Deacon Locke Went to Prom

by Brian Katcher

  I perk up. This conversation just took an interesting turn.

  “He meant well,” she continues. “But sometimes he likes to do things dramatically. He caught me off guard.”

  I mentally do handsprings. Maybe Jason’s promposal wasn’t as flawless as I’d thought.

  “Well, some guys always have to be the center of attention. So, um, are you still going to go to the dance with him?”

  Soraya looks away and I instantly realize it was a false hope. “I’ve known Jason almost my whole life. We’ve been friends forever. He’s helped me through some really bad times.”

  “What sort of bad times, Soraya?”

  “I’d rather not get into it.”

  No, that’s something you can only share with a real friend. Like Jason.

  “The thing is, he wants to go to prom. And I kind of do, too. As friends. I’m just sort of worried that there’s weirdness between you and me now. I don’t want that.”

  And now’s the time where I have to be the bigger man. I mean, I’m almost always the bigger man, but this time it’s hard.

  I shrug, like she’s silly for even bringing this up. “Soraya, I want you to have a good time. It’d be a shame if you didn’t put those dance skills to use.”

  Her resulting smile is almost worth it. Almost. “I’m so glad to hear that. I was afraid you were upset or something.”

  It suddenly occurs to me that since Jason goes to my school, Soraya will be going to my dance! My dance! I’m going to have to watch her and Jason all night. Oh, this keeps getting better and better.

  “I’ll see you there, Soraya.”

  I think we’re done, but she stands and walks over to me. She reaches up and places a hand on my shoulder. Just like when we danced. “Good. I hope Jean won’t mind if I steal a dance or two from you that night. And maybe when all this prom craziness is over, you and I will . . . I mean, I hope that just because class ends, we won’t stop hanging out.”

  “I’d like that, Soraya. A lot actually.”

  She lets go and starts to walk down the hill. Then she turns back.

  “I’m glad you’re taking Jean to the dance. I can tell she’s loving this. But . . . I’m a little jealous.” She vanishes down the hill.

  I pace around a bit. Open my cooler, then close it again. Adjust my telescope tripod.

  Huh.

  So maybe I had nothing to worry about after all. Seems she just was going to the dance with Jason for friendship’s sake. Probably felt sorry for the poor, insecure guy.

  But Soraya still wants to see me. Still wants to do stuff with me when prom is over and done with.

  So now I just have to play it cool. Bide my time. And above all, look impressive at prom. Show Jean a good time. And more importantly, show Soraya what she could have had.

  You know. If she’d just invented a time machine and met me a month before I asked Jean to prom.

  It doesn’t matter. That’s all in the past. I have to concentrate on what’s coming.

  Prom is going to be a night none of us are going to forget.

  THIRTEEN

  MY TUXEDO COMES WITH A LITTLE SHEET OF PRINTED instructions.

  That’s a good thing. Otherwise I might have worn my cummerbund with the vents facing downward. Can you imagine?

  Getting dressed for prom is an involved and somewhat humiliating process, especially when your father cannot help you because he’s probably selling guns to Russian gangsters. This shirt was obviously made for a stouter guy. It’s tight in the shoulders and billowy around my stomach. The pants are a tad too short, but I’m used to that. And, despite the rental place’s assurances, they were unable to locate dress shoes in my size. I’m forced to wear black sneakers.

  Still, as I look in the mirror that I brought in from the bathroom, I don’t look that bad. I trimmed my nails. I let one of Jean’s friends give me a haircut. I shaved.

  Yeah, the bow tie is still crooked and I really feel that I’m wearing the cuff links wrong, but still . . .

  I look kind of good.

  I mentally go over my checklist for the night. I got the tickets. Elijah rented the limo. I have money. I have everything . . .

  Except Soraya.

  I shake my head and smile sadly. It is what it is. She won’t be with me tonight. I’m going to have to suffer through a night of watching Jason dance with her. A guy who’s better-looking, more talented, more . . .

  No!

  Cut the bullshit, Deacon. Soraya kind of implied that she would rather be your date. She said she wanted to do something with you next week.

