But Daddy Can't Dance

by Ashley Leigh

• 
• 
• 

I mark off another day on my calendar. Just two more weeks until the Father-Daughter Dance!

Which means just two more weeks to find the perfect dress. Everyone else had bought their dresses, like, over a month ago, but Papa promised he'd take me shopping this Saturday.

All through the week, I spend every second I can flipping through magazine after magazine, poring over style guides and suffering through Misti Winkle going on and on all through P.E. class about the dress her dad picked up for her in New York City.

Ugh. Whatever. I don't care where my dress comes from so long as it's pretty. And not like anyone else's dress, of course.

Friday after school, I hop off the bus and there's both Papa and Daddy's cars parked in the driveway. Uh-oh. That can't be good. They shouldn't be home for another three hours. When I run inside, Papa has his foot propped up with a bag of ice resting on his ankle.

My heart sinks down into the floor.

“I'm sorry, Emily,” Papa says with a frown, “but Daddy's going to have to take you shopping tomorrow.”

What? That's totally not fair. “But Daddy doesn't like to shop!” He'll probably make me grab the first dress we spot even if it's neon orange.

Especially if it's neon orange.

Daddy walks out of the kitchen holding a fresh bag of ice for Papa's ankle and he flashes me a grin. “Don't worry, Emmy-Bug, we'll have fun tomorrow.”

Yeah, right.

After making sure Papa's comfortable, I flee to my room where my calendar stares me in the face, reminding me it's just one week to the Father-Daughter Dance. The dance I've been looking forward to since the beginning of the school year.

A horrible thought strikes me and I sit up with a jolt of panic. What if Papa's ankle doesn't get better before next weekend?

I fall back onto the bed and shake my head. Papa's ankle has to get better. Papa knows how important this dance is to me. He'll make sure he's well enough to go.

If Papa can't go, I can't go.

Daddy can't dance.

* * *

Saturday morning comes too quickly and Daddy is banging on my door. He tries to tempt me out of bed with the promise of pancakes, but Daddy can't cook. I get up, anyway, because I can't put off the inevitable forever.

Sure enough, the pancakes Daddy made are the most deformed pancakes I've ever seen.

“They're Mickey Mouse pancakes!” exclaims Daddy excitedly. I haven't had Mickey Mouse pancakes since I was six.

And these pancakes don't look anything like Mickey Mouse.

“Thanks, Daddy,” I mumble while taking a plate. Hopefully, they won't taste as bad as they look.

Daddy's all smiles. “Papa's getting breakfast in bed today! I'll be back.”

He dashes off down the hallway juggling a plate of pancakes, a glass of orange juice, and a bottle of syrup.

As soon as Daddy disappears, I take a quick bite of pancake, just in case they are as bad as they look. I don't want to upset Daddy by spitting out my breakfast in front of him.

But they actually taste … good. Those brown spots turn out to be chocolate chips instead of burnt marks and the pancakes taste like peanut butter. It's like eating Reese's for breakfast.

Papa would have never made peanut butter and chocolate chip pancakes.

* * *

At the first store we visit, Daddy immediately hones in on the butt-ugliest dress ever created. It's a monstrosity of yellows and oranges all swirled together and topped with a tacky pink bow. Of course, Daddy reaches for it and holds it up to me, but I jump back from it just in case its ugliness might burn me.

“Ugh, Daddy, no. Not that one.”

I knew it. This shopping trip is going to be a complete d-i-s-a-s-t-e-r. I hurry away from the ugly dress and try to find one I like before Daddy grows bored and makes us leave.

I finally find The One—a shimmering sheath of hot pink dotted with swirls of rhinestones. I barely have it in my hands before Daddy snatches it away and places it back on the rack.

“I don't think so, Emmy-bug.”

I'm speechless, but only for a few seconds.

“What? Why not? At least it's prettier than that other dress.” I know I hurt Daddy's feelings, but at the moment, I don't really care. He's being entirely unreasonable.

