I pulled up the image I was thinking of on my phone, which was also the poster for the movie. On it, Travolta, in an iconic white polyester suit and black shirt, stands on a lit-up dance floor, a square platform of lights, his hand up in the air pointing at. . .the stars possibly, maybe at a tech who was standing on a ladder.

I looked at Berry, my heart an exaggerated bass line. Because we didn’t have much time. Because at any moment my parents could decide that it was indeed weird that I was all like, Here’s a muffin in bed. Because I basically yanked Berry out of bed on a Saturday, precious Saturday, and made her bring me all her paint and at any moment she could just get in her magical red car and drive away. I really didn’t know what I was going to do if she did that. Or if she said anything about my Plan A being more like an actual Plan H or W.

“Let’s do it.” Berry nodded, shaking the can and, with expert flair, filling in the top corner square.

Technically the real floor in the movie was an LED floor that changed with the music. But this was kind of an emergency rendition. More of an “inspired by” than a direct copy.

Even though she was not a fan of disco, and had made it clear to me that she would never see the movie, Berry was impressed with the final product. Which looked more like a quilt of many colors on the lawn than a dance floor, but you know what? It wasn’t terr ible.

“What now?” she asked, tossing her can in the cardboard box.

“Wardrobe change,” I said. Grabbing my favorite sequined two-piece suit from where I’d left it on the porch, I pulled it on over my shorts and shirt and slipped on my gross white sneakers because I knew they’d be ruined. The suit was a light pink instead of white, but with my black shirt it looked pretty Saturday night.

Berry pulled out her phone. “Awesome.”

I started playing “Stayin’ Alive.”

“All right.” Berry stepped back, “So. Um. Strike a pose!”

I stepped onto the still-sticky grass, which immediately dyed my sneakers a rainbow of colors. Somewhere under my toe was the faded outline of the word Go.

I pressed my toe into the paint, imagining Tanner’s face getting squished under my shoe. George Herbert was a poet and the first person, I think, to say, “Living well is the best revenge,” in 1640. People still say it, centuries later. I held up my one finger, pointed at the sky, and put my other hand on my hip. I pursed my lips as Berry clicked the photo.

Which is about when Monty started barking her head off and I heard the front door squeak open.

“What the—”

“ANNE!”