  I can deal with one night of Soraya and Jason. One night.

  I slap on some aftershave (a gift from my father for my ninth birthday) and go downstairs to meet Jean.

  “You almost ready?” I holler at her closed bedroom door.

  “One second, Deacon.”

  I lean against the wall and wait. I’m getting pretty psyched about tonight. True, I’m not going to prom with a girl—not really. But Soraya is actually going to be there. And I never would have met her had I not asked Jean to this thing. We are going to have a good time tonight. I’ll be able to look back on prom with a smile.

  And Soraya and I are going to get together sometime after prom is over. My God, am I actually going to have a date before I get out of high school? If this keeps up, I might have a girlfriend before I’m thirty.

  “Here I come!” Jean steps out of her room, and just for a second, I get a glimpse of what 1969 was like.

  And it’s beautiful.

  Her dress, unlike everything else about her, is understated. It’s dark blue, not especially revealing, and plain. But somehow, it’s fancy and amazing.

  Jean is wearing makeup, as usual. Not the caked-on mortician’s stuff that a lot of the women from dance class wear. Just some lipstick and cheek stuff. And her hair is all poofy now. And she’s wearing nonsensible shoes.

  She’s glowing. Not like a lightbulb, but like . . . like from inside. But still not like a lightbulb.

  “How do I look?” She twirls, giving me a whiff of perfume.

  “You look . . . young.”

  It’s not a mindless compliment. It’s not at all hard to picture her as someone my age, a young girl who was supposed to have a special prom night herself.

  “Well, thank you. I got this dress for your parents’ wedding. I haven’t worn it in years, but it still fits.”

  “You really look great.” It’s the truth. Tonight, I’m going to have the second-prettiest date at the prom.

  Jean smooths out the bottom part of her dress and sits at the kitchen table. “How long until your friends pick us up?”

  “About twenty minutes.”

  “Sit with me.”

  I obey.

  “Would you like a drink? I think there’s half a bottle of rum still in the cupboard from mah-jongg night.”

  I’m touched that she’s treating me like such an adult, but I don’t think I’d better. I don’t want to risk barfing before the big event.

  “No thank you.”

  Jean stares at me for a long moment. “Deacon, how long have you lived with me?”

  “About two years.” Not counting the various weeks and months when my father had to go out of town and dumped me here.

  “I hope you’ve enjoyed it here. Sometimes I feel like I’ve really let you down.”

  Her words are so utterly ludicrous that I wait for the punch line for a few seconds. When I realize she’s serious, I let out a sputter. “What the hell are you going on about? If it wasn’t for you, I’d be working with Dad, selling fake Rolexes in Prague or something.”

  She laughs. “Oh, how I wish you were kidding. I just wish . . . I wish that I could do more for you. I wish that I could surprise you at graduation and announce that I’m paying your tuition. Or that I’ve bought you a car. Or set up a trust fund for you. I wish I had something to give you besides two hundred dollars and a new desk set. Because that’s what you’re getting.”
/>   I swear, I’m almost ready to tear off my shirt like the Hulk, I’m getting so irritated. “Jean, I don’t know what’s gotten into your brain, but knock it off. Because of you, I learned wood carving, leatherworking, and first aid. If I didn’t live with you, I wouldn’t have seen you almost get arrested at that political rally. And of course I got to go on that pilgrimage to that quilting museum.”

  There’s a bit of a smile. “I didn’t think you enjoyed that.”

  “Well, not everything was a good memory. But you did all the things my father should have done. And I do not want you to think for a minute it wasn’t enough. I can make my own way. I . . . I’m a man now.”

  “That scares me, sometimes.”

  I smile. “It scares me too.”

  The doorbell rings.

  “I think that’s Elijah.”

  We stand. “You ready for a night to remember, Jean?”

  “Just lead the way.”

  It’s not Elijah at the door, but an older, darker man. He wears a gray suit and one of those brimmed caps like cops wear, though he’s not a cop.

  “Deacon Locke?” he says, with a slight accent.

  I nod.

  “I am Rodrigo, I’ll be your driver for the evening. Is your date joining us here?”

