Deacon Locke Went to Prom Page 4

  I fall to one knee. Looking Jean in the eye, I hand her the raggedy plastic flowers. “Jean Locke, are you doing anything the first weekend in May?”

  I think it takes Jean a moment to process what I’ve just asked her. Long enough for me to feel awkward kneeling like this and still trying to get her to take the flowers.

  Now, when I’d played this scene over in my mind, I’d pictured Jean getting all flummoxed and giggly. Maybe even teary. Laughter, a hug, and excitement about how she was going to finally get to go to a special dance.

  But she’s only frowning.

  “Deacon, stand up.”

  I obey, very worried. Maybe she thinks this is some sort of joke. Behind me, Jason’s guitar music has faded to nothing, while Elijah’s recorded bass line continues to play.

  “Jean Locke, will you do me the honor—”

  “Stop it.” She’s really not smiling.

  “I just thought maybe you’d like to . . . you know, go to the prom with me.” My confidence has left my body. And my voice.

  She places her hands on my shoulders. She smiles, but it’s not joyful.

  “No, Deacon.”

  And then, without another word, she turns and heads into the house.

  I stand alone on my astronomy hill. I have nowhere to go, nothing to make me happy. I’m left lurking up here in the cold, cursing the bleak, empty, godless universe and howling at the yellow moon.

  Okay, it’s really not that bad. But I’m still pretty annoyed with Jean. I mean, that whole promposal thing was utterly charming. And sincere. A way for both of us to finally go to a high school dance.

  Guess she didn’t see things that way. Guess she was embarrassed.

  I wish she hadn’t said no right in front of my friends, or whatever you’d call Elijah and Jason. Fortunately, they were polite enough to quietly leave after Jean turned me down, with Jason only stopping to present me with his bill.

  I didn’t follow Jean back inside. Instead, I walked to town and back. And when I returned, I didn’t go into the house.

  I can’t even get a date with my own grandmother.

  Not that I want to date my grandmother. Not everything you hear about Arkansas is true.

  I hear Jean coming up the hill long before I see her. It’s a pretty steep climb, and it takes a lot of willpower to stay on my little stool instead of rushing to give her a hand.

  “So this is your secret hideout,” she says, after catching her breath.

  I shrug. I’ve never given it much thought, but I do kind of have a little camp up here. Just a canvas tarp tied to a couple of trees, some outdoor furniture, a few plastic bins for sodas and my telescope lenses.

  “You know, there’s an old tent in the basement. And you could move that picnic table up here if you like.”

  I don’t acknowledge her. I’m too . . . angry is a strong word. But sometimes one needs strong words.

  She pulls up a lawn chair. “Deacon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt. You really caught me by surprise earlier.”

  “Yeah, well . . . that was kind of the point.”

  Jean tries to touch my hand but I pull away. Wow. First time I’ve ever done something like that.

  “Listen to me. This was a sweet gesture, but surely you must have a friend you could take.”

  “Yes! Yes, I do! She’s funny and crazy and I’ve known her a long time. She taught me to shave and to drive, and I tried to teach her how to use the internet. She held my hand when I had that root canal, and I held her hand when we watched Star Wars.”

  “That part with the trash compactor was scary!” she says defensively.

  “Remember that time we drove down to Shreveport and you dragged me to that one guy’s concert?”

  “I’d thank you not to refer to Mr. Neil Diamond as ‘that one guy.’” But she’s smirking now.

  “How about when I tried to remove those wasp nests with the gasoline?”

  “That’s not a good memory, Deacon! You lit your clothes on fire and got stung!”

  “And last Halloween, when we caught those kids egging the house?”

  She laughs out loud. “When you came after them, I swear, they screamed like you were the devil himself.”

  “Well, they probably thought that chain saw still worked.” I clear my throat. “Hey . . . remember that time when my father got in bad with some loan sharks and had to leave the country? And how I didn’t have to move to the Netherlands because you gave me a place to stay?”

  She looks down at her feet. “I was happy to do that.”

