Deacon Locke Went to Prom

by Brian Katcher

“So are you going to tell me what I did wrong?” I ask, a tad bitchier than I mean to.

  She slowly shakes her head. “I don’t know, Deacon. Maybe it’s that you went completely apeshit on some drunk asshole who wasn’t even worth looking at?”

  I was afraid of this. Soraya’s right, I should have ignored him. But I did it because he insulted her. Doesn’t that count for anything?

  “Did you hear what he called you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. And I chose to let it pass. Because he’s no better than any of the dozens of other jerks who’ve called me that or worse. Why did you have to go and pick a fight?”

  “Pick a fight?” I begin angry pacing a short distance up and down her street. “You think I started that?”

  “You certainly ended it. You’re lucky you didn’t get hauled in.”

  Okay, maybe I did kind of lose it there. Maybe I’m a little bit worried that I put that guy in the hospital. But still . . . I wish my own girlfriend would take my side.

  “Soraya, it hurts me when people insult you.”

  “This may come as a shock, but it hurts me too. But I’m a big girl, and I’ve learned it’s better to not respond to morons like that. Don’t give them the satisfaction. I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

  Great. I wasn’t exactly expecting Soraya to melt in my arms and say, “Deacon Locke, you’re my hero.” But it would be nice not to get a lecture.

  “Sorry. Sorry I did anything. Sorry I tried to stand up for you.”

  “And now you’re angry.”

  I wasn’t, really, but the exasperated, condescending way she says this does kind of make me mad.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?” I snap. “Shithead calls you a name and I’m the one you’re pissed at. I’m going home.”

  We just stand there.

  “Don’t let me stop you, Deacon.” But there’s less anger in her voice.

  “I want to make sure you get inside okay, first.”

  It’s warm and balmy out. I can clearly see Ursa Major. It would be a wonderful time to kiss someone under the stars. Instead, I’m standing here staring at my girlfriend, wondering which of us is supposed to be offended.

  Soraya ends the standoff. “I know you meant well. But I like the Deacon who took his grandmother to prom and pushed my car and made me that CD. When you attacked that guy—and I’ll admit, part of me enjoyed seeing that—you kind of scared me. I’d like it if you didn’t go around punching people.”

  “I never punched him.”

  “I’d like it if you didn’t use people as a human shot put. If those dance-show sponsors got word of this, it could mean trouble for you. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She’s right. Of course she’s right.

  It doesn’t feel right, though. Not totally.

  “Good night, Soraya.”

  “Night, Deacon.”

  I wait until she’s safely inside before I begin the long walk back home.

  We didn’t kiss good-bye. I hope that’s not the start of a trend.

  I hope I haven’t ruined things.

  Before I walk a mile, I get a text from Mr. Delaney. It’s a link to a video clip.

  DANCE STAR LOSES HIS SHIT

  It was me, in case you were wondering.

  PDELANEY: Call me first thing in the morning. We need to talk.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  SATURDAY MORNING, I SIT IN THE KITCHEN AS JEAN prepares breakfast. I’m still a little angry with Soraya, and angry with the jerk from the party, and angry with myself. It was supposed to be a fun evening, hanging out with smart college students. And now there’s a video clip of me acting like a professional wrestler. Over ten thousand hits since last night. Most of the comments are in support of me, even though they have no idea what was going on.

  Thank God Jean never goes online.

  “You never told me how your date went,” I tell her. The words seem so alien . . . Jean. On a date.

  She stands there at the stove, pouring out pancake batter and dropping sausages into the skillet. “It was okay. Otis is a nice man, but he does go on. Bit of an ego, really. He barely let me say a word all night. It’s too bad more men aren’t quiet and polite like you, Deacon.”

  I’m watching myself kick college boy’s ass on my phone. “Yeah. That’s me.”

  The clip is blocked by an incoming call. Delaney. I can’t put this off any longer.

  “Hello?”

  “Deacon! What the hell were you thinking?”

  And a pleasant good morning to you, too, sir.

