The base rolled through his ribs. The rhythm tickled his spine. The screaming guitar cut down inhibition and sent his feet careening across the oak floor. The song had no lyrics, but he sang his own song.

“I’m dancin, I’m dancin. Whoo, momma! I’m dancin, dancin in the naked! Yeah, I’m dancin in the…”

“Roderick!” cut the shrill voice over Satriani’s magnum opus, “What on earth are you doing?”

Suddenly very still he could only offer, “I’m dancing…in the naked.”

“I can see that. Now why are you home in the middle of the day?” Her respectable pumps clacked across the floor as she marched to turn off the stereo.

“Well, I wanted to be home, and…” he sighed, letting his shoulders drop, “frankly third grade teachers are not as savvy as you might think. They think I’m at the dentist. And that you picked me up.”

His mother tried to speak but wound up clacking off to the kitchen making unintelligible noises of exasperation.

He called after her, “So should I get dressed, or can I keep dancing?”