  “Maybe so, but if it wasn’t for you, I’d be smoking hash in some Amsterdam tulip bar right now. Look, I know it’s crazy. But I guess I’m not going to be able to do things like that with you next year. Not as much.” It breaks my heart to say it, but it’s true.

  “And that’s the way things are supposed to be!” interjects Jean.

  “Yeah, but prom is the last big high school thing. And I want to share it with my best friend. I know you missed your own dance—”

  Jean’s head jerks up. “Who told you that?”

  “You . . . you did.”

  A funny look crosses her face. Then she nods. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  I pause, a little worried, but I continue.

  “I think you and I would have a lot of fun. Let’s do it right. The limo, the tux, the works. Whadya say? Will you go with me? Make the other guys jealous?”

  She’s smiling. I can see her pearly-white dentures in the dark. “Well . . .”

  “C’mon. I didn’t rent a hipster guitar player for you to tell me no.”

  Jean bursts out laughing. “Are you sure your friends won’t think this is strange?”

  “Of course not.” And who cares if they do?

  She touches my hand and this time I let her. “Okay, Deacon. Let’s do this thing! Prom night! With the most handsome guy I know.”

  I smile. “That’s the spirit!”

  “On two conditions.”

  Damn.

  “First, you can back out of this at any time.”

  “Jean . . .”

  “No, listen. I still don’t buy this garbage of you not having anyone else you could ask. If you should find a young woman before the dance, I’ll happily bow out.”

  “Fine.” Leave it to my grandmother to think I’ll overcome eighteen years of awkwardness in under a month.

  “And second . . . I’m not much of a dancer. And I don’t think you are either. They offer dance classes over at the YMCA. Would you take lessons with me? I’d hate to make a fool of myself in front of all those young people. I’ll be uncomfortable enough as it is.”

  Dance lessons? It somehow hadn’t occurred to me that going to a dance meant . . . dancing. “Okay, Jean.”

  She stands and I follow. “Wow. I’m finally going to prom. And only fifty years too late.” She’s really smiling now. I take her arm and guide her down the hill.

  We’re doing this. We’re going to the dance together. Yeah, maybe it’s weird, but who cares? There’s honestly no one in the world I’d rather go with.

  Besides, it’s not like I’m going to meet the girl of my dreams in the next couple of days.

  Stay tuned for the next chapter, where Deacon meets the girl of his dreams.

  SIX

  I STAND IN FRONT OF MY LOCKER HOLDING MY lunch cooler. A guy in a gorilla suit named Leroy walks by me.

  The guy is named Leroy. I don’t know what the suit is named.

  Another promposal.

  Just like the one I arranged yesterday. I’m going to prom. We’re going to prom.

  I’m kind of psyched. The whole experience has given my ego a shot in the arm. Who knows? This time next year, I may be asking out girls who aren’t related to me.

  I start to head toward the library, where I have lunch with Kelli almost every day. She always reads while I sit near her. Sometimes she talks to me. Lately it’s been about her college plans, her biology major, her excitement about higher l
earning. Sometimes I pretend to be as excited as she is.

  But I’ve avoided her ever since Hunt’s proposal, even skipping lunch yesterday. I don’t really want to hear about her date. And to tell you the truth, I feel like a change of pace.

  Maybe I’ll have lunch in the cafeteria. Hey, why not? I’m a senior. It’s all about trying new things.

  The lunchroom is always crowded, but there are a few seats open here and there. I just have to find a spot and sit down. All casual like. Get to know some of the popular kids.

  “Deacon! Deacon, over here!”

  Or, I could just eat with Elijah.

  As I grab a chair and spread out the food Jean has prepared for me, I realize the girl sitting next to Elijah is there on purpose. I saw her the other day. It’s Clara, the girl he stalked into a prom date.

  She has short, mousy hair, a knobby frame, and a generous nose.

  And is absolutely adorable. Not like supermodel sexy, but definitely out-of-my-league cute. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m kind of jealous of Elijah.

  “You must be Deacon,” says Clara, with a smile that puts me at ease. “Elijah has told me so much about you.”

