A/N: While I recycle ideas used in Kindred Spirits, this fic is in a separate continuity.
Schroeder had been on his way to his locker, his mind focused on the folder of sheet music waiting to be carried over to band practice, when a voice called out his name in the hallway he had just exited. He halted in the swarm of high schoolers heading home or to extracurricular activities, and in moments a dark-haired girl ducked and elbowed her way through a barricade of idlers and joined his side, taking hold of his long arm without a hint of self-consciousness, but then again Lucy Van Pelt rarely blushed about anything.
"Schroeder!" she repeated his name, looking both pleased and exasperated to catch him at last. "Boy, you're a hard man to find when something important is going on. I was starting to think I'd have to pitch a tent outside the music room and wait for you to come by."
"Jo Girl Scout," Schroeder deadpanned.
Kids jostled around them, and he quickly motioned that they needed to keep moving. Lucy nodded and calmly followed him, still holding his arm as he directed them through the sea of backpacks, books, and chatter. Seven or eight years ago, Schroeder would have gritted his teeth and tried to hide his face, mortified to be seen walking arm-in-arm with Lucy Van Pelt, but he barely thought of such things these days, except to note the vast difference in their current, comfortable dynamic, ever since Lucy had recovered from her childhood infatuation for him.
Two rounded corners and half a hallway later, they reached Schroeder's locker, by then some of the swarm had lessened, allowing for a more comfortable conversation. As he spun in his combination, Lucy leaned against the neighboring locker, and her wide, sometimes out-of-focused eyes gleamed.
"So, Schroeder, I got news that might brighten up your day — which ought to be pretty bright already, now that your favorite friend is here," she joked.
"I can hardly contain my excitement," he said calmly, but he was a little intrigued. Whenever Lucy had big news like this, it usually involved music, specifically him playing music. Even back when she had been vying hard for him, she had found ways to get him to play his piano for events, whether it was for her own Christmas parties, providing dinner music for Snoopy, or a (canceled) concert for Birchwood Elementary's PTA meeting. He had usually gone along with her plans if it allowed him to play Beethoven to his heart's content.
He was not disappointed.
"Grandma is on the committee for the upcoming mother-daughter luncheon to raise funds for cancer research — and I've been helping," she bragged. "And it's supposed to be all nice and elegant, with tea sandwiches and petit fours and stuff, but the string quartet that the committee hired had to cancel because they all caught the flu. So" — and here she brightened even further, looking almost like a Christmas angel on a Hallmark card — "being the good and loyal friend that I am, not to mention beautiful and gracious, I recommended you as a possible replacement, since you're one of the most cultured guys I know."
"We're a rare bunch," Schroeder agreed as he pulled out his music folder and caught his math book that tried to tumble out of the locker.
"Are you interested? It'd be a paying gig" — humming.
"I don't know, Lucy. All that estrogen in one room…" He shrugged, pretending to be disinterested as he tucked his folder under his arm, but a small smile played on his lips.
Lucy batted her eyes. "I got Grandma to say you can play Beethoven."
"You know me so well."
"That I do," she smirked. "You'll have to do an audition, naturally, but Grandma was talking you up to the rest of the committee. 'He's a child prodigy. Knows Beethoven by heart. Tasteful young man, very respectful.'" She mimicked her grandmother's assertive, if gravelly, voice, taking on a few of the grand dame's expressions.
Schroeder allowed his smile to widen. "I'll have to check that I'm free that day, but I might be interested."
"Excellent! Grandma will be thrilled."
"Well, I'd do anything for your grandmother," he said, then shot her a small smirk. "She's the reason you act like a human being now."
Lucy planted the back of her hand against her brow and let out a dreamy sigh. "Oh, you're going to make me swoon if you keep up all that sweet talk, Schroeder!"
"I hope you don't. It'd be a pain lugging you to the nurse."
Her eyes glittered at his dry humor. "You would take me to the nurse? You spoil me!"
