“That sounds lovely, but don’t you think the flute might clash with the actual song playing? Not to mention the whole band. We’re going to have this,” she gestures toward the students who are wrapping around the far end of the track now, “competing with Sara Bareilles. I love the idea of the surprise and all, but not at the expense of what Tina wants.”
“What if we hire an actual singer and my band plays the instrumentals?” Oliver suggests. I turn to look at him. I hadn’t realized that he came back over.
Lana tilts her head. “That could work. The singer just needs to be perfectly in time with the original song, because that’s what I’ve designed the dance to be.”
“Do you know of anyone?” I ask.
“That’s not my job.” She crosses her arms.
I exchange a look with Oliver. He grimaces. I fight a smile even though Lana isn’t looking at us. Her gaze is still fixed on the band, which is on the other side of the field now, making their way back around.
“I’m sure I can find someone,” I say. “Thanks.”
Her gaze flicks to me for just a second. “Do you have dancers yet? I need dancers for this to work.” She seems impatient.
I’ve only had a couple of people respond to my ad, but I don’t want to worry her. “Of course,” I tell her. “I just need to iron out some details. I’ll get them all to your studio next week.”
“Great,” she says, her tone clipped. She keeps her eye on the band for a few more seconds before nodding and then turning to face me and Oliver. “I’ll see you and the dancers next week, then.”
She heads back across the football field toward the parking lot. I can’t help but feel a little bit happy knowing that she’s wearing open-toed shoes and her feet are getting soaked right now.
“She was a real treat,” Oliver says.
“Yeah, if you like sour gummies.”
“You don’t have dancers yet, do you?” he asks.
“How can you tell?”
He smirks. “Your voice went up an octave when you told her you just need to iron out the details. I figured the details must be finding the dancers.”
“If your students can dance then we might not be in bad shape.”
“Let’s see,” he says.
He turns toward the band. The students are just completing their circuit around the football field and it seems like the song they’re playing is coming to an end. Oliver whistles and gestures for them to come over. At once, the music stops and the students relax their instruments, then take off in a jog toward us. They gather around us in a half circle.
“Who here would like to dance in the flash mob?” Oliver asks.
All fifty students stare at him blankly, no one making a move or speaking up.
“What about for extra credit?” he asks.
A small girl holding a flute raises her hand shyly. “Mr. Edison?”
“Yes, Marissa?”
“I thought we were already getting extra credit for this,” she reminds him.
“You’ll get double the extra credit. That’s basically a whole letter grade.”
Another girl raises her hand. “Kayla?” he says.
“But we’re playing at the fair. Isn’t the school year going to be over by then?” she asks.
“Fair point,” Oliver says. “How many of you are going to be back at this same school next year?”
Everyone raises their hand.