  Told her what? This is Deacon. He’s twelve feet tall and lives in the middle of nowhere.

  Elijah reaches for my baggie of carrot sticks. “Hey, Deke, rough go yesterday. But if you’re still interested in prom, Clara’s cousin—”

  “Actually,” I interrupt, “Jean said she would go with me.”

  “How sweet!” says Clara, before Elijah can react. “Does she go here? What’s she like?”

  I exchange a knowing look with Elijah. “I’ve known her forever. We’re good friends. She’s a lot of fun. And beautiful.”

  “Totally hot,” agrees Elijah. “Smoldering sexy.”

  “Elijah!”

  “I call it like I see it. Hey, listen, you wanna go halfsies on the cost of a limo?”

  I think about this. “Wouldn’t that be like eighty thousand dollars?”

  Clara giggles.

  “No, smartass,” says Elijah. “Seventy bucks each. You in?”

  That’s kind of a steep price. But I did promise Jean that we’d do prom right, and this might help defray the already mounting expenses (those tickets were costly, and I still owe Jason his fee). Of course, that would mean riding there with Elijah, but no plan is perfect.

  “Sure, man.”

  Clara and Elijah begin discussing reservations and things. They keep asking me to contribute to the plans, and before I know it, the bell rings. I only had a chance to eat two of my sandwiches.

  So how about that. I ate lunch with a total stranger and it wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as I’d expected. And it only took me two years.

  According to that one song, the YMCA is supposed to be a fun, crazy place. But the real building in Fayetteville is a bland, unassuming structure. This is where Jean goes several times a week to attend those adult education classes on arts and crafts. She doesn’t admit it, but I think she holds out hope that she’ll discover some latent talent and end up being the next Grandma Moses. I encourage her projects: the lopsided pottery, the creepy paintings, and the wonky calligraphy. I even went to her recital when she took that belly-dancing course. Ten postmenopausal women in harem pants. I still cringe when I hear sitar music.

  I was hoping all the dance classes would be full, but wouldn’t you know it, there’s one starting this very Thursday. Jean beams as we cross the parking lot. “We were lucky a class was open. The last time your grandfather took me dancing, disco was still big. Is that break-dancing thing still popular?”

  I shake my head and smile. Jean’s pop-culture references end in the late eighties, when my father left home. And I haven’t exactly been a good source of what’s trendy these days.

  The first letter in YMCA stands for “young,” but the building is full of senior citizens. Jean takes me by the arm and leads me to a classroom with a sign on the door:

  BEGINNING DANCE

  TUESDAY/THURSDAY

  4:30–5:30

  SORAYA SHADEE, INSTRUCTOR

  I’m guessing this Soraya learned to dance when the polka was the latest thing. I’m not encouraged when we enter the room. There’s about twenty people here, twice as many women as men. I’m pretty sure they’re all on the older side of fifty. Some by quite a bit. One woman even has a portable oxygen tank strapped to her belt.

  Jean seems quite at home and says hi to a couple of the women.

  “And this is my grandson, Deacon.”

  There’s a simultaneous gasp from her pals.

  “Her grandson!”

  “That’s so sweet!”

  “How adorable.”

  “Shirley, that’s her grandson!”

  “What’s that?”

  “I said her grandson brought her here!”

  I plaster on a smile. Much as I’m not looking forward to this, I kind of have to take this class. I want to do prom right. Which means I actually need to get out on the dance floor. Jesus, I haven’t danced with anyone since square dancing in eighth-grade gym class. My poor partner. She forgave me for stepping on her foot. Even let me sign the cast.

  I suffer through countless descriptions of how adorable I am. One woman pats my cheek. I’m about ready to fake a need to use the bathroom when the instructor walks in.

  Turns out I was wrong about her being ancient. She’s young, probably about my age. And she’s . . .

  Okay, here’s the part where descriptions become difficult. It’s easy for me to conjure up her face. It’s hard for me to relate it without sounding like I’m filing a missing person report. I mean, how would you describe the Mona Lisa? An Italian girl with a weird smile? Is the Grand Canyon just a big hole in the ground? Is Beethoven’s Ninth just a catchy tune?