The eight-year-old fussbudget who used to lean on his toy piano would not have taken his jokes in stride, and all her dreamy glances would have been completely sincere. Fortunately, both the onset of maturity and the timely arrival of her retired grandmother into the Van Pelts' household following a broken-hip surgery had done wonders to the once attention-starved child with anger issues. Lucy adored her grandmother, and having someone consistently home and paying attention to her — while her father worked and her social mother flitted from charity to charity, league to league, for hours on end — had worked to blossom Lucy into a sweeter (if still bold, straightforward, and driven) young woman.
Grandma Van Pelt's influence had also slipped into Lucy's relationship with Schroeder. With someone else giving her healthy doses of attention, guidance, and corrections — and occasionally insisting her father spend more one-on-time time with his daughter — Lucy had gradually stopped seeking constant validation and acceptance from her disinterested crush. While Schroeder had cared for Lucy as a platonic friend (despite his eight-year-old aversion to her girl cooties), with this new breathing room he had begun to enjoy her company when she did visit. Sometimes, she pretended to be still half in love with him, just to see him roll his eyes, but he in turn was typically playacting, since his feigned exasperation amused her, and he did not mind humoring her now and then.
Lucy slipped her forearms around his elbow again, giving him a squeeze. "I hope you can make it. If the luncheon turns out to be boring, I can at least hang out with you."
"What about your grandmother?"
"Oh, you know she'll let me," Lucy said breezily. "She says you're a good influence on me, sweetie."
"The feeling is mutual."
She tapped his nose — an action he generally tolerated in order to humor her — and stepped back.
"I suppose you'll spend your earnings on another Beethoven statue or something," she said matter-of-factly, "but remember to hold onto a dollar so that you can buy me an ice-cream soda as thanks for getting you a job — and an additional fifty cents if I want an extra scoop."
"The things I must endure in order to share Beethoven with others," he pretended to sigh, but he gave her a thumbs up, earning another sparkling smile.
After school, he headed to the music room where he spent three hours every Monday and Friday afternoon with the school's concert band, plus an hour and a half on Tuesdays and Thursday, not to mention the hour before his lunch period every day. Near his piano, some of the kids in the winds section were already practicing or going over the new sheet music, mumbling certain measures out loud. One of the clarinet players, a redhead named Miles, was engrossed in his copy of the school newspaper. He glanced up as Schroeder slipped onto the piano bench, and he quickly stood, stepping over his neighbor's feet to make his way over.
"Hey, Schroeder, buddy," he greeted him, plopping an elbow on top of the piano and waving the folded newspaper in Schroeder's face. Miles had an abrupt, mostly unhindered way of coming up to people and acting chummy, which Schroeder would have found tiring if the guy was not so well-meaning. "Have you read the latest issue yet? You were mentioned in the article about last week's concert."
Schroeder calmly accepted the paper, glancing at the article. It had been written by Violet Gray, and she had painted broad strokes about the performance in her usual brisk fashion. Towards the end, she had added, "The concert also included a solo performance by the school's prodigious pianist who performed, to no one's surprise, a piece by Beethoven."
"Do you think she's trying to tell me something?" Schroeder commented mildly.
Miles leaned forward. "Oh, you know her?"
"Ought to," Schroeder answered, handing the newspaper back to Miles. "We've lived within a few blocks of each other for most of our lives."
"She's the pretty one who always wears a ponytail, right?" Miles flipped through the pages. "I've been trying to find an excuse to talk to her for the longest time."
Has that ever stopped you before? Schroeder thought, but aloud he said, "I don't think her boyfriend would appreciate that."
Miles's face fell, but his disappointment was brief. He shrugged, regaining a fraction of his smile.
"That's the way the world works. Know any other girls on the paper?"
"I'm on the paper as a photographer," Schroeder reminded him, "but I'm hardly a go-between for that kind of stuff."
He reached for the folder with his sheet music to start arranging them on the music stand. He hoped Miles would take the hint and allow him to start warming up, but Miles continued to lean on the piano.
"Fair enough." Miles folded a page back. "I considered joining the paper, but my mom was like, 'Your father and I have paid for seven years of clarinet lessons, and you're going to put them to good use, young man.' Bummer, though. The girls in the band aren't nearly as cute as the ones on the paper."