Daddy's mouth tightens and he crosses his arms over his chest. It's his signature look. A look that shouldn't be questioned. “It's too low-cut, and we're not getting it.”

“Papa would let me get it,” I snap without thinking, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I said the wrong thing. Now Daddy's angry, which means we're leaving.

“This is not up for discussion, Emily Marie.”

Uh-oh. Daddy is angry. He never uses my full name.

We continue to browse in sullen silence for a few more minutes before Daddy marches us out of the store.

At the next stop, our luck doesn't seem to be improving. Daddy keeps picking out the ugliest dresses imaginable and refusing to even consider any of the ones I pick out. After an hour, I'm about ready to sprain my own ankle to get out of this disaster when Daddy suddenly rounds the corner wielding a powder blue dress dripping with ruffles and lace.

I make a face. I hate powder blue.

But Daddy's not taking no for an answer.

“Just try this one. If you don't like it, we can go to another store.”

I can hear the desperation in Daddy's voice. I know he hates shopping almost as much as I love it.

But I also know there's no way I'm going to like this dress. But I try it on anyway because I'm tired of fighting.

I’m taking too much time in the dressing room. I can tell by the way Daddy keeps clearing his throat and pacing on the other side of the door. But I can't help it! Every which way I twist and turn, I just … can't find anything wrong with the powder blue dress.

Other than its color, of course, which actually doesn't look that bad on me. It's pretty, like a fairytale dress. I bet it's even prettier than Misti Winkle's fancy dress from New York City.

I sigh and admit defeat.

Okay, Daddy picked out a good one. For once.

Daddy finally knocks on the door and asks, “Can I see it?” and I reluctantly emerge. Daddy's all smiles again when he spies me. He grabs my hand and twirls me this way and that, looking at the dress from every angle before announcing, “It's even prettier on you than it was on the hanger.”

I can't help but smile. “I like it,” I finally confess and Daddy bends down to kiss me on the forehead.

“Good! Now let's hurry and find you some shoes before I go crazy.”

The rest of the shopping trip flies by smoothly and after another half hour, we're finished.

When we get home, Papa is waiting for us on the sofa.

“How'd it go?” he asks, looking worried.

“It was fun,” I answer without thinking, but once the words are out, I realize it was fun. Papa might be the better shopping partner, but Daddy's not that bad.

I mark another day off my calendar before going to bed. That night, I dream of dancing with Papa in my perfect powder blue dress.

On Friday morning, though, Papa pulls me aside before I leave for school. I know what's coming. I'm almost on the verge of tears.

“I'm sorry, sweetie, but I'm not going to be up and around by tonight. Daddy's going to have to take you to the dance.”

“But Daddy can't dance!” I cry, and run out the door. I don't care if Daddy hears me. He knows it's true! He's said it himself on countless occasions.

Then I get home to find Daddy already dressed and ready to go to the dance. The dance doesn't start for four more hours.

I've never seen Daddy dressed up before and he looks pretty handsome in his dress shirt and pants. He's even wearing a powder blue tie to match my dress.

“How do I look?” Daddy spins for me and I clap and egg him on until he gets too dizzy and falls on the couch.

“You look really nice, Daddy,” I say and I do mean it. There's no way I can back out of the dance now. I trudge to my room and pull the powder blue dress out of my closet. Maybe I can have fun with Daddy at the dance even if we don't do any dancing?

But I was really looking forward to the dancing part. Maybe I can convince one of the other fathers to dance with me?

There's a knock at my bedroom door. Papa is standing outside with his crutches. He smiles. “I thought you might like some help getting ready.”

Papa's finished minutes before Daddy and I need to leave for the dance. I look at myself in the mirror and my breath is completely taken away by my reflection. I hardly recognize myself.

Papa has curled my hair into ringlets and piled them high onto my head. Each curl is held in place with a pin shaped like a snowflake, and my hair sparkles with the tiny jewels. My makeup is flawless. The dress is gorgeous.

Eat your heart out, Misti Winkle.

