to them: Their smiles were still in place. A little strained, a little wary … but hanging on. His sister and Blane, though—they were the real tragedy. Mom had mentioned that they were taking ballroom-dancing lessons, and it was very clear that they should have spent that money elsewhere. For one thing, Victoria was already clearly bombed. She must have started drinking at nine this morning. Otherwise she would not be trying to improvise with those disco moves. Blane was oblivious, though. He kept counting to himself out loud: “One-two, three-four …”
