Deacon Locke Went to Prom

by Brian Katcher

  “You know, according to a Cherokee legend, the Milky Way was created when a giant dog . . .”

  We are treated to the creation myths of the Chinese, Celts, and Polynesians. Soraya listens with rapt enthusiasm. I assume. I don’t dare look over at her. But when Jason starts talking about the Inuit, she says she has to get back home. We all stand.

  “Let me walk you back to the car,” I say.

  “Nah, we’ll be fine,” says Jason. He claps his hands once. “Deacon, thanks so much for the invitation. I had a great time.”

  Ever eat a 1.25-inch Sirius Plossl eyepiece, Jason?

  But as Jason is dusting himself off, Soraya approaches me. And takes my hand. In both of hers. She looks up at me.

  “Yes, thank you, Deacon.” Her brown eyes glimmer in the lantern light. “I really had fun.”

  And then she follows Jason down the hill.

  I stare after them, long after Jason’s Lamborghini Porsche Rolls-Royce Mercedes vanishes down the road. With Soraya.

  For some reason, I think back to an incident that happened when I was about fourteen. We were living in Chicago at the time. One night, my dad took me to meet with some guys in an abandoned warehouse. They were not a friendly-looking bunch, and I’d never seen my father look so scared. I was already over six feet tall then, and just before we left, one of the men took me aside and told me I could come work for him as a bodyguard when I was older.

  One more night like this, and I think I might go look him up.

  ELEVEN

  ELIJAH AND I SIT IN THE FAYETTEVILLE MALL’S FOOD court. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to a mall.

  Elijah chows down on a Taco Bell burrito, while I pick at some weird thing with lots of cheese and sour cream. We’ve just been measured for our prom tuxes. It took about ten minutes for Elijah to finish. With me, the manager had to make several phone calls before the store branch in Springfield, Missouri, confirmed they had a suit in my size.

  Elijah has kind of coached me through the whole prom labyrinth: the tickets, the tux, and the limo, which we’re going to be sharing. He won’t admit it, but I think he’s been mentally planning this night long before he met Clara.

  He leans back and lets out a long, satisfied sigh. “They need more restaurants here,” he observes, the moment his mouth is empty. “A sandwich shop or something. Maybe I’ll open one someday. I’ll call it ‘Billy, Don’t Be a Gyro.’”

  Like most interactions with Elijah, I’m not really listening. I think back to last night. To Soraya and Jason. Part of me worries I’m just being overly sensitive. I did tell her that other people were coming over. Why wouldn’t she bring her obnoxious little friend? Hell, that wasn’t the first time Jason had been over to my house. He probably figured he was welcome.

  On the other hand, I could see the way he was trying to impress her. Trying to be all cool and knowledgeable around Soraya. Basically doing the things that I couldn’t.

  So where do I go from here? I’ll see her again at dance class this Tuesday. Should I play it smooth, like nothing happened? Should I ask her out again? Should I just bang my head into the floor? And what is that weird noise? That strange and unusual sound?

  It’s silence. Elijah is not talking. He’s sitting there looking at me.

  “Huh?”

  “I asked you how the thing with Soraya went. Did you aurora her borealis? Unfasten her Kuiper Belt? Cross her event horizon? Fire your retro rockets?”

  “How long did it take you to think all those up?”

  “Several hours,” he says with a grin. “So spill. What happened?”

  “Well, she showed up at my house . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “With Jason.”

  Elijah winces. “Damn.”

  “It’s my fault. I acted like it was just a friendly get-together, like you suggested. So I guess it’s really your fault.”

  “So are they dating or something?”

  “I dunno. I don’t think so. But I think maybe he’d like that.”

  Elijah has sucked all the guts out of his burrito. He neatly folds the tortilla and dabs his lips with it. “All is not lost. Actually, this might work to your favor.”

  “She shows up on our date with another guy, and that works to my advantage?”

  “The first date is always awkward. You spend half the evening listening to her talk about how she has a headache, and you’d be better off as friends, and that she’s moving to Peru next week. Quite frankly, I consider myself lucky that Clara didn’t teargas me the first time I talked to her. Now, you had a bad evening, but I’m sure it wasn’t the worst date you’ve ever been on, am I right?”