  Well, by now you’re probably picturing Soraya as looking like your own dream date, so allow me to fill in the blanks. For starters, she stands out from the typical pasty-faced Arkansan. She’s not black, but has kind of a medium complexion, like she’s from Italy or Mexico or Arabia or North Africa or . . . well, you get the picture. Her hair is the darkest I’ve ever seen, so straight and long, hanging down over her shoulders. Her eyes—and I admit, they are not the first feature I notice—are big and brown. Her nose is narrow, her smile wide, and her legs slender.

  She’s dressed in sweatpants and a Razorbacks shirt, and she carries a boom box.

  I nearly have to take a hit of that one lady’s oxygen to stay upright. The room seems to swim. All the other students, even Jean, vanish. All I can see is Soraya. I have no idea what has affected my brain like this . . .

  Oh, bullshit. I know exactly what it is, and it doesn’t originate with my brain.

  Soraya sets down her radio and strides to the front of the room. I think one of Jean’s friends is talking to me, but I face the teacher like a good little student. The non-politically-correct part of my mind wonders if she has an exotic accent.

  “Welcome! It’s great to see y’all here.”

  Pure Arkansas Ozarks drawl.

  “I see a lot of familiar faces, and I’m pleased to see some new people as well.”

  She looks right at me when she says that. Like right directly at me. She’s pleased that I’m here.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Soraya. I teach dance and piano here. . . .”

  Jean, I want a piano for my birthday.

  “We’re going to learn a lot of dances in these next few weeks, but more importantly, we’re going to have fun.”

  Yes. Yes I am.

  “Now let’s begin with some stretches.”

  With Soraya in command, I willingly exercise for the first time in years. Though when she leans back and her shirt rides up, revealing an inch of her belly, I almost tumble over on my butt.

  “Okay, let’s start off with the Texas two-step. If everyone could pair off. It seems we have more ladies than gentlemen here today, so a few of you women will have to either pair up o
r sit out this first song.”

  There’s a depressing thought. Even at eighty, you still may have to stand on the sidelines watching the more popular kids dance.

  Soraya turns on a twangy tune. I move to take Jean’s hand and realize, to my shock, that she’s paired up with another guy. A lanky old geezer in a Confederate flag hat. I normally don’t like that symbol, but this guy is old enough to have actually fought at Bull Run.

  Someone is standing close to me. I look down at a pair of thick glasses and a head of silver hair. I smile.

  “Shall we?”

  I kind of assumed I’d suck at this, but, much to my surprise, we don’t do half bad. Soraya gives instructions and we just sort of follow the rhythm. Once you get the pattern down, it’s really not that hard. It helps that I don’t take my eyes off our instructor the entire time.

  “You’re such a sweetheart,” says my partner.

  “Yeah.”

  Soraya is going around the room, gently touching the dancers, moving them into more correct positions.

  “It’s so wonderful that you’re doing this with your grandmother. People say teenagers today are selfish, but I don’t believe that for a moment. My granddaughter Callie, for instance, you’ve never met a nicer girl.”

  “Yeah.”

  Soraya cuts in on a couple and begins dancing with the hopelessly awkward man. He smiles. I know I would.

  “Say, Deacon, is it? I should introduce you to Callie. She’s such a beauty, I think you’d like her.”

  “Uh . . . no thanks.”

  Soraya moves to the next couple over. She’s getting closer to us.

  “Why not? Don’t you like girls? Wait, maybe you don’t. There seems to be a lot of that going around these days.”

  I’m too distracted to correct her. One more couple, and then Soraya will be with us.

  “I should introduce you to my great-nephew, Nicholas. Such a nice boy. I think you’d like him.”

  Soraya stops to help the final couple fall into rhythm, then turns toward me.

  And the song ends.

  Typical.

  Soraya briefly smiles at my partner, then returns to the stereo. “Okay, everyone, same song. Switch partners, give everyone a chance to lead.”