Deacon Locke Went to Prom

by Brian Katcher

  I think Hunt has zoned out again, but after a moment he speaks. “My grandma died last year. She was always asking me to visit more.” He scratches his chin. “Good for you, man.”

  I feel just slightly better.

  There’s a smattering of laughter from the dance floor. The school counselor and one of the English teachers are fast dancing. They’re being ridiculous on purpose. Unlike me, they don’t mind when people watch them.

  Couples begin to pair off. Just a few at first. Most seem less serious than the teachers.

  Thankfully, the girls return at this time. All three of them are laughing. I’m glad Jean is fitting in.

  Funny, I just thought of my grandmother as one of “the girls.”

  Kelli directs us all to sit at one of the candlelit tables, and as none of us have a better idea, we follow her directions. Elijah and I clonk down next to our dates. Hunt gently takes Kelli’s wrap, then pulls out the chair for her. I assume he’s deliberately trying to make us look bad.

  “Mrs. Locke . . . ,” begins Kelli.

  “Please, dear, call me Jean.”

  “You never finished that story about your senior prank.”

  “Oh, it was really nothing. You see, at the time, there was a very antiestablishment attitude. Deacon’s grandfather was in the military, and . . .”

  I suddenly am rendered deaf to Jean’s story. Jason has walked in.

  He’s wearing a white tuxedo with tails. And a top hat. He’s wearing a goddamn top hat. And he has a cane tucked under his arm. I’d like to say he’s embarrassing himself and looks to all the world like someone just trying too hard.

  But he totally pulls it off. He looks good.

  Maybe that’s because of his date.

  I was prepared for this. I mean, it’s not like I expected Soraya to cancel on Jason at the last minute, leaving him humiliated and dateless in front of the entire school. Didn’t hope for that at all.

  But she’s here tonight.

  Now in my previous descriptions of Soraya, I may have implied that I find her to be attractive. Perhaps you didn’t catch that, it was subtle.

  But tonight, she transcends that. Tonight . . . she’s regal.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve only ever seen her in her casual clothes from dance class. But now, with her hair done, wearing makeup, and with a dress that shows off her bare shoulders and . . . curves . . . she looks like someone from a Hollywood red-carpet event. A woman who should be on the arm of a movie star or a deposed dictator.

  It’s not just her looks. The way she carries herself. So confident, so strong, so classy.

  And she’s holding Jason’s arm. Not really holding it, just barely touching it. Just touching his arm as he walks next to her and talks to someone he knows.

  Soraya Shadee is touching him, but he’s not paying attention. He’s in the presence of royalty and he blows it off.

  It makes me want to just grab him by his perfectly knotted tie and yank.

  The very thought is giving me intestinal pains.

  No, wait, my guts really do hurt.

  I come back to reality and realize Elijah is repeatedly driving his elbow into my ribs.

  “What’s your deal, Deke? Calm down.”

  Right. This night is not about me and Soraya. It’s about Jean. I refocus on her story.

  “. . . and I don’t think the principal ever got the cow smell out of his office.”

  I’ll have to ask her to repeat that tale later.

  Hmm. I wonder where the fire exit is. I should check.

  I look back across the room, where, by an odd coincidence, Jason is standing with Soraya. He’s ditched his hat and cane and is leading her to the dance floor by her delicate hand.

  She held my hand once.

  And now they are dancing. It’s a slow dance and he’s holding her close. Not obnoxiously close, but near enough.

  I feel a gentle hand on my arm. Fortunately it’s not Elijah’s.

  Jean smiles at me. “Shall we dance?”

  I stand with a smile. “My pleasure.” I offer her my hand and gently help her to her feet. My tablemates follow suit, and soon we’re all on the floor.

  Jean and I take a moment to find the beat, and soon it’s like we’re back in class. I deliberately face away from Soraya and her platonic, just-friends, nothing-else-going-on date.

  “Are you having a good time, Jean?”