Schroeder did not reply but went into his warm-up exercises. An unintended bonus from all the years he spent dealing with Lucy, back when he considered her a nuisance, was that he had developed the ability to focus on music regardless of any interrupting visitors with the gift of gab. Like the younger Lucy, however, Miles did not seem to register Schroeder's silent request for space.
"What do you think of the paper's new advice column? You know, 'Dear Doctor Lucy'?"
Schroeder kept his eyes on his piano. "It's certainly up Lucy's alley. Kids always went to her for advice back when she ran her psychiatry booth on her front lawn."
Miles looked at him. "Oh, you know her too?"
"For most of my life."
"What, are you childhood friends with all the girls in school? Or just with the ones on the paper?" Miles laughed and rested his chin on his hand. "I've seen the good doctor around, but I never seem to get the chance to get close enough to talk. What's she like?"
"Blunt," Schroeder answered automatically. "She rarely minces words once she's comfortable around you."
"Honesty is the best policy," Miles chirped. "What else?"
Schroeder shrugged. "Creative. Aggressive. Confident. A little mischievous, like with our one friend who keeps falling for her trick with a football. Fearless. Reckless. And did I mention 'blunt'?"
"Does she have a boyfriend too?"
Schroeder's eyes flicked to him. "Why do you want to know?"
"I'm a recruiting agent for a convent, and we need more nuns." He swatted Schroeder lightly on the shoulder with the paper. "C'mon, man, what do you think? She's pretty foxy."
Schroeder stopped playing and spun in his seat. "Never call her that again."
Miles held up his hands, taking a step back. "Cute. Pretend I said 'cute.' I didn't mean to trigger any big-brother reflexes."
He looked so alarmed that Schroeder realized how sharp he must have sounded. He quickly softened his features and forced his tense spine to relax.
"I don't think Lucy is the sort of girl you'd like, Miles," he said. "She's pretty free spirited."
"Oh, I like a challenge," Miles grinned. "Live wires are more fun than shrinking violets, am I right?"
"Famous last words," Schroeder drawled.
Miles ran a hand over his red hair, wearing a confident smirk. "Eh, you just need to know how to sweet talk a girl. Girls dig guys who know how to talk to them. Plus I'm a musician. That gets a girl's interest, 'cause a lot of girls like music, especially if you dedicate a few songs to them during a performance."
"Exactly how many girls have you actually talked to in your life?" Schroeder threw back, reaching for his sheet music.
"I've had my share." He dusted a hand against his chest. "So, can you help a pal out? Maybe you could introduce me to the good doctor sometime."
"I don't think you're Lucy's type."
"Which is?"
Schroeder turned his head toward him again, squaring his shoulders, but he bit back the single word resting on his tongue.
…That would not be a true answer nowadays. Lucy had long ago broken free from her unrequited infatuation, and now she merely regarded Schroeder as one of her closest friends, if not her best friend. She sometimes laughed about the various methods which she had used to win Schroeder's affections, and they hung out as friends at school dances whenever Lucy could not get a date, but it never meant anything beyond the already deep bond they had cultivated.
More importantly, he had no reason to stop another guy from showing interest in Lucy, unless he honestly thought the guy was a creep (which Miles was not). Even then, Lucy was pretty good at defending herself. She did not need unsolicited help with an admirer, and even if she disliked Miles (who she still had not met), she was more than capable of opining any disapproval without Schroeder butting in.
Before Schroeder could come up with an appropriate response to Miles's question, however, their music teacher, Mrs. Lehmann, entered the classroom, and Miles was obligated to go back to his chair. Schroeder focused his attention back on the piano, but he had a funny feeling in his stomach throughout band practice.
The next afternoon, Schroeder went to his locker and retrieved a folder of black-and-white photographs which he had developed in his basement the night before. Violet Gray usually got on his case about meeting newspaper deadlines, and since he had had a little extra free time, he had decided to knock out his assignment and surprise her before she could bring it up. Way back at Birchwood Elementary, he and Violet had both been on the student paper, so when one of the high-school photographers had to drop out due to flunking geometry, Violet suggested Schroeder join the team, reminding him of his old skills with a camera.