  I glance over to make sure Jean is occupied with breakfast, then walk into the dining room. “Mr. Delaney, I’m sorry. That guy—”

  “Deacon, did I not make myself clear? Everything you do has an impact on the show. Fighting like that can ruin everything.” He’s not yelling. He’s got that measured voice of a father correcting his son. Not that I have a point of reference.

  I almost bring up what the guy said about Soraya, but I don’t. The more I think about it, the more it sounds like I’m trying to justify being a pissed-off asshole. “It won’t happen again.”

  Delaney continues as if he hadn’t heard me. “We work hard to maintain the image of our dancers. You were supposed to be this year’s yokel.”

  “I’m . . . hang on, what do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, you know,” he says distractedly. “The country boy. The hillbilly trying to find his way around in the big city. The audience loves that. In season two we had this kid from Mississippi, you’d swear he’d never even worn shoes before. The viewers went nuts. He made it to the finals.”

  And now they want me to play the country bumpkin. “You didn’t mention any of this before.”

  “Well, we’re still trying to work everything out. But after your display last night, we can’t very well cast you as the naïve farm boy, can we?”

  I’m suddenly very alert. Maybe he’s going to kick me off the show! It’d be his decision, not mine. Completely out of my control. And I’d have no choice but to go off to school with Soraya in the fall.

  “Although . . .” Delaney pauses. “You know, with your bulk, you might make a good bad boy. You follow?”

  I sigh. “Not even remotely.”

  “You know, the tough guy with the heart of gold. The badass who loves his grandma. Hear me out. Now I’m not saying go get in another fight, but maybe you can show more of your wild side. You don’t have a motorcycle, do you?”

  “No.”

  Jean calls to me from in the kitchen. It’s time for breakfast.

  “Do you have any tattoos or piercings?”

  “No.”

  “Would you be willing to get some? We’d foot the bill.”

  “No.”

  Jean calls out again. This time louder.

  “Okay. Well, let me think on this for a while. In the meantime, no more brawling, though if you wanted to start smoking, I wouldn’t tell you no.”

  Suddenly, Jean calls out my name, much more urgently than before. And she sounds upset.

  I garble a good-bye to Mr. Delaney and rush into the kitchen. The room is filled with smoke. Jean stands next to the stove, staring in horror at a grease fire rising up from the skillet. The smoke alarm starts to blast.

  I rush to the fridge and yank out the pitcher of water. Just before I dump it over the flames, I remember something I read. It was from a Donald Duck comic book, but I think it’s still true: never pour water on a grease fire.

  Then what the hell are you supposed to do? Why don’t they teach you this shit in school?

  Jean starts coughing, but makes no move to leave the kitchen, or even move away from the smoke. It’s time for action. I throw open the back door. I then gingerly grab the pan by its handle and carry the flaming thing into the backyard, where I drop it onto the end of the gravel driveway. It hisses into the earth.

  Jean is still standing by the stove when I return. As I pause to reset the smoke alarm, I notice with horror that she looks upset. Not sca
red, but like a child who knows they’ve screwed up and is facing punishment. When she sees me looking at her, she bursts into tears.

  I rush over to hold her. “It’s okay, Jean. Kind of scary, but no harm done. It’s okay.”

  But she just keeps crying into my chest. And though I keep my sobs inside, a few tears do escape from my eyes.

  How is this my life? What’s happening?

  The thing about Jean is, she does not like to be reminded of her frailties and failures. When she had knee surgery last year, she was up and about far sooner than her doctor allowed. When we were both down with the flu once, she was serving me chicken soup long before she felt better. And now that the fire is safely out, she doesn’t want to talk about it.

  Not that I blame her for the accident. Not at all. But I did kind of want to know what had happened.

  Jean refuses to answer me. Now that her tears are dry, it’s like nothing happened. “I didn’t know you expected me to be perfect, Deacon. I wasn’t aware you never made any mistakes.”

  “I was just asking . . .”

  “Well, instead of interrogating me, why don’t you clean up some of this mess? I’m going to lie down for a moment. You know, it’s a nice day. I think you should get out of the house for a bit. There’s money in my purse if you need some.”