  “I am. You know, I was a little nervous at first, but your friends are so charming. We talked quite a bit in the bathroom. That Kelli girl thinks very highly of you.”

  This is surprising. I kind of assumed she merely tolerated me. “Um, what else did you guys talk about?”

  Jean chuckles. “Clara is totally smitten with that Elijah boy. Kelli’s not so sure about her date, it could go either way.”

  “Look at you, gossiping like a teenager.”

  “Well,” says Jean, in a more serious tone, “at least one of us is.”

  We dance in silence for a minute. In my determination not to watch Soraya and Jason, I realize that Jean and I are being watched ourselves. People quickly look away when they’re spotted, but it’s easy to see that my older date is causing some heads to turn.

  Let ’em stare. I make an effort to stand up straighter. And when the DJ plays a faster number, Jean and I hold our own. Those lessons paid off.

  The more we dance, the more people watch us. And the more we’re being watched, the more determined I am to dance. This is my prom night, after all. And Jean’s prom night, about fifty years in the making. I don’t care what anyone else thinks.

  After three or four songs, Jean asks to sit down. This time I remember to pull the chair out for her. She’s not expecting this, and my gentlemanly gesture nearly turns tragicomic.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  She has out her purse and is reapplying her makeup. “I’m fine. Why don’t you see if one of your friends would like to dance?”

  “I’m not going to ditch you.”

  She doesn’t look up from her little mirror. “I need a moment to recharge my batteries. Please find someone else to dance with for a minute.”

  Years of living with Jean make me realize this is an unwinnable argument. “Fine. Where’s Elijah?”

  I don’t see anyone I know, so I wet my whistle at the punch bowl. I briefly worry that someone might have spiked it. Then I decide I’ve been watching too many situation comedies.

  “So spill it!”

  I reflexively clutch my drink before I realize it’s Kelli who’s talking. She’s staring at me with an intense grin, as if waiting for me to finish a joke.

  “Your grandma!” she clarifies. “What’s the story? And don’t tell me she was the only person who’d come here with you. There must be two or three girls in Arkansas who would have said yes.”

  “Well, we’re both seniors,” I quip.

  “C’mon, tell me!”

  Her smile is contagious. I’m about to explain about Grandpa and Vietnam and everything, but I stop. Is that really the reason I’m here with Jean tonight? Like Soraya said, I could have brought Jean to a seniors’ dance or something, and she would have been just as happy. I take a swig of my punch.

  “Kelli, Jean’s a lot more than a grandmother to me. Things were pretty rough before I moved to Fayetteville and she kind of adopted me. We’ve been through a lot together. More than I’d like to talk about. She’s my best friend. One of my few friends. And I wanted to share this evening with her.”

  Kelli’s smile widens. “Wow. Just when you think you know a guy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing important.” She then stops smiling and moves closer to me. “But I’ve seen the way you’ve been acting these past few weeks, with your new clothes and haircut. There’s some girl in your life besides Grandma. Fess up.”

  It’s a little embarrassing to talk about this with Kelli, but she’ll worm it out of me eventually. “See the girl in the blue dress ov
er there? The one talking to the douche in the white tux?”

  “Soraya Shadee?”

  “Yeah . . . wait, how do you know her?”

  Kelli watches her for a second. “We worked together on a project for famine relief in the Sudan last year.” She turns and looks at me. “Wow, Deacon, glad to see you finally went through puberty. Excellent choice.”

  I think I’m blushing a little bit. “Yeah, well, too bad she’s here with Señor Fancypants.”

  She just laughs. “So make her jealous. Find a pretty girl and ask her to dance.”

  I set down my cup and hold out my hand. “Shall we?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  A month ago, the thought of dancing this close with Kelli would have filled me with panic. But now that I’m actually doing it, I realize I was worried for nothing. Even with her chest pressing into my lower rib cage, it’s like I’m with one of the ladies from class. I enjoy dancing with her, nothing more.

  It’s a good feeling.

  “Hey, Deacon, don’t look now.”