"If being Beethoven Jr. doesn't work out, you can always pursue a life as a freelance photographer, like Spider-Man," she had prodded, knowing his fondness for comics, and he had finally given in.
He did not mind the work, actually, as long as it did not interfere with band practice, but usually he could juggle the two. It was easy enough to take a camera to a school assembly or pep rally, turn in his film roll or snapshots to Violet in the newsroom on his way to the music room, and then let the pretty editor handle the rest. Schroeder also liked seeing his work in print, especially when it was an action shot from a basketball game or a funny expression of a cheering fan.
The "newsroom" was more of a glorified closet, with tables arranged in a U shape and a printer in one corner. When Schroeder arrived, some of the reporters were sitting around the tables, taking turns using the school's old typewriters or laying out photographs for approval. In one corner Lucy sat flipping through a stack of envelopes, no doubt all addressed to "Doctor Lucy." Beside her stood Philip, a tan boy who handled all the sports articles (and had quite a number of female followers who had never shown an interest in sports until the paper started including his head shot with his column). He seemed to be sharing some animated story with Lucy from the way he gestured. His face was also the brightest Schroeder had ever seen it as he gazed at the raven-haired girl.
Schroeder placed his folder in Violet's mailbox and went over.
"So, what do you think my dream means, Doc?" Philip was saying as Schroeder neared.
"Most dreams are windows to our subconscious desires, but it can also be something mundane," Lucy said matter-of-factly, finally laying her envelopes on the table. "Dreaming of basketball could be your brain filtering the information you put into it during the day. It could also just mean you like basketball a whole lot, so your brain lets you play basketball because that's what you like doing. If you're experiencing stress, playing basketball could be an emotional release."
"So, should I quit the paper and join the basketball team then?"
"Not necessarily," she answered, leaning back and linking her hands behind her head. "I could dream I was eating a banana split, and when I wake up, I might feel like going to the ice-cream parlor. However, if I ate banana splits every day, it would come with a lot of health problems. Maybe you just need to start joining a few pick-up games with friends."
Philip nodded slowly. "Now that you mention it, it's been a while since I shot hoops with a few of the guys. In middle school, my best friend and I would play in his driveway, rain or shine, but I haven't been able to pursue sports this year. I just write about it instead."
He let out a wistful sigh.
"Then your dreams could mean you miss the important male-bonding time, or it could be expressing guilt that you haven't been able to hang out with your best friend, like you have abandoned a brother."
"Huh." Philip touched his chin. "Maybe I could ask my buddy if he wants to hang out this weekend then. Thanks, Doc."
She smiled. "That's what I'm here for."
Philip leaned forward. "Speaking of hanging out, would you be interested in going to—"
"Hey, Lucy," Schroeder cut him off, casually coming to a stop beside the table. "Do you got a minute?"
"You can have two, doll," she chirped, gathering her envelopes and standing. She gave Philip a little wave. "Nice talking to you."
"Sure, thanks," he replied, looking like he was trying to hide his disappointment.
Lucy followed Schroeder out into the hallway, and she lingered by the closed door. Schroeder realized then he had possibly taken her away from her work on the advice column and quickly cleared his throat.
"I'm not interrupting something important, am I?" he asked, gesturing apologetically toward the newsroom.
"Which part?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye. "Answering letters, or getting asked out by Philip?"
Schroeder rolled his shoulders, rubbing his neck. "Oh, uh, was he asking you out?"
"Indeed." She looked quite pleased with herself.
Schroeder had an uncomfortable realization. "...Were you going to accept?"
"Not in the slightest." She shrugged. "It's flattering, and he seems nice, but he's not really my type."
Schroeder felt a strange sense of his body relaxing.
"Well, good then," he said casually. "Philip is a good sports writer, but I've never known him to have a girlfriend for longer than two weeks.
Smiling, Lucy tapped his nose. "Always looking out for me, aren't you, kiddo?"
