I write teen novels, because I never left that part of myself behind. The girl I was – shy, silly, awkward, opinionated, occasionally bold – still walks with me through life. Heck, sometimes she takes the lead. She tells me when something isn't right. She urges me to take chances. She reminds me to laugh at dumb stuff. I like her.
My opening to sing reappears. I sing.
I’ve heard this song millions of times, starting at Luke’s age, dancing with Mom just as he is. I can perform it mindlessly, like now, not even present in my own body, no stage fright, because I pay no attention to the dancers or the audience – except for two.
Mom twirls and bounces Luke, and they laugh, and I want those twinkling lights to keep blinking so I can live in this moment forever. Maybe Linda’s secret won’t matter if I sing and move to the rhythm and never stop.
The words flow. All shook up. And I am: My hands are shaky, and my knees are weak. But not like Elvis, who sang these lyrics about thrilling, unpredictable, romantic love. My love for Luke is peaceful and pure and permanent. Forever.
Right then a voice in my head spoke – the one that argued the good side whenever I was thinking bad thoughts. That voice always seemed like it broadcast from outside my head, but really it was a teeny splinter of myself trying to keep control.
Its commanding tone came straight from page eight of Mastering Your Misbehaving Mutt, my own personal dog trainer voice: Stop. NO. Stay right there. Do NOT do something stupid. You’ll only make things worse.
I closed one eye and squinted the other through a hole in the shrub, a periscope zeroed on Halfwit’s shabby blue ranch house overgrown with shrubs and trees and vines. I let that dog trainer voice speak, and I listened.
Back then, my good side still held the leash.