  “Actually . . .” I rub the back of my neck.

  Elijah misinterprets this. “Seriously? That was your worst date?” He smooshes his tortilla with his fist. “Of course. I guess rejection is something new for you. You’ve probably never even had a girl say she forgot her purse in the car, and then drive off.”

  “Elijah . . .”

  “And it was my car!”

  “Elijah! Look . . .” I like that he thinks I’m more experienced than I am. But Elijah has a girlfriend and I’d like one. If I’m going to get his advice, I need to be honest. “Elijah, I’ve never actually . . .” God, it’s so embarrassing to say I’ve never been on a date.

  “Never what?”

  “I’ve never . . .” How do I put this?

  He suddenly laughs. “Oh! Don’t worry, man, lots of people haven’t.” He glances around, then leans toward me. “Believe it or not, I haven’t—”

  “No! Oh, God, that’s not what I’m talking about.” Though it’s still true.

  “What, then?”

  “I’ve never . . .”

  “Been in love? Had to compete for a girl? What??”

  “I’ve never been on a date, okay!” I quickly look around. “I’ve never had a girlfriend, never gone out with anyone.”

  He just stares at me. “Seriously? Big guy like you?”

  “My family moved a lot. So about Soraya—”

  “Hang on. What about junior-high dances? Those count.”

  “No.”

  “New year’s midnight kiss?”

  “No.”

  “Sitting in a tree? K-I-S-S-I-N-G?”

  I’m almost tempted to get up and leave. “No. Never. Happy?”

  He grins a very smug, very punchable smile. “It’s okay, man. Look. The point is, Soraya knows you, and likes you enough to want to do stuff with you. That’s half the battle. Now you just need to make sure that next time you get together with her, you’re alone. Get her into a situation where there’s no one else around, where Jason can’t show up.” He waggles his eyebrows.

  “What? Like the back of a car or something?” I’m really not comfortable with that.

  “Uh, no. I mean like a movie. Or just ask her to go for a walk with you. The more time she spends with you, the more she’ll get to know you.” He stands and begins gathering our trash. I follow.

  “But what if she ends up thinking that I’m a giant, nerdy moron who repels and disgusts her?”

  “Then you’ll know that too.”

  TWELVE

  IT’S DANCE CLASS DAY. JUST LIKE EVERY TUESDAY. Except it’s not. This afternoon, I’m going to ask Soraya out to the movies.

  I dig through Grandpa’s clothes for something stylish to wear. I find an outfit in fairly good shape. It’s kind of neat, actually. The pants legs are wide at the bottom, and the lapels are great-big. The fabric is so white it almost glows. I like it. It’s very retro.

  Jean gives me a long look when she sees me but doesn’t say anything. I’m too busy going over the movie schedules in my head to worry.

  Let’s see, Agent Zero is playing at the Fiesta 16 at 6:00, 7:20, and 9:00; at the Razorback Cinema at 8:00 and 10:00; and the Hollywood Twelve on the hour starting at 6:00. Brown Eyed Girl is playing at the Fiesta at . . .

  We arrive. When we enter the dance room, I’m surprised when m
ost of my elderly classmates compliment me on my new clothes. Johnny tells me he had the same suit back in 1975.

  Yeah, I’m a winner.

  Soraya is a little late. She smiles at me as she walks through the door, though she does kind of a double take when she sees my new clothes. I guess she never thought of me as stylish.

  The lesson passes in a blur. I’m too busy trying to recall movie times to pay attention, and I end up swinging one of my partners backward into a wall.

  Finally, we’re finished. I take a deep breath. This is it, Deacon. Time to ask her out. I’m psyched. I’m prepared. I’m calm. I don’t even care that I can’t remember which theater is showing Summer Love at eight. I’m going in.

  Soraya smiles when she sees me approaching. I think she knows what’s coming. I join her on the bench.

  “Interesting outfit.”

  “Thanks. It was my grandfather’s.”