  “I’m coming,” calls Jean.

  Well, this is it. This guy will be the first to see me out with my grandmother. He can laugh at me if he wants to. But he better not say a word about Jean.

  Rodrigo doesn’t blink when Jean sashays into view. Seriously. He doesn’t blink.

  “You are coming with us, ma’am?” he finally asks.

  Jean takes my arm. “Yes. My handsome grandson is escorting me to his prom tonight.”

  Our driver continues to bore into her with his brown eyes.

  “How sad.” He steps back and gestures to his car with a half bow. “I was hoping perhaps you’d be free later.”

  Even I catch what he’s implying. Is it just the lighting out here, or is Jean going a little red as Rodrigo holds the limo door open for us?

  Elijah and Clara are already in the car, which is so big, they sit facing us. Elijah is busy playing with the passenger controls, gleefully raising and lowering the partition between us and the driver. Clara sits next to him. She wears a loose-fitting dark-green dress that calls attention away from her skinny, angular body and makes you focus on her face. Good call.

  She smiles. “You must be Mrs. Locke. I’m Clara.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Clara. Please, call me Jean.” She turns to Elijah.

  “You want some peanuts, Mrs. Locke? They’re free, I asked.”

  Jean clears her throat. “Young man, what’s your name?”

  “I’m Elijah.” Technically, he and Jean have already met, when he picked me up to go clothes shopping. He only got to talk at her for a few minutes, though I find it unbelievable anyone could forget Elijah without a blow to the head.

  Rodrigo turns and faces us through the half-raised partition. “Everyone have their seat belts buckled? Then let us be off.”

  “Ooh, that Spanish accent,” Jean whispers to Clara, who giggles.

  I had no idea Jean had a thing for guys from Spain.

  Clara and Jean make small talk on the ride to the dance. That leaves me facing Elijah and his goofy grin. I can’t help but notice that he and Clara are holding hands.

  It’s a short jaunt to the country club where the dance is being held. Rodrigo rushes to open the door and help Clara and Jean out.

  “I’ll wait here until you’re ready to leave,” he says as we stand in the parking lot. He then turns to Jean and hands her a business card. “And if you should need a driver in the future, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  Jean smiles and takes the card. The driver smiles back.

  “Remember to ask for me. Rodrigo.” He returns to his vehicle.

  Clara adjusts Elijah’s collar. Jean smiles at me. “Ready, Deacon?”

  And suddenly, I am. I’m ready. This evening isn’t about Soraya or Kelli or graduation. This is about me and Jean. About a fun night. About making some memories.

  I smile at my grandmother. “Damn straight.”

  She takes my arm and we walk toward the country club.

  FOURTEEN

  SWARMS OF STUDENTS ARE MAKING THEIR WAY toward the building. Each person is dressed all fancy. Everyone is laughing and talking and touching their dates.

  What are they going to say when they realize I’m here with my grandma? I remember watching my father sucker-punch some guy in a bar once. If someone makes fun of Jean, I can’t promise I’d be that calm and laid-back.

  We line up at the gate. I pull out our more-expensive-than-I-would-have-expected tickets. Up ahead, a teacher is making a student empty his pockets.

  I glance at a long list of rules posted on an easel near the door. No alcohol. No drugs. No overt displays of blah blah blah.

  And then I see a rule that makes me freeze.

  No one over the age of nineteen admitted.

  I get a horrible sinking feeling. They probably instituted that rule to avoid creepy twenty-eight-year-olds hanging around, but still . . . I never thought about this. What if they won’t let Jean in? What if this fun evening we’ve planned ends right now?

  The coach who’s taking the tickets looks up at Jean. His eyes narrow.

  “What’re you doin’ here?” he asks.

  “Excuse me?” responds Jean, in her formal, dismiss-the-telemarketer voice.

  “Mrs. Locke! It’s me, Mike Harold! I was on the track team with your son, back in the day.”

  Jean’s face breaks into a smile. “Why, Michael, it has been some time.”

  “You droppin’ off some kids?”

  Jean pats me on the shoulder. I try to look calm and harmless. “No, my grandson has kindly invited me to the dance.”