Schroeder snorted, drawing his head back. "If I didn't stop you from making a mistake, you'd be coming to my house every day, ranting and raving because Philip dumped you for some cheerleader. Then I wouldn't get any practice done because you would want my shoulder to cry on."
"So, me dating Philip would be ultimately a threat to you playing Beethoven in the long run," she summarized for him.
"Now you're getting it."
Still holding her envelopes, she tucked her arms behind her back. "On that note, is that why you asked to talk to me, sweetie?"
"Oh! Uh…" Schroeder realized the awkwardness of the situation he had put himself in and quickly searched his mind for a topic, any topic. "The audition. Is it all set up?"
"Oh, I'm glad you reminded me!" She grabbed hold of his hands, pulling him toward her until his five extra inches of stature towered over her tilted-up fair face and black locks. "Can I ask you for a favor?"
"If I say no, does it matter?" he asked flatly.
"Nope! I was thinking we can kill two birds with one stone. See, Grandma wants me, Linus and Rerun to help set up tables and decorations for the luncheon at the community center this afternoon, so you can come for the audition, then help us get things ready — and you'll have two guys to hang out with," she teased, tapping his nose yet again, "so don't tell me you're afraid of being around too much estrogen."
Schroeder raised an eyebrow. "Your grandma is already setting up? But the luncheon is next week."
"She refuses to wait until the day before an event to start getting ready," Lucy said matter-of-factly as she drew back, tucking her free arm behind her back once more. "When she married my grandpa, she had already prepared the room for the wedding reception well in advance. The church couldn't use their basement for a whole month beforehand!"
"She's definitely related to you," Schroeder noted.
"I know," she beamed proudly, swinging their still linked hands. "So, how about it? You audition today, and then you get to hang out with your favorite person whose name isn't Beethoven."
"But what if my mom can't make it?" he returned evenly.
"Then you get to hang out with your favorite person who isn't a blood relative — and who will buy you a root beer afterwards," she answered without missing a beat. "So, you in?"
"I see no way that I can say no, short of breaking a leg."
"Eh, I could still bring you in a wheelchair," she pointed out lightly.
He could not stay much longer, so he finally drew his hand from hers, though not as quickly as he normally would have. After she gave him the address, Lucy spun and sauntered back into the newsroom. Despite his need to head for band practice, Schroeder found himself pausing, looking through the window to see Philip zip back to Lucy, wearing a hopeful, if roguish, look. Schroeder tried not to frown, reminding himself that Lucy had already said she was not interested in Philip — but he did not know why he took such solace in the fact.
He called his mom on a school pay phone for a ride, and after a brief stop at his house for sheet music, he was soon at the community center. The front door was propped open, thankfully, so he slipped in and followed the chorus of music, footsteps, and voices to the gym.
A record player spun out a chipper Neil Sedaka song for the volunteers to enjoy while they worked. Lucy and her brothers, along with a few kids and teens who were likely related to the committee members, were currently busy rolling out tables and hauling folding chairs from a storage room annexed to the gymnasium. When Schroeder came in, Lucy stopped long enough to wave at him and mouth, "You got this, kiddo!" before returning her attention to the table that she was helping a blond boy with a crew cut move toward the opposite wall.
On one side of the gym was a low, shallow stage without a curtain, and a scuffed upright piano badly needing a fresh coat of varnish waited on the floor beside the side steps for Schroeder. Grandma Van Pelt and a few other matronly ladies stood with clipboards, consulting each other. When the grand dame spotted Schroeder, she waved him over, introducing him to Mrs. So-and-so and Mrs. Such-and-such and others that he could not keep track of.
"You're in for a treat with this young man," she declared, her voice raspy from years of chain-smoking but otherwise full of power and authority, and she had a very Lucy-like look which said she would not stand to be contradicted. "He's going places."
"Mrs. Van Pelt mentioned you wanted to play Beethoven?" one of the middle-aged ladies spoke up, wearing a wary smile. "I hope it's something quiet, not any of that 'dun, dun, dun, DUN!' stuff for a sociable luncheon."
