Deacon Locke Went to Prom

by Brian Katcher

  SIXTEEN

  IT’S EARLY SUNDAY MORNING. DESPITE THE LATE night, Jean is off at the sunrise church services, while the rest of us sinners sleep in. I lie on my back, hugging my pillow and staring at the watermarks on my ceiling.

  Last night was pretty amazing. I had fun. Jean had fun. Elijah and Clara had fun. But that’s not what’s important.

  The important thing is that Soraya asked me to call her.

  I’ve watched enough movies to know that there’s endless debate about how long you’re supposed to wait to call a girl so as not to seem desperate. I rack my brain with indecision. Do I call her this morning, or not until the afternoon? Or should I play hard to get and wait until tomorrow?

  Then again, is a phone call the right way to handle this? How hard is it to learn to play the guitar? It’s just that the telephone is so impersonal. . . .

  The phone. The phone is ringing downstairs.

  Neither Jean nor I own a cellular. Jean’s kind of a technophobe. I think she’s still getting used to a phone you don’t have to crank. Me, I never had anyone I needed to call, at least not until this month. The only phones in the house are on the wall in the kitchen and in Jean’s bedroom.

  They’re ringing.

  Maybe it’s Soraya. It might be. She could be calling me.

  I leap from the bed, violently untangling myself from the sheets. I tear down the stairs, barely keeping my footing. God, what if she hangs up?

  Stumbling into the kitchen, I catch my toe on the corner of Jean’s easel and go sprawling, just as I grab the phone. The cord stretches as I go down, but it stays attached. I do a full-body belly flop on the linoleum, causing the entire house to tremble. Choking back sobs of agony, I breathe into the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “DUUUUDE!”

  It’s Elijah.

  I clutch my dislocated toe as painful tears run down my nose. Not the best way to start the day.

  “Dude?”

  I look at the clock on the oven and count to three. “You’re aware that it’s seven fifty-five in the morning, right?”

  “I tried to text you, but it wouldn’t go through.”

  “This is a landline.”

  “A what? Look, there’s something on YouTube you gotta see.”

  I consider letting go of the receiver and watching it slingshot across the room as the cord snaps back. “Elijah, is someone holding you hostage? Clear your throat if there’s a gun pointed at your head.”

  “I’m serious. You got to see this.”

  “I don’t have internet access.”

  Silence. I think he’s going to hang up, allowing me a dignified death here on the kitchen floor.

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “What? No . . .”

  The line goes dead.

  He makes good on his threat and shows up on my front porch, barely seven hours after we parted company last night, still wearing his prom shoes. He smiles when I open the door and attempts to come in.

  I do not move aside.

  “Elijah, I am a large man and it’s very early. I’m not sure it’s advisable for you to be here at the moment.”

  He just grins and holds up a sack from the doughnut place.

  I sigh. “C’mon in.”

  He’s got his phone out before we’re even seated in the kitchen.

  “You gotta look at this, Deke.”

  I personally never saw the allure of internet video things. “It’s not the monkey drinking its . . .”

  “No! Look!”

  I squint at the screen. It’s a shaky amateur clip. Looks like it was filmed at some kind of dance. Some huge guy is dancing with an older . . .

  Shit. I glare at Elijah.

  “I didn’t film it! But look, over two thousand hits since last night. You’ve gone viral!”

  I jab at the screen in an attempt to shut down the video. Eventually, he takes the phone away from me and does it himself.

  “Is there any way I can get these YouTube people to take that down?”

  He looks more baffled than usual. “Why would you want to do that? You’re famous!”

  I glower at him and he scoots away just a bit. “I don’t care about me. It’s Jean. If she’s out there in computer land, people are going to see her.”

  “So?”

  “So? Elijah, correct me if I’m wrong, but are people on the internet always respectful and polite when discussing strangers?” Especially a sweet little old lady at a high school prom.

  He looks down at his phone. “I see what you mean. But I wouldn’t let this shake you. Tomorrow, you’ll be replaced by the latest celebrity nip slip.”