  How am I supposed to not look? I glance over my shoulder, then wince.

  Jean is dancing again. Dancing with Mr. Anderson, my American History teacher from last year. The balding, potbellied man who once gave me a D because I had such a hard time working with other people on a group project.

  Kelli giggles. “Looks like Jean is making friends.”

  It looks like Mr. Anderson is going for more than that. He’s dancing a bit too close and smiling a bit too much for my taste.

  “Go cut in on them, Kelli.”

  “And dance with Anderson? Ew!”

  I distractedly dance as I watch my teacher hit on my grandmother.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Kelli advises.

  I force myself to turn away. “You’re right. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “They get married, and Mr. Anderson moves into your house and makes you start calling him Gramps.”

  “I’m really going to miss you next year.” And you know what? I am.

  The song ends and I quickly rescue Jean from my teacher. They both look slightly annoyed, but it’s for the greater good. Besides, she’s my date.

  Unfortunately, the DJ puts on a swingy, jazzy number. Something way out of our league. Something that’s probably beyond most of the dancers here. People begin to move to the edge of the floor.

  But then someone gasps. A girl cheers. The crowd begins murmuring over the music.

  Everyone has moved away from the center of the room. And I know what’s coming. I stare over the heads of the spectators, and my faint hope that it’s only a brutal fistfight disappears.

  Someone is dancing solo. And not in a pathetic way. No, he’s moving to the music like he’s surgically attached to the rhythm. He’s jumping, he’s sliding, he weaving. He bobs and slithers in a way I’ve only seen on television. He’s a better dancer than me. Better even than Soraya. His moves can only be described as beautiful.

  It’s Jason, of course.

  All the students stand and watch, clapping to the beat, enjoying how Jason is once again making himself the center of attention. And Soraya stands there, smiling and clapping.

  If she was my date, I wouldn’t ignore her. Never. I’d make damn sure she knew how much I enjoyed being with her. I’d have made this evening all about Soraya. Not about me.

  In front of us, a couple of girls whisper and giggle as they watch Jason’s performance.

  Funny. I go through life hoping no one notices me. Jason can’t stand it when people don’t notice him.

  I guess my question is, which does Soraya prefer?

  As the song climaxes, Jason leaps in the air and lands in a perfect split, something that should be impossible for a male in rented pants. Soraya comes over and helps him to his feet as the crowd cheers.

  I feel a hand on my arm.

  It’s Jean.

  She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t insult Jason or tell me to ignore him, or say that Soraya would rather be with me. I guess she realizes I don’t need empty words right now.

  Instead, she just takes my hand and smiles. And much as I wish Soraya was with me tonight, it doesn’t matter. I’m here with my friend. I’m having a good time. That’s all that’s important.

  “You ready to show ’em how it’s done?” I ask.

  “Just try and stop me.”

  FIFTEEN

  NEITHER JEAN NOR I SIT DOWN FOR ANOTHER THREE hours. I’m not entirely sure what happened. One minute, Jean and I are dancing. The next thing I know the song is over and some guy is standing in front of her with his hand out and a grin on his face. Not a teacher this time. A classmate.

  She ditches me for the new guy. But I’m only alone for a second before his date has pulled me out on the floor. And so it begins.

  Every time a song ends, Jean and I are shunted off to another partner. At first, I worry that guys are asking her to dance because they think they’re being funny, or worse, because they’re trying to be polite to an old woman. But then people keep coming up to me, complimenting me on my date.

  “She is so adorable, Deacon!”

  “Dude, your grandma kicks ass.”

  “Hey, Deacon, do you think she’d buy us some beer?”

  Eventually, I just roll with it. Besides, every time Jean dances with someone, I have to entertain his date.

  And after practicing with the grandmas at the YMCA for a month, I can actually dance with a girl my own age without sweating.

  So how about that. I’m meeting people. Fitting in. Just like a regular guy.

  A guy who needed his grandmother to help him make friends, but still.

  There’s just one final step. One last thing I need to do to make this evening truly great.