“Thank you!” I squeal, flinging myself into Papa's arms after the initial shock wears off. He chuckles, squeezing me tightly.

“Come on, Emmy-Bug!” Daddy calls from the living room. “We're going to be late!”

Daddy's face splits into a broad smile when I round the corner and he swoops down to give me a big hug.

“You look just like a princess!” he exclaims. Looping his arm through mine, Daddy escorts me out to the car and opens the door for me. I climb in as gracefully as I can.

We're one of the first father-daughter couples to arrive. I take Daddy around and introduce him to all my friends and their fathers. They laugh and mingle, making small talk and jokes until the gymnasium is flooded with daughters and their fathers. The music starts playing and I look longingly towards the dance floor.

But no one is dancing.

Daddy notices it, too. He clears his throat and holds out a hand towards me.

“Care to dance, Emmy-Bug?”

I'm mortified at the thought. Daddy can't dance. With no one else dancing, all eyes will be on us if we go out there. I shake my head—but not too hard. I don't want to ruin the complex arrangement of curls Papa worked so hard on.

Daddy wiggles his still outstretched fingers. “Are you sure?”

I nod and cross my arms. If I dance with Daddy, I'll look silly and everyone will tease me at school on Monday. “I don't feel like dancing,” I lie, and look towards the refreshment table so Daddy can't see me lying. When I look back, Daddy is gone.

He's out on the dance floor.

Maybe I can crawl under the refreshment table and hide without anyone noticing.

But it's too late. The music changes to an upbeat dance rhythm and there's Daddy getting his groove on in front of everyone. Except Daddy doesn't have a groove.

And then Daddy does the unthinkable. He turns to me and yells out across the dance floor, “Come on, Emmy-Bug! Dance with me!”

Emmy-Bug. He called me Emmy-Bug in front of everyone. I can hear a few girls close to me giggling and I wish right then and there that I could melt into the floor and never come out again.

But Daddy keeps calling for me and finally I hurry out to him just so he'll be quiet. My face feels like it's on fire.

“Stop it! You're embarrassing me!” I hiss to him, but once I'm in range, Daddy grabs hold of my hands and twirls me around until I'm dizzy and lightheaded. The beat of the music changes again and this time it's some sort of disco tune I don't recognize. But Daddy does. He whoops with excitement and starts wiggling around like he's having a seizure.

I'm past the point of wishing for death. I look around for an escape, wishing I never came with Daddy in the first place. Then I notice other father-daughter couples joining us on the dance floor. A few of the dads join in with Daddy's seizure wiggling and more and more couples join us until everyone's dancing and laughing. And no one's dancing well.

Daddy pulls me back in for another twirl, and I don't feel so self-conscious with everyone else acting just as silly as Daddy. I let him twirl me around until I'm afraid I'll fall right out of my shoes and then we finally take a break. We find a quiet table off to the side where we can drink punch and watch everyone else.

“I guess it doesn't matter that you can't dance, Daddy,” I admit with a guilty blush. Daddy only chuckles.

“Hey, I can dance! I just can't dance well.” He winks and I laugh. Daddy wraps an arm around my shoulder and I actually don't mind his sweatiness. We sit in silence for a while, watching the other couples and catching our breath. Finally I point out, “It doesn't look like anyone can dance well.”

Daddy shakes his head. “No, but they're having fun anyway and that's what matters.” He grins and kisses the top of my head. “I'm having fun, too.”

“Me, too,” I admit and Daddy gives my shoulders a squeeze. But I don't feel like those two words are enough. “I'm glad you came with me tonight,” I say and I mean it.

Daddy laughs again. “Maybe we should make sure Papa sprains his ankle for the next dance, too?”

“Or maybe they'll let me cheat and bring both of you? I should be able to bring both my fathers to a father-daughter dance.” I imagine dancing with both Papa and Daddy at the same time and I can't help but giggle. Now that would be fun.

Daddy smiles. “We'll see, Emmy-Bug. But now, let's dance!”