A New Life in Modern Family

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 100: Rhythm is a Foreign Language

Jon's Perspective

The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed with that low, almost nervous hum that only empty classrooms seem to make—like even the building wasn't sure what was about to happen. Pale light bathed the linoleum floors, casting long, slightly distorted shadows from desks that had been shoved to the edges of the room in what felt like an ominous gesture. The space in the center—cleared and waiting—felt more like a stage than a gym.

Jon stood at the heart of it, planted firmly as if bracing for impact. His cleats and pads were gone, replaced by basic gym shorts and a T-shirt that clung to him in awkward places. His sneakers squeaked faintly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the lack of protective gear and everything to do with what was about to happen.

He wasn't about to face a linebacker or run wind sprints till he puked. No. This was worse.

This was dancing.

And he knew, deep in the part of his soul that handled self-preservation, that this was going to go poorly.

Terry was already there, sitting on the edge of the teacher's desk with his legs dangling like a kid waiting for recess. His phone was in his hand, his grin wide and ominous, like he knew he was about to witness something tragic but couldn't bring himself to stop it.

"Alright," Terry said, tapping through a playlist like he was selecting the soundtrack to a gladiator match. "No pressure or anything. I just need to know what we're working with. So… go ahead. Just move. Feel the beat. Let your body talk."

Jon blinked. "Let my body what?"

"You know, groove. Dance. Just do your thing."

Taking a steadying breath, Jon nodded, wiped his palms on his shorts, and did exactly what he was told: he tried to move.

Within two seconds, regret hit him like a flying tackle.

It was as if someone had taken the concept of "dance" and tried to teach it to him via bad subtitles. His limbs moved—technically—but they weren't in agreement with each other. His right shoulder seemed to have joined a different dance battle entirely, while his left knee did something that resembled Morse code. His hips stayed completely out of it, like Switzerland in a world war, and his arms flailed with the reckless abandon of inflatable tube men outside car dealerships.

Calling it dancing felt like an insult to the word itself.

Terry stared, open-mouthed, his phone now hanging loosely in his hand like he'd forgotten it existed.

"What…" he began slowly, voice loaded with equal parts wonder and horror, "...how is this even physically possible? You're an athlete. You do martial arts. You move like a superhero on the field. But right now? You're moving like a marionette with cut strings."

Jon ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed but too tired to hide it. "I know. Believe me, I know. The second music starts playing, it's like my brain bluescreens. My sense of rhythm just—vanishes. I become this… flailing approximation of a human."

Terry inhaled deeply, nodded like a man about to climb Everest, and clapped his hands together. "Alright. Okay. It's fine. We just need to start at the absolute basics."

What followed could only be described as the most unfortunate montage in the history of motivational sports stories.

Terry tried everything. He counted out loud, demonstrating each movement slowly like Jon was learning to walk. He simplified the steps to almost nothing—just a side step and a clap—but even that turned into a tragic comedy of errors. Jon's timing was either ahead of the beat or so far behind it that it circled back around to being early. His claps were enthusiastic but mistimed, his steps unpredictable and increasingly chaotic.

He tripped over the smooth, empty floor. He spun the wrong way. At one point, in a bold attempt to "get loose," he swung his arms too hard and ended up smacking himself in the face.

It was like watching a parody of a training montage—except real, and far more painful.

Eventually, Terry dropped into a chair like he'd aged ten years. He dragged a hand down his face and shook his head.

"Jon… I've failed you."

"No," Jon said, still panting. "I have failed you. I can't dance, it's like a curse or something. "

Terry pointed at him with dramatic flair. "You are not dance-cursed. Cursed people can still shuffle in time. You… You're like a Roomba. With a concussion. On a ship. In a storm."

Jon slumped against a desk, wiped his sweaty forehead with the bottom of his shirt. "So what do I do?"

Terry leaned back, arms crossed. "You have two options. Option one: lie. Say you pulled something. Say you've got backup quarterback duties. Say your goldfish needs a vet appointment. I don't care. Just don't do what you just did."

Jon winced. "And option two?"

"There is no option two," Terry said, dead serious. "If you dance at the dance, people will need therapy. I'll need therapy. Sam will probably leave the room, and the school might enforce a no-movement policy. Just… don't."

Jon let out a breath somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "It's really that bad, huh?"

"Jon," Terry said, voice solemn as a funeral dirge, "if I recorded that, I could sell it to the military as psychological warfare."

"Okay, okay," Jon said, holding up his hands. "I promise. I won't dance."

"Swear it."

Jon nodded gravely. "I swear on Ghost's favorite Luffy plushie."

Terry stood and clapped him on the shoulder like a commander congratulating a soldier for surviving something traumatic. "You're a terrible dancer, Jon. But you're a good friend. And in this world, that still counts for something."

Jon smiled, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Thanks, man. I mean it. For trying, even when it was clearly hopeless."

"Anytime," Terry said, waving him off. "But next time, maybe try mime. Or interpretive stillness."

As Jon stepped out into the late evening air, the cool breeze hit his face like a gentle reset. He made his way across the parking lot, each step slow and thoughtful. No music played, but even so, he caught himself thinking about how stiff he'd felt. How alien his own body had become the moment a beat dropped.

He unlocked his car, slid into the driver's seat, and leaned his head back with a sigh.

So maybe he wasn't born to dance. Maybe rhythm would always be that one language he'd never quite learn to speak. But at least he could admit it. He'd own it. Maybe Sam would laugh. Maybe she'd understand. Or maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't care.

With a smirk creeping onto his face, he started the engine and whispered under his breath, "Definitely no dancing."