  I haven’t lost sight of Soraya since we got here. I glance at her whenever I get a chance. Sometimes she’s dancing with another guy. Sometimes she’s sitting with other girls. Most of the time, she’s with Jason. Sometimes he even remembers to include her in his dance moves.

  And suddenly, he’s gone. Probably to the restroom to powder his nose. And prom will be ending soon.

  It’s now or never.

  I regret my long legs as I cross the floor in a matter of seconds. She sees me coming and smiles.

  “Soraya?”

  This shouldn’t be hard. I’ve danced with her a half dozen times before in class.

  Five times. Exactly five times.

  But now we’re no longer teacher and student. She’s a beautiful girl, standing at a dance alone, and I’m . . .

  Oh, dear God. I’m Deacon Locke.

  Kind of wish I’d remembered that before I came over here.

  “Would you like to dance?” I hear myself say.

  She doesn’t answer. She just places one hand on my shoulder and the other in my palm.

  And tonight, I lead.

  At first, we don’t make eye contact. We both kind of look off to the side. But after a few beats, we start angling our necks. Slowly, like stalking a deer. Afraid a sudden move will startle the other one. And after a minute, I’m looking into Soraya Shadee’s endless eyes.

  We smile.

  “It seems my lessons paid off,” she says softly.

  “I had an excellent teacher.” God, I can smell her perfume. It’s not the scent she wore to dance class, though in retrospect, that might have just been her deodorant.

  “Deacon, can I tell you something?” She looks nervous. I stiffen, unsure of what’s coming.

  “When you first told me you were taking your grandmother to prom, I thought . . . I thought that was strange. Not weird strange,” she quickly amends. “I just was wondering what your angle was. At first I thought you were some kind of hipster, just trying to be ironic. And then I wondered if maybe you had a social anxiety disorder, or your father had really screwed you up. But when I finally got to know you and Jean, I realized something.”

  I hope it’s not something bad. I’d just as soon she not
tell me.

  “I realized that you’re unique.”

  I try to smile. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “I mean it in a good way. You wanted to have fun at prom, and so you brought Jean. That took courage, but it also took a genuinely nice guy. Someone who doesn’t try to be normal.”

  “Sometimes normal isn’t an option.” I’m trying to be funny, but she smiles like I’ve said the most profound thing in the world.

  There’s a burst of laughter. We turn to see Jean, dancing with a basketball player. Everyone around her is cracking up, but in a friendly way. She’s having a good time.

  I’m shocked when I feel Soraya pull me closer to her. “Don’t ever change. I know too many people who live their life trying to be what they’re not. With you, what you see is what you get, and that’s kind of great.”

  She thinks I’m great.

  “Soraya, I’m glad I brought Jean here tonight. But it’s not like . . . well, part of me wishes I was here with . . . someone else.”

  She ducks her head for a moment. I think she’s about to speak, but the music suddenly ends. And then the DJ says something about the last song of the evening. I can see Jason approaching. I suppose I should go. I need to get back to Jean anyway. I step away.

  “Soraya?”

  She’s walking toward Jason, but she turns and looks in my direction.

  “Call me,” she mouths.

  An hour later, I lie back in my seat in the limo. Across from me, Clara leans on Elijah’s shoulder. She’s lightly dozing. Elijah has a look of pure rapture on his face.

  Jean hums quietly to herself, a wistful smile on her lips. Without looking at me, she reaches over and takes my hand.

  “Thank you. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  “I should thank you.”

  Rodrigo puts on some slow, sleepy music as he drives us home. I can see the stars through the sunroof. Tonight couldn’t have gone more perfectly. Jean finally got her school dance. I went to prom and danced with a bunch of girls.

  And best of all, Soraya told me to call her. Dance class has ended, but maybe not us.

  I have a very good feeling about the future.

  The end. Seriously. Deacon learned to come out of his shell, and he’s going to go out with Soraya. Book’s over. The next two hundred pages are acknowledgments.