  “Oh boy.”

  We’re silent for a moment. “Did you really come all the way over here just to show me that?”

  “Yes.” He answers far too quickly. “Well . . . did you and Jean have fun last night?”

  “We did.” It’s clear he wants me to ask the same question. “Did you and Clara?”

  I swear, it’s like a cork being popped.

  “YES! God, yes! I mean, I couldn’t tell if she was really into me or not, but last night everything totally freaking worked! I mean, wow! She told me I was funny! She said I looked good in my tux! She’s already talking about things we can do this summer. And last night, after the limo dropped us off, we sat on her porch swing and . . . wow. Okay, I’m done. But wow.”

  I can’t help but smile. “I’m glad it worked out for you.”

  “But the twenty-seven-dollar question is, how did it go for you, Deke? Was Soraya there? Did you ask her to dance?”

  I’d like to brag how she totally asked me to call her (and, by implication, eventually buy a retirement condo together in the Carolinas). But my past catches up with me and I’m suddenly not so confident. I mean, I’m bound to blow this somehow, right?

  Elijah is still waiting for an answer. I shrug, then wave my hands helplessly as I try to think of a way to describe my situation.

  Surprisingly, he nods solemnly. “Been there myself, man.”

  Is everyone’s love life as screwed up as mine? Doubtful. But Elijah’s solidarity calms me down, just a bit.

  We both turn as we hear Jean come in through the front door and enter the kitchen. “Deacon? Who parked that little clown car—” She stops when she sees Elijah. “Oh, hello, kiddo.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Locke. Did you know you and Deacon are trending on YouTube?”

  She turns to me. “Tell your friend he can stay for breakfast if he learns to speak English.”

  Elijah grins. Soon, we’re both sitting in front of a stack of banana pancakes, the doughnuts long forgotten.

  No matter what happens to me at college next year, I’m going to miss the home-cooked meals. I’ll have to enjoy this while I can.

  Jean joins us. We’re about to dig in when she turns to Elijah with a smile.

  “So, young man, do you go to Deacon’s school?”

  At lunch that Monday, I sit in the library consumed with worry. Jean spent all of Saturday evening with Elijah. Then on Sunday morning, she doesn’t recognize him. He blew it off as a joke. But I can’t stop thinking about her memory lapse.

  It was just a senior moment, right?

  It’s got to be. All morning long, classmates stopped me in the hall, asking about Jean and talking about how fun she was. Her behavior at prom, that wasn’t the way a doddering old lady would act. She’s just a little forgetful, that’s all.

  Hell, my teachers are always joking about their memory, or their backs, or their eyesight, and they’re mostly much younger than Jean. It’s just a part of getting older.

  Still . . .

  A hand swats me in the back of the head, soft enough to be playful, but forceful enough to kind of hurt.

  “Hey, Kelli.”

  “Deacon, could you come with me to the campus today? I need to set up the stage for the Haitian relief thing, and I think there’s going to be heavy lifting.”

  I don’t turn around. “No
t today, if you don’t mind.”

  “Whoa, what’s wrong? The pressures of fame getting to be too much?”

  I wonder if I should talk to her about the incident with Jean. “No, I . . . wait, what?”

  “Have you seen this?” She shoves her phone at me.

  “That YouTube thing? Yeah, Elijah showed me.”

  “No! This just went up. Look!”

  I squint at the tiny screen.

  KZAR Tulsa. REAL ROCK RADIO.

  The station’s logo shifts to the face of some hip guy, apparently the DJ.

  “And for those of you rockers who couldn’t get a date for the big dance, check out what this young stud did.”

  It cuts to a clip of Jean and me dancing. It’s not the same one from the other video. How many people were filming us the other night?

  The disc jockey continues his smooth voice-over. “This gentle giant apparently brought his grandmother to prom! Not sure of the story here, but look at them go!”

  Kelli chuckles as I violently dip Jean.