  Wow. Just . . . wow.

  I mean, a fire like that, it could have happened to anyone. And it was probably plenty embarrassing. It’s not at all worth getting upset about.

  Though as I dump the charred remains of breakfast into the trash, I do worry. I worry a lot, actually.

  “And then she just acted like the fire was no big deal. And maybe it’s not, I mean, it’s not like I’m a master chef. But what if I hadn’t been there? What’s going to happen when I move out?”

  We’re sitting in the YMCA cafeteria. Today’s not one of Soraya’s teaching days, but she’s here anyway, helping someone make plans for an ESL class that’s starting next month. She sits across the table from me, frowning sympathetically. When I called her and asked to meet, she didn’t bring up our argument last night.

  “You sound like someone’s dad, Deacon. And I mean that in a good way. But stuff happens. She survived over sixty years before you moved in.”

  I so want to buy into what she’s saying. I desperately want everything to be okay. But I should tell the truth.

  “The thing is, it’s not just the fire. Her driving has gotten a lot worse lately. She’s starting to get confused and frustrated. She forgets things. Nothing major, but enough that I’m worried about how she’s going to do on her own.”

  Soraya bites her lower lip and nods. “Have you taken her to the doctor?”

  “We have an appointment in a couple of weeks. If I want to see someone earlier, I have to take her to urgent care, and she’ll refuse. I’d rather do this gently.”

  “Maybe it’s time she downsized the house. A lot of my students live in retirement villages. No yard care or cooking, people on staff to check in on them. Jean might enjoy a place like that.”

  I remember broaching the subject with her, and how she was not receptive. “It might come to that. But it’s going to be a hard sell. So I was thinking . . . maybe I shouldn’t go to Los Angeles.”

  She takes my hand in hers and begins playing with the hair on my knuckles. “Is that what Jean needs . . . or what Deacon wants?”

  I lower my head. “I don’t know. I want to be on this show, but I don’t want to abandon Jean. Or you.”

  She smiles. “You’re not abandoning anyone. And I think it may be too late to change your mind anyway. Would it make you feel better if I looked in on Jean a couple of times a week while you’re gone?”

  I can barely stop myself from grabbing her up in a huge hug. “Yes. A lot. You don’t know how much.”

  “Well, I’ve always liked Jean.”

  We hold hands and stare into each other’s eyes like a couple of twits. Where’re the paparazzi now?

  “Soraya, I’m really sorry about last night. I know you don’t need me to stand up for you.” No matter how much that guy deserved an arse beating.

  “It’s okay. I just hope your TV bosses don’t see that clip.”

  I laugh. “Too late. Now they want to cast me as the badass rebel.” I let go of her hand and begin shadow boxing. “What do you think? Can you see me as the new James Dean?”

  She shakes her head. “You’ve got more of a Humphrey Bogart vibe. Or Marlon Brando, before he got fat.”

  I’m blushing. I can tell. And I don’t care. Soraya and me . . . I think it’s going to work. What’s three or four months in one man’s life? I’ll earn my money in California, then come back and be with her. I’ll take care of Jean. Life is great.

  And then Soraya ruins everything.

  “You know, it’s funny you should mention how they cast those shows. Jason was telling me the other day that it has more to do with personality than dance skills.” She smirks at me. “I believe it.”

  I’m trying to process what she just told me. “Jason told you?”

  “Yeah. He doesn’t watch a lot of television, but he thinks reality TV is kind of an interesting phenomenon. . . .”

  “Wait. When did you see him?”

  She gives me a probing look. “Last week, I guess. Anyway, that show American Antiquers was on—”

  “He came over to your house?”

  Soraya is quiet for an uncomfortable moment. “No.”

  Thank God.

  “I was at his place. He only lives three houses away. And what possible reason would you ask that?”

  Because Jason is a slimy SOB who would like to replace me in your life. And if you’re hanging out at his house, then there’s no way in hell I can move away.

  “I don’t trust him, Soraya. I think he wants to be more than friends. With you, not me.”