  She laughs into her hand. “I guess gigantism isn’t the only thing that runs in your family.”

  I laugh with her, not quite catching the joke.

  “Hey, Deacon? I hope it was okay that I brought Jason the other night. He was my only ride.”

  I shrug. “Hey, no problem.”

  “I had a fun time. I hope maybe we can do something again sometime.”

  I really have to stop myself from doing the touchdown shuffle right now.

  “So, Soraya . . .”

  My courage is steadfast. My guts are standing firm. A lone bugle rallies me to action.

  No, wait, someone really is playing a horn.

  He’s standing in the doorway of the classroom, playing smooth jazz on a trumpet.

  It’s Jason. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but he’s here. He’s wearing a suit. And a fedora.

  In case I haven’t mentioned it, he’s not a 1930s private eye.

  Everyone in the class is watching him, including Soraya. And yeah, he’s just as talented on the trumpet as he is with his guitar. But so what? Do you really need everyone to focus on you all the time, Mr. Horny? I hope he’s mobbed by rats like the piper in that fairy tale.

  Suddenly, three other guys follow him into the room. One has a guitar, another carries a set of bongos, and the last drags one of those enormous instruments that look like giant violins. Wordlessly, they begin to jam with Jason.

  Everyone is enthralled. Jean clutches her hands in front of her, a dreamy look on her face. Soraya is grinning. One of the men from class begins tapping his cane to the rhythm.

  Jason finishes his song and lowers his instrument, though the other three keep playing. I hope this means the song is almost over. But then Jason says something that makes me realize that all is lost and that the universe is a cold and hateful place.

  “Soraya?”

  No. No, no, no, no, no!

  She stands. She walks forward. She looks hypnotized. I want to grab her, pull her out of the room, but I already know it’s too late.

  Jason smiles. It’s a shy, awkward smile. He’s totally faking it.

  “Soraya, we’ve known each other since first grade. You and I, we’ve been through a whole lot together. You’re one of my closest friends. And I just wanted to ask you . . .”

  He steps forward. He gently takes her hand. She lets him.

  “Soraya Shadee, will you go to prom with me?”

  The other musicians stop, except for the drummer, who is pounding out a rhythm so faint that I can barely hear it.

  And just as I’m slinking toward the door, just as I have my hand on the knob to crawl out of here, defeated and ashamed, Soraya turns. And she looks right at me.

  And for one stupid second, I think she’s going to tell Jason no. She’s going to turn him down, because I was the one she invited to meet Mr. Oinky Pig the other day. Me. Not Jason.

  But then she turns back to him.

  “Okay, Jason.”

  The room erupts in cheers. Jason laughs, pretending to look relieved. And everyone in class claps for them. Including me. It’s what the loser does. He congratulates the winner, who just effortlessly took away the only thing the loser ever really wanted.

  No point in a movie today. Soraya has prom plans to make.

  Exit Deacon, stage right.

  Jean doesn’t say anything on the drive back home and I’m grateful. All I can think about is how excited I’d been over the stupid prospect of asking Soraya to some dumb movie. And now we’ll probably never go.

  Can’t say I blame her. A girl like Soraya deserves someone special. Someone who can play a musical instrument and knows about hair products and Greek mythology.

  I just wish she hadn’t made saying yes to him look so easy. I wish . . .

  Wishes are stupid.

  I lie on my bed, staring at the bare ceiling. This used to be my father’s room. When I moved in, Jean said I could decorate it however I wanted. As I glance around at the star charts, NASA posters, and clippings from astronomy magazines, I no longer see my comfortable little sanctum. I see the room of a guy who spends his life staring at little white dots in the sky.

  Maybe it’s not too late to ask out Soraya. I’ll see her again on Thursday. Maybe we could go back to the park and talk about . . .

  Talk about what she’s going to wear to prom.

  Do I really want to hang out with a girl who’s going to the dance with another guy? Someone she’s known a lot longer and who has perfectly straight teeth and good posture?

  I need to talk to someone. But Elijah’s advice didn’t work. Neither did Jean’s or Kelli’s.

  Sometimes I wish I knew more than three people.

