“This year the award will go to Dr. Max Ahmed,” Mom says with a smile, because she considers Max to be a friend. Max, who’s been waiting off to one side, joins her on the stage. Mom tells us about his work on a new device that help patients awaiting heart transplants, which sounds complicated, but important and cool. She lists off where Max went to college and medical school, where he did his residency, all the different hospitals where he practiced, and the research he did and papers he contributed to. She closes with talking about how, in his spare time (which I can’t imagine he has much of, considering what I know about heart surgeons and everything my mother has listed so far) he plays bass violin in an orchestra in Seattle, how much he loves hockey and sailing, and what a loving and dedicated husband and father and grandfather he is.

We all clap again.

Mom hands Max a plaque and an envelope that almost certainly contains a large check.

Clap.

The official event photographer stands up and takes their picture, and then Mom takes Max’s arm, the two of them walk off the stage, and we’re on to the next award.

Abby looks bored, so I give her a pencil and a paper napkin to doodle on. Afton uncrosses her legs and recrosses them the other way. Michael Wong is openly staring at her from the next table over. She doesn’t look at him.

After the next award there’s a break for hula. It’s less formal than the other night’s hula dancing had been, this time done by girls about my age instead of the seasoned performers who hula five nights a week for the hotel. I find myself captivated by the dancing in a way I wasn’t at the more polished luau. This is more powerful—more heartfelt, even though it’s just a drum played by one man and their teacher calling out the words in Hawaiian while the girls move gracefully in the center of the stage. Each dance a story, every move representing an image.

Dare to dance, I think, and leave shame behind.

“I can do that,” Abby says matter-of-factly. “I can do it just like that.”

“That’s awesome, bug.” I smirk at Afton. “You can do that, too, I guess. Since you also did the hula class.”

“No, she can’t,” Abby says. “Only I can. And Josie. And Josie’s mom is pretty good at it, too, since she has nice big hips.”

“It’s not nice to talk about people’s big hips,” I say.

“Why? Mrs. Wong’s hips are really good ones.”

“I’m going to get a soda.” Afton stands up. “I’ll be right back.”

She breezes past Michael like a model on a catwalk, head high, spine straight, hips swaying.