Schroeder kept his face polite. "Fortunately, Beethoven composed a whole range of works, so I'm sure I can play something suitable for your needs."
"Like I said," Granda Van Pelt chimed in, "this boy knows his stuff. My grandkids are close friends with him, so I've seen a lot of his skills — but don't think this is a case of nepotism, young man," she added sternly to Schroeder. "You have to go through a proper audition like all the other candidates we're interviewing."
"Yes, ma'am."
Grandma Van Pelt called to Linus to shut off the record player, and the gym fell silent. Schroeder took his place on the old, knocked-around bench and laid out his music. His mother had informed him that in a quiet, dignified luncheon, conversation was paramount, so Schroeder had searched in his library for a few pieces to set a comfortable mood, finally settling upon his own variation of Beethoven's Allegretto for Piano Trio in B-Flat Major. (People often asked him how he managed to perform Beethoven's trios as a soloist, but as in the days when he used his toy piano with painted-on black keys, his answer was, "I practice a lot.")
The piece was sweet and soothing, yet lively in a subtle way, with a few forceful places like a sudden sun shower. It made him think of springtime strolls through the grassy fields surrounding his neighborhood when he needed inspiration — or watching the easy current of the cold, clear stream where he and his friends sometimes skipped stones as children — or practicing at his piano in the living room, with winter sunlight pouring between the drapes onto the armchair where Lucy sat when she listened to him play, her soft black hair lightening to a sort of brown in the bright beams, one hand supporting her head while the other conducted, and she occasionally asked a question, or he would look up from the keys to share a random observation.
If I get the gig, I could perhaps play a little Handel or perhaps Strauss. That might be just the thing for an elegant luncheon, he mused, able to focus on two or more different lines of thought while he played (another gift from Lucy).
He finished with a flourish, spinning on the bench to look hopefully up at Grandma Van Pelt and her associates, and to his satisfaction, they all looked impressed. At the same time, applause broke out on the other side of the gymnasium among the kids (along with a cheering whistle that was distinctly Lucy's).
"That was excellent," said the lady who had been wary. "Just the sort of tasteful atmosphere we want to provide for our donors."
"Why, I do think the ladies will be delighted," said another. "This may be our best charity luncheon yet!"
Grandma Van Pelt gave Schroeder an approving nod.
"Well done, young man. We're sure to be in touch." She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder toward the younger crowd, again wearing a Lucy-like look. "Now, if you would like to get started helping the others set up, you're more than welcome, dear."
She didn't even miss a beat, he privately noted as he gathered his music.
Grandma Van Pelt was not the type to repeat hints (or veiled orders), and without a second look at Schroeder, she turned to her associates.
"Now, while I have you ladies here, I had a few ideas for how we might decorate the outside to direct our guests to the gymnasium. If you'll follow me, please…"
With a sharp turn, she headed for the door, and the women followed her.
Schroeder headed over to the other kids, and Lucy quickly abandoned a chair she had been pushing into place. She jogged over to him, wearing a triumphant smirk.
"Should I go get a bucket?" she asked in a teasing tone.
"For what?"
She tapped his fair forehead. "To soak your head so that it doesn't get too swollen from all the praise you just basked in, sweetie. If it gets too big, you might float away, and then we'll have to find another musician."
"I haven't got the job yet though," he pointed out.
"If I know Grandma, you're her only real pick," Lucy grinned. "She's not the type to shilly-shally, so if she likes you, you're guaranteed the job — getting the other ladies to vote for you is just a mere formality," she added with a wink.
They joined the others, and Lucy made the introductions.
"Schroeder and I are practically family, you know," she bragged, clamping onto his shoulder. "So, once I said we needed a musician, he practically leapt at the opportunity to help his faithful friend."
"And getting paid probably helped," Rerun observed with his usual bluntness.
"Well then," said Adam, the blond boy with the crew cut, "if Schroeder can work as well as he plays, we'll get this gym set up in no time."
"Right!" Lucy clapped her hands, taking charge. "Let's get the tunes going and get back to work, people!"
