Dancing with Dalton

“Hey, Rose,” Dalton called across the loft to the kitchen where she hummed while making salad. Although he’d offered to help, she’d refused on the grounds that not only did she not want him messing up her kitchen, but it might be helpful to his dancing if he connected with his inner child. Right. The kid in him said he needed better Play-Doh colors. “Are you hearing this abuse?”

“What I’m hearing is a lot of whining. Come on, Dalton, play nice, or I’ll have to sit you in time-out.”

Anna whispered, “She means it, Mr. Dalton. You’d better be good, or you’ll miss Mommy’s cheesy supper. It’s the best.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll play nice, but you’ll have to show me what to make.”

“A horse,” she said. “I like My Little Pony. Tommy Butler says they’re too girlie, but I think he’s gross. And anyway, he eats his—”

“I know—” Dalton said, molding his lump of clay “—boogers.”

“How’d you know?”

With his right index finger, he tapped his temple. “Superhuman mind-reading skills.”

“Really?”

“No, not really,” Rose said, perching on her own pint-size seat to ruffle her daughter’s hair. “You already told him, sweetie.”

“Hey,” Dalton complained. “That’s cheating. Telling all my secrets like that.”

“What secret?” Rose teased. “If you’re going to claim to have superhuman skills, we need proof of something pretty amazing. Not just lame old mind reading.”

“Yeah,” Anna said. “Can you fly? Or laser beam stuff with your eyeballs? Toby Mitchell does that during math class to get out of doing addition.”

“Which?” Dalton asked. “Flying or the laser thing?”

“Sometimes both,” Anna said, eyes wide, expression solemn. “Ms. Marshal tells him to stop, but he won’t.”

“Uh-huh,” Rose said with a cluck of her tongue. “Sounds like it’s time for you to wash up for dinner, and quit telling fibs.”

“I’m not fibbing. Honest. And anyway, Mr. Dalton never showed us his trick.”

“I’m working on it,” he said, messing with his clay. “How about you do what your mom asked, then I’ll show you when you get back.”