  If I’m expecting her to deny it, I’m disappointed. “Who cares? Jason and me . . . no. Never. He’s not the guy I like.” There’s a faint smile on her lips.

  “So then what are you doing at his house?”

  She leans back. “If you think I need your permission to visit people, then you’re in for a major wake-up call.”

  Inexperienced as I am, I can tell I’m bungling this. “That’s not what I’m saying. But Jason? He was totally hoping to hook up with you at prom. Don’t tell me you didn’t see that.”

  For a second, I think I’ve scored a point. I’m wrong, of course. “Deacon, I know Jason tends to come on a little strong. But he’s a very nice, very intelligent guy. And when I went through those bad times a few years ago, when I kind of hated myself, he was there for me. And yes, I’m not blind, I know he’s . . . interested. But he knows that I’m not. I told him that before prom. Trust me, he’s like a brother to me. Nothing more.”

  Now is the time when I need to smile, shrug, and change the subject. I’m already on probation about that fight last night. I need to rein things in.

  “Yeah, but could you not go over to his house anymore?”

  Soraya does something that makes the table rattle. “If this is an attempt at humor, it’s not funny.”

  It’s not funny to me either. “I’m going to be half a country away. I just don’t like the idea of Jason sniffing around you while I’m gone.”

  She stands. “Sniffing around? What am I, a bitch in heat? How would you like it if I told you to stop hanging around Clara?”

  I don’t stand up. “Clara’s not hot for me.”

  She whips out her phone. “Well, she’s the only one! Have you checked out your page on the Dance Off website?”

  “I have a page?”

  “Listen to this: Deacon, look me up when you get to L.A.! Deacon, if you ever make it to the UCLA campus, my sorority would love to meet you. Deacon, WHO’S THAT UGLY DOG ON YOUR FACEBOOK PAGE?”

  She hurls a plastic saltshaker at me. “Every day I worry that I met you too late and that you’ll make a life for yourself outside of Arkansas. And then you start b
eating people up and accusing me of cheating? I don’t need this. Not now.”

  She turns and storms out of the cafeteria. I try to follow, but find my path blocked by a pair of slow-moving seniors who, insult to injury, are holding hands. By the time I get around them, Soraya is gone.

  And everyone is staring at me.

  Great. Fantastic. On top of everything else, I’m totally blowing it with Soraya.

  Jesus, can things get any worse?

  Spoiler alert: yes.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  SO REMEMBER HOW A COUPLE OF MONTHS AGO, I was a quivering wreck who was too scared to even ask out a girl? I kind of miss that.

  Not really, but back then I wasn’t worried about Jean. I didn’t have to “promote my brand.” I wasn’t in danger of blowing things with the girl I liked.

  Sitting on a park bench, I mentally go over our latest argument. After reviewing the tapes, the refs conclude that it was Deacon who was at fault. Ten-yard penalty, reset the clock two months, to when I was alone.

  I take out my phone and text Soraya with a heartfelt and incoherent apology. She doesn’t answer.

  I look through the social media wasteland. Mr. Delaney has been busy, sending lists of products I’m to purchase and “casually” use. No more soda pops and retailers; now I’m supposed to be hawking energy drinks, music venues, and body-art establishments. Fine. But no way am I promoting those e-cigarettes. I already feel stupid enough.

  Looking through my messages and contacts, I realize that Soraya may have been right. And that’s male talk for “Soraya was completely right.” Most of my online “friends” are girls, and their messages are all kind of flirty.

  I purge all the unread messages. I upload a photo of Soraya and me together at the street fair and post it to my page.

  I caption it: Soraya, a very beautiful, forgiving, intelligent, forgiving, talented, forgiving girl. And a great dancer.

  At least now she’ll know I’m sorry.

  I buy a can of that energy drink and take a selfie. I delete it. The photo looks more like an ad for chronic depression.

  I shouldn’t sit here and dwell, but I don’t want to go home and start fretting about Jean, either. Hammered by indecision, I do what everyone else does to waste time: play with my phone some more.