  “Hope this couple had fun!” says the DJ. “And why not? And least he didn’t have to worry about getting her back in time for curfew . . . just Wheel of Fortune. And forget about trying to sneak beer into the dance, how about a flask of Metamucil?”

  On the screen, I twirl Jean.

  “Seriously, we wish these two the best. If any of you rockers know who they are, drop me a line. We’d love to have them on. . . .”

  A loud, prerecorded message takes over.

  “MADCAP MIKE MYRON IN THE MORNING, KZAR NINETY-NINE POINT ONE, TULSA!”

  Kelli laughs. “How do you like that? You and Jean are famous.”

  “No, we’re not.” Famous people are manufactured in a factory near Hollywood.

  “Check out the comments, Deacon.”

  I read them with a growing sense that Oklahomans are desperate for entertainment.

  TOTALLY ADORBS

  HE COULD TAKE ME TO A DANCE ANY DAY

  KIND OF A SEXY FIGURE FOR A 80 YR OLD

  BEND OVER AGAIN BIG GUY

  U KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT CHICKS WITH NO TEETH

  “I need to call that radio station and lodge a complaint.”

  Kelli smacks me in the back of the head again. I’m beginning to find it less endearing. “Don’t be an idiot. You should enjoy this.”

  I’m helplessly trying to search for the station’s phone number on her phone. “Why? And what about Jean? Look at the way people are talking about her!”

  Kelli shakes her head, removes her glasses, and begins to clean them on my shirt. “Your grandmother is a big girl and won’t care. Seriously, Deacon, you should be proud of this. When did you learn to dance, anyway?”

  I’m not sure if I should believe her. “Why would anyone care about stuff like this?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Maybe you don’t see it, but I do. The dominant paradigm in our society places an emphasis on outcome-based models of constructivist nomenclature, overarching the taxonomy of nontraditional matriarchal neoclassism.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Girls, Deacon. Call up Soraya tonight.” She takes the phone back from me and stands. “She’ll say yes.”

  I ponder this exciting prediction. “Yes to what?”

  “To whatever you ask. So don’t be a dick.” She turns to go. But there’s something I want to ask.

  “Hey, Kelli? What’s up with you and Hunt? Never pictured you being into jocks.”

  She grins her evil grin. “I’m just full of surprises, aren’t I?”

  As I go to class, I notice Jason pass me, all perfectly primped.

  He sees me about the same time I see him.

  He continues to walk toward me, not breaking eye contact.

  We just stare at each other. Not angrily, but not friendly, not at all.

  He even turns his head and continues to watch me as he walks away. He’s not paying attention to where he’s going and falls down an open elevator shaft and dies.

  No, I have to be honest with you, that didn’t really happen.

  But he did stare at me. Angry like. As if I wronged him somehow. Like he didn’t get to take Soraya to the dance.

  What the hell’s up with that?

  Elijah sits on the roof of his car in the lotus position. Everyone else has gone home for the day. The school parking lot is empty.

  I pace in circles around his car, clutching his phone. He watches me like a nonserene monk.

  “Just call her!” he repeats.

  Easy for him to say. He has a girlfriend. Me, I just went to prom with my grandmother.

  “Tell me again how you asked out Clara.”

  “I went up to her and asked her out.”

  I stop walking and place my foot on the hood of his car. “But you had screwdrivers and dressed up and stuff.”

  “That’s because I’m a little strange. You’re big and strange. Just call her.”

  “What if I forget what to say?”

  “Put her on speaker. I’ll feed you lines.”

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Then I open them because I can’t see the numbers. I dial.

  Soraya picks up after only one ring. “Hello? Who is this?”

  Oh, God. I’ve annoyed her.

  “Deacon!” Elijah stage whispers. “Your name is Deacon!”

  “Oh, uh, this is Deacon.”

  “Oh, hi!”

  She didn’t hang up. That’s a good sign.

  Elijah frantically motions for me to say something.

  “Uh . . . how are you?” I ask. Elijah nods encouragingly.

