I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 101: Dancing with the Pritchetts
Jon's Perspective
By the time I finally dragged myself through the front door, it felt like my legs had gone on strike—like they'd handed in their resignation and were now protesting my life choices. Every step felt like I was moving through wet cement, and Terry's voice—sarcastic, unrelenting, and weirdly echo-y—was still lodged in my head like a splinter I couldn't dig out.
"You'll break ankles—your own and others."
Thanks, Terry. Very motivational.
As soon as I reached the sanctuary of my bedroom, I tossed my bag into the corner without a second thought and collapsed onto my bed like I'd just returned from the front lines. Not from football practice, mind you—that hadn't even phased me. No, what had drained every ounce of energy from my soul was that so-called "dance lesson." If you could even call it that. It felt more like a hostage situation with rhythm.
Lying flat on my back, I stared up at the ceiling fan as it spun in lazy, almost taunting circles—mocking the spiraling mess of my thoughts. My body felt like Jell-O, and my brain wasn't far behind. I let my eyes unfocus, mentally watching the imaginary future play out: the gym decorated with streamers, the music blasting from cheap speakers, the blur of lights, and Sam… beautiful, radiant Sam… effortlessly owning the dance floor.
And me?
Most likely hiding in the darkest corner of the gym, faking a sudden-onset case of gout or pretending I was on strict doctor's orders to remain stationary.
Real smooth.
But then—there she was again in my mind: Sam. The way her eyes sparkled when she got excited about something. The way she always spoke with conviction, passion. The way she'd asked me to the dance with zero hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world. No awkward buildup. No "if you want to." Just—"Go with me."
She deserved more than me ducking behind a potted plant or inventing a fake knee brace. She deserved someone who could meet her halfway. Someone who could at least try.
So, in a burst of possibly foolish but entirely earnest resolve, I sat up. I looked around, spotted the nearest object that remotely resembled a human, and reached for it. Ghost's Luffy plushie—big-eyed, floppy-limbed, and wearing his iconic straw hat—would be my partner tonight.
I stood in the middle of my room and awkwardly positioned the plushie in my arms. I tried to remember what I'd been shown earlier, but my limbs refused to cooperate. I moved like a malfunctioning robot being operated by a nervous squirrel. There was no grace. No flow. Just jerky movements and a complete disregard for rhythm.
It was, in a word, tragic.
And, of course, that's exactly when Gloria walked in.
She stood frozen in the doorway, holding a basket of laundry and looking at me like she'd just witnessed a crime scene involving stuffed animals.
We stared at each other in stunned silence. I was mid-dip with Luffy clutched to my chest, like some demented ballroom version of Pirates of the Caribbean.
Finally, she broke the silence. "Dios mío, what are you doing? Is that doll attacking you?"
I exhaled heavily, too tired to be embarrassed anymore. "I'm trying to learn how to slow dance. For Sam. For the school dance. But as you can see…" I motioned vaguely at the crime scene of movement I'd been attempting. "The plushie is clearly better at this than I am."
She dropped the laundry basket with theatrical flair, like I'd insulted her family's honor and the very concept of dancing itself.
"Slow dancing?" she repeated with a scoff. "Boring! You want to really dance? Then you must feel it. In here." She thumped her chest. "In your soul! Salsa, mijo! That is the only dance worth doing!"
I barely had time to open my mouth and protest before she grabbed my wrist with the force of a military commander. I was being drafted into dance warfare, whether I liked it or not.
"Wait, Gloria—" I stammered. "I was just—"
"No excuses! You learn now!"
We barreled down the stairs, and I half-expected to see the living room transformed into a studio with a fog machine and spotlight. Jay looked up from his recliner, still holding the day's newspaper like it was 1965.
"What's going on?" he asked, clearly sensing the storm brewing.
"He needs to learn to dance," Gloria declared with pride, like she'd just discovered my hidden talent. "And I will teach him salsa!"
I looked to Jay like a drowning man begging for a lifeboat.
"Please," I said. "Say something. Help."
He slowly folded his paper and stood, stretching like he was about to enter a boxing ring.
"You know…" he said with a casual shrug, "back in the day, I could cut a rug better than half the guys in the room."
Gloria blinked, appalled. "Cut a rug?" she repeated. "What even is that?"
Jay ignored her entirely. "All this salsa and spinning—it's too much. What you need is a simple box step and a little Sinatra. That's how real men dance."
And just like that, things went from "bad" to "are you kidding me?"
I was suddenly caught in a full-on Pritchett dance war.
"I am not teaching him box step," Gloria snapped. "It is like dancing with a plank of wood."
"And I'm not letting him flail around like he's dodging landmines," Jay shot back.
They turned toward me in unison, like tag-team instructors from completely opposite worlds.
Gloria: "One-two-three, one-two-three! Hips, Jon! You must feel it!"
Jay: "Forget the hips. You'll throw out your back. Just step—one-two, back step. Maybe a spin if you're feeling brave."
I stood there, frozen in existential dread, trapped between salsa fire and Sinatra chill. Ghost peeked into the room, took one glance at the chaos, and immediately retreated without a word.
It was official: I was the battleground in a clash of cultures, dance philosophies, and a truly bizarre version of family bonding.
Somewhere between Gloria yelling in rapid-fire Spanish about rhythm and Jay humming Fly Me to the Moon, something weird happened.
It started to click.
Not perfectly. Not gracefully. But something in my body—maybe my feet, maybe my hips, maybe just my soul giving in—started to move.
I started to dance.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't smooth.
But it was real.
And, strangely enough?
I was starting to have fun.