"Can we play something besides Neil Sedaka this time?" asked Adam's sister, Natalie, a blonde about Rerun's age. "I want something more classical, like what Schroeder played."
"We got a ballroom-dancing album," Linus offered, helpfully stepping over to the record player. "The songs are pretty nice, especially the foxtrot."
Adam laughed, turning to Lucy.
"Foxtrot! That takes me back to those cotillion classes my mom dragged me to as a kid." He stuck his nose in the air, forming a snooty expression. "She wanted me to be a proper, upstanding gentleman."
"Oh, Adam," said Lucy, laying a faux sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "No one could mistake you for a gentleman."
Adam wiped his forehead, sighing with relief. "I was worried there for a moment!"
Linus got the music started, and the kids dispersed. Snapping her fingers, Lucy lingered by Schroeder as he turned to organize a few chairs.
"Reminds you of those dance classes we took to get ready for Peppermint Patty's New Year's party, don't it?" she sighed fondly.
"They weren't 'lessons' so much as you grabbing my arms and forcing me to follow the dance steps with you," he pointed out.
She grinned with a mischievous sparkle. "Like trying to teach a cat to walk on a lease. You bolted the moment I went to get a drink of water."
"Fastest I've run in my life."
"Don't worry this time, sweetie," she joked. "I remember quite clearly that musicians don't dance."
Smoothing back her hair, she left Schroeder's side and strolled pointedly to Adam. She tapped his shoulder, batting her eyes.
"Hey, Mr. Cotillion Lessons, do you remember the foxtrot at all?" she purred.
Adam smirked. "For you, I could."
"Just what I wanted to hear."
She grabbed his arms, tugging a little ways into the remaining open space. Adam's right hand settled on Lucy's waist, and she lifted her head to meet his gaze with a comfortable smile. Adam took hold of her other hand, and the two started to step together, figuring out their groove. As she directed him, Lucy's lips formed the words, "Slow, slow, quick, quick. Slow, slow, quick, quick…"
"Hey, Schroeder," Rerun said. "Do you need help organizing these chairs?"
Schroeder realized he had been staring at the dancing couple, and he quickly recovered. "Sure, Rerun. Thanks."
He made an effort to push the chairs neatly in place, but for some reason his eyes kept sliding back to the pair making their way across the impromptu dance floor. Schroeder thought Adam was holding Lucy a little closer than what a foxtrot typically required. Meanwhile, Lucy wore a slight smirk, as though egging Adam on to some higher standard that only she had achieved, and her partner looked ready to go toe-to-toe with her, quickening the pace and adding a few spins and dips.
Schroeder drummed his fingers on the backrest of a chair, then spun away from the still waiting tables, striding over to the dancers before he could make himself stop and think about it. The pair did not notice his approach until he had tapped on Adam's shoulder, causing them both to pause and glance at him curiously.
"May I cut—" he started to say, but — of all moments — the door opened right then, and Grandma Van Pelt stuck her head in.
"I see a lot of goofing off and not a lot of working, children," she rasped.
Lucy swiveled out of Adam's arms and called around Schroeder's shoulder, "Just taking a small dance break, Grandma!"
"Well, try dancing with a broom instead. This isn't Rodgers and Hammerstein."
"Yes, Grandma." Lucy looked at Schroeder and Adam, shaking her head with an eye roll of feigned annoyance.
"She's a battle tank," Adam chuckled, "and I mean that in the best way."
"I know, sweetie," she twinkled, tapping his nose — as though she was quite comfortable tapping his nose and had done so about as many times as she had with Schroeder.
Collecting his thoughts, Schroeder jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "Hey, Lucy, want to help over here?"
"Nah, I should probably get a broom and do a spot check." She planted her hands over her hips and gave the room a sweeping glance. "Those tables have been collecting dust for who knows how long."
"I'll hold the dustpan for you," Adam offered.
"Careful." Lucy wagged a finger at him. "You're starting to sound like a gentleman."
Adam looked horrified. "I must be coming down with something."
Smirking again, Lucy looped an arm around his elbow, and the two headed for the storage closet, leaving Schroeder standing wordlessly in the middle of the gym.