Footloose

The last ten minutes of service is always the longest. “Stop, Rev. Top,” whispered me to Allie. She bit her lower lip, but the top half of her teeth were still stretching to a smile. Cute, acute joy took over her, as she flashed me a stare, long glare, forcing me to shut up.

Fat, big Matt, was hunched over third row down. His overgrown feet were stretching out his brother’s old loafers. Poor Mrs. Giore had promised him a new pair, but Mr. Giore’s paychecks haven’t been clearing. I turned my neck back from Allie’s under the pew kicks. I was to kick back, but a stern look from strict momma pulled my feet back in.

Allie, Matt, and I were too excited to sit through the last leg of service. Glob, a new club, has opened up next door. We were all eager, Allie moreso. Sagged, her bag housed her new dance shoes. Red, with a quarter-heel and pointed toes. She’d been excited about it all week, and finally she’d be able to try it on. Who knows Matt could use a break from life too.

Cheeks, poor cheeks, are too sore from the hard pew we’ve been sitting on the last couple of hours. Allie’s cheeks were starting to flush. I drum my fingers ever so slightly on the pew in front of us. Pissed, Grams hissed from behind. Allie looked at me. I half-expected disapproval, but in between the drumming of my fingers, she started tapping her foot, gently, but audible. We giggled. Down, three down, Matt was clicking his tongue to the beat of our secret music. Neither Allie nor I needed to turn to check.

Close, so close, Reverend Top closed his eyes and prepared to end the service. Now, it could’ve been my imagination but I swear he rapped the final part.

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This is the 100 Songs Project, a 100-day writing challenge based on AFI’s 100 Years…100 Songs. Every day, I write a short poem, prose piece, or play based on, reacting to, rejecting, accepting, or doing something related to one of the songs in the top 100 list.

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