  She giggles. “Fine. Deacon, I have to say, you and Jean did me proud at the dance. Have you seen that YouTube video?”

  Elijah rapidly nods. So do I.

  Wait . . .

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Next time you’re online, maybe you could get on the comments and recommend the dance class?”

  “Okay! I’ll do that right now!”

  I move to hang up the phone.

  Elijah half leaps, half falls from the top of his car. With surprising strength, he grabs my wrist and shoves the phone up to my face. He is not smiling. I try to move my arm, but his hand is like a wiry set of cuffs.

  Here goes nothing. “Listen, would you maybe want to see a movie this Saturday?”

  There’s a five-hour pause while she thinks of the most polite way to turn me down. Then . . .

  “Sure! Look, I have a dance class about to start, but call me tomorrow, okay?”

  “Yes.”

  She hangs up.

  I did it.

  “She said yes.”

  “Told you, man.”

  “Wow. It’s totally happening.”

  “Thanks to me.”

  I look down at him. “Hey, Elijah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You can let go of my hand now.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “JEAN, I’M HOME!” IT’S THURSDAY. TWO DAYS BEFORE I see Soraya. Elijah and Clara have taken me to some clothing stores to pick out something to wear. While my size makes shopping complicated, I do manage to find a few nice things.

  “Jean?”

  No answer. That’s odd, her car’s out front, so she must be here.

  “Hello?”

  There’s the sound of water running in the kitchen. She probably can’t hear me.

  “Hey . . .”

  No one is the kitchen. But the sink is running full blast. And it’s stoppered. It overflows out of the basin, across the counter, and down on the floor.

  “Son of a . . .” Water splashes over the tops of my shoes as I rush to shut things off. The faucet stops running, but I can still hear water flowing somewhere below me. Draining to a place where water should not drain.

  Ripping the roll of paper towels off the holder, I begin to sop up the mess. They’re less than useless. I go through three rolls and the water is as deep as before.

  “Jean!” No answer. Where could she be? Pro
bably taking a nap or in the bathroom or something.

  Giving up on the paper towels, I subsequently fail with regular towels, a mop, and trying to force the water into a bucket. Eventually I remember Jean’s wet/dry vac, which does the trick. I expect the roar of the vacuum to get Jean’s attention, but I’m wrong.

  Just as I’m sucking up the last of the standing water, the phone rings. Jean doesn’t pick up after three rings. I almost don’t answer it, but what if it’s Soraya?

  “Deacon Locke?” The voice is cool and self-assured. I’m reminded of Jason.

  “Yes?”

  “Ah, glad to get ahold of you. This is Madcap Mike Myron, from KZAR Tulsa. How the hell are you?”

  Geez, the guy from Kelli’s phone. The person who made a big fat deal about me and Jean at the dance.

  “How did you get this number?”

  He chuckles in his self-assured radio voice. “You’re not an easy guy to track down, Deacon. If you have a social media account, I sure couldn’t find it.”

  I see a stream of water trickling toward the dining room carpet. “Um, Mr. Madcap, I—”

  “Now, you are the Deacon Locke who took his grandmother Jean to his senior prom last weekend, is that correct?”

  I almost hang up, but suddenly, I’m wary. “Why do you care?”

  Again, that suave laughter. “Why do I care? Because thousands of my listeners want to know what your story is! Why did this handsome fellow take his grandma to the big dance?”

  “It’s a little involved, and I’m kind of busy.”

  “Aren’t we all? Look, the reason I’m calling is I’d like to do a quick interview with you. Not right now, let’s say tomorrow afternoon. Won’t take five minutes.”

  I’m not sure why this guy would want me to be on his show. Sounds like a chance to make a fool of myself, and drag Jean down with me. “No, thank you.”

  “Hang on there, buddy.” His voice drops an octave. “Listen. You know that clip of you and your grandmother is all over the internet, right?”

  “Uh, I guess.”

  “And you know how people get in the comments sections. Some folks have been saying some pretty unkind things about you two.”

  “What? What have they been saying?” And what are their names and addresses?