  I wonder what my father would say. He used to always have women hanging around him, though his dates always had the aura of a business arrangement. And then there was the disastrous time when I was fifteen and he took me to that strip club. The memory almost makes me cringe.

  Then again . . .

  I can’t seek my father out for advice on matters of the heart. But what about his father?

  Yes, I know he’s dead. But he landed Jean. Romanced her. Kept her interested while he was away for over a year. He must have done something right.

  And his letters are in my desk drawer. I stuck them there right after Jean showed them to me.

  Maybe reading them might help. Give me some inspiration. A little of the ol’ Locke charm. Some phrases I can blatantly plagiarize and use to show Soraya that I can be as sensitive and charming as you-know-who.

  I spread the letters reverently on my desk. They’re crinkly and yellow, with edges worn smooth by time. The postmarks are mostly still visible, and it doesn’t take me long to find the earliest one, dated 1968.

  C’mon, Grandpa Howard, show me how to be charming.

  I open the letter.

  Dear Jean,

  It’s hot here in South Carolina. Now that basic training is over, I guess I’m going to be here for a while. I’ll try to come home and visit soon. They’ve got me working in the warehouses, but that may just be temporary. I miss you. Say hi to your parents.

  Howard

  Okay. Even I can tell that wasn’t exactly Shakespeare. But it sounded like he had just arrived at his . . . base? Fort? Camp? So he was probably just dropping Jean a quick line. I replace the letter and open another. This one is dated a month later, so I guess not all Grandpa’s letters are in this stack.

  Jean,

  Sorry I haven’t written. Thanks for the cookies. The food here is bad, mostly chipped beef on toast and stuff. I’m still in the warehouses. I’m getting paid now, but it’s not a lot. Miss you.

  Howard

  Seriously, Grandpa? One paragraph? Even I know Jean deserved more. This was back in the days before email and cell phones, so this was probably their only line of communication. I quickly read more letters.

  —My athlete’s foot is a lot worse.

  —Could you send more of those lemony cookies?

  —There’s been an outbreak of food poisoning.

  —You can’t get go
od soap at the PX.

  Not one letter is over a page long and most are much shorter. All of them talk about the mundane life of a soldier in South Carolina. He never once asks Jean about her life or what’s going on back home.

  I become disgusted before I’m even halfway through the pile and place them back in my desk. Another dead end.

  And it kind of drives home something I’ve feared for a long time.

  Soraya—smart, talented, beautiful Soraya—is out of my league.

  Maybe she doesn’t realize it yet. But Jason does. I don’t have his music. His words. His looks.

  And as of about six o’clock today, I don’t have Soraya.

  I never really did.

  The following Tuesday, I sit alone up on astronomy hill. I told Jean I didn’t really feel like going to dance class today. Same as last Thursday.

  Of course, I can’t keep avoiding Soraya. There’s only one week left of dance class, and prom comes shortly after. I have to face her. Pretend I’m happy about her prom date.

  I hear Jean’s car pull up. She’s never mentioned the humiliating incident from last week, but I think she wants me to talk about it. In fact, I can hear her walking up the hill. I’m about to get a speech about how things are not nearly as bleak and hopeless as they seem.

  There’s no use putting this off. I turn to face Jean.

  And it’s not Jean. It’s Soraya.

  Great. Now I’ve gone insane. I’m seeing things.

  But she sits at the picnic table, just as graceful and lovely as the day she agreed to go to prom with Jason.

  “Your grandmother invited me here. I asked her why you’d missed class, and she said you hadn’t been feeling well.”

  Wonderful. I’m not going crazy. Now I have to pretend to be happy.

  I grin. “Just a bit of a bug. Didn’t want to spread it to the older folk in class.”

  She doesn’t return my smile. “Deacon, I want to talk to you about what happened at dance the other day. You ran off before I had a chance to say anything.”

  “No, it’s okay. Please don’t worry about it.” Please don’t. I don’t want to hear about what a nice and wonderful guy Jason is.

  “No, I have to say this. I really wish Jason hadn’t asked me to prom in front of everyone like that.”