  Mr. Harold finds this hilarious and lets out a bellow of a laugh. “Deacon, your daddy, he was always pulling some kind of crazy stunt. He’s living in France, now, ain’t he?”

  “No, he’s in Amsterdam.”

  “Ah, Germany. You tell him I said hi, okay?” He takes our tickets and we walk in.

  Jean leans over to me. “I’ve known that boy since he was just out of diapers. And maybe they took him out of diapers too soon, if you catch my drift.”

  We both laugh as we step inside the ballroom.

  It’s dimly lit, which makes me happy. Hopefully no one will realize I’m wearing tennis shoes. There’s crepe paper and fancy decorations everywhere. Up front, a DJ plays a slow tune. Kids are milling about, but no one is dancing yet.

  Wow. We did it. We’re here at the dance. I’m here at the dance. Deacon Locke, the guy who once hid in the bathroom on the day we had to give oral reports in eighth grade. I made it to prom. It’s a pretty good feeling.

  I look over at Jean, to make some crack about how I hope she didn’t sneak any booze into the dance.

  But for the first time since I’ve known her, Jean doesn’t look rock steady. She looks kind of scared. Kind of nervous. This is the first time she’s been to a teenage social event since Nixon was in the White House. Maybe she hadn’t thought this through.

  I glance at my two companions. Clara clutches her purse to her chest. Elijah slouches and looks at the floor.

  Jeez, is everyone feeling nervous and awkward tonight? I’m glad I’m not the only one for once, but I hope everyone’s not expecting me to direct things this evening.

  “Deacon!”

  It’s Kelli. I do a double take. Now that she’s lost her glasses, let down her hair, and gotten a makeover, I’m suddenly struck by what a truly beautiful girl she is. Or was she always this lovely and I was too blind to see it?

  Just kidding. This isn’t a romantic comedy. Kelli’s wearing her glasses but not a bit of makeup. Her upper lip is still red and sore from her allergies. She’s just as frumpy and curvy and cute as ever. And I’m very glad to see her. She’s an island of stability on this unu
sual night.

  She’s not alone. “This is Hunt. Hunt, my friend Deacon.”

  Up close, Hunt looks like a dwarf from an epic fantasy movie. He’s not much taller than Kelli, but seems to be built entirely out of muscle and gristle. His head is so square I wonder how he gets his football helmet on.

  He nods at me and smiles but says nothing. I turn to my group. “Guys, this is Kelli. And this is Elijah and Clara and, um, my grandmother, Jean.”

  Kelli smiles at the first two names but stops when she notices Jean. She looks at me, then quickly back at my grandmother.

  “Hello. Um, are you chaperoning tonight, ma’am?”

  Jean beams. “No, dear. Deacon was kind enough to invite me as his date for the evening.”

  I don’t think Kelli believes Jean is being serious. She glances at me, then at Elijah, who nods.

  “Well . . . that’s sweet of you to go with Deacon, Mrs. Locke.” The look on her face says otherwise. Kelli looks . . . disappointed in me. Like taking Jean was an act of desperation on my part.

  I’m about to say something in Jean’s defense, but she beats me to the punch. “Sweet of me? It was sweet of Deacon! I tried to get him to ask out a girl from school, but he was determined to show me a fun time. Why don’t you ladies join me for a powder and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Before I know what’s happening, our dates are headed for the ladies room. Kelli turns and glances back over her shoulder and winks. I assume at Hunt.

  The three of us stand there awkwardly. I’d love to break the silence, but I’m not about to ask a couple of guys to go to the bathroom with me. Girls have it so easy.

  Hunt cracks his knuckles. Elijah pulls out a bag of peanuts and starts munching. When he sees me staring, he offers me one. I shake my head.

  Well. Only three or four more hours to go.

  Sometimes I wonder if I’m actually a character in a poorly performing situation comedy.

  I look up at the ceiling and beseech the writers for a romantic subplot.

  “So, you brought your grandma here?” asks Hunt out of nowhere.

  “Yeah. My grandpa was in the army, so she missed her own dance. Thought I’d make it up to her.”