“I’ll be there in two minutes!”
“Um . . . could you make it half an hour? I just got home.”
“Yes! See you then!”
I stand stock-still, frozen with indecision. Do I have time for a shower? Shave? Haircut?
Shit, I don’t even have a car.
“Jean?” I holler into the next room. “Can I use the car tonight?”
“Are you meeting Soraya?”
How did she know that? “Um, yeah.”
“Have a good time.”
Ten minutes later I pull out of the driveway, riddled with joy and fear.
It’s only when I’m halfway to town that I remember why I had my phone out in the first place.
I was going to call Jean’s doctor about her confusion and memory loss.
I’ll call him tomorrow.
I gaze over the crowd of fairgoers, trying to locate Soraya. It’s a good three minutes after I said I’d meet her, and I’m starting to panic. I try to calm my nerves, rationalizing that she hasn’t given up on me already or been kidnapped by a group of Russian sailors.
There. Though the streets are packed, Soraya stands in her own little bubble, casually leaning against a food stand, idling scanning the crowd.
And when she sees me, her eyes open just a little wider. And she smiles.
I’m standing in front of her in less than two seconds (sorry, buddy).
And just like that, I take her hands. Both her hands. I’m holding both her hands and looking into her eyes, and we’re both smiling.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Still smiling and still holding hands. The meteor can come for me now. I’m happy.
“Soraya, would you like to . . .”
“Yeah. Let’s.”
We walk off, hand in hand.
One month ago, I would have been too afraid to take the initiative like that. I wouldn’t have insisted on trying to win a stuffed pony for a girl at a rigged ball-toss game. I wouldn’t have let her drag me to the bumper cars, even though I had to ride kind of sidesaddle to fit in the cab. There’s no way I would have agreed to go in the haunted house, especially when the woman painted on the door looked just like the girl from that movie.
And one month ago, there was no way I would have asked a girl to ride the Ferris wheel with me. And when the ride stopped, with just the two of us sitting thirty feet in the air, with the noise and laughter and smells of the crowd wafting up to us, there’s no way I would have leaned over, touched her chin, and kissed her.
But that was a month ago.
The sun has gone down, but I can’t see the stars through the glaring electric lights. Soraya and I wind our way through the crowd, eating our little plates of funnel cakes. She has a small smear of powdered sugar on the bridge of her nose.
It takes a great deal of effort and self-control not to whip out my phone and record every detail of this . . . date. It’s a date. And it’s not our first one.
There’s a bandstand nearby and a painfully bad country trio begins to torture “Okie from Muskogee.”
“I used to like that song,” I say with regret.
Soraya smiles at me. “Want to dance? Show me that you didn’t forget everything I taught you?”
I dump the rest of my funnel cake into a barrel and take her hand to lead her onto the dance floor. Dance patch of grass and dirt.
“See!” shouts a girl at my elbow. “I told you Deacon’s girlfriend was real.”
I recognize the voice, which is odd, since it’s not Kelli. I turn to find Clara staring at me with a smug grin.
Elijah is next to her. He’s wearing a hat made out of those long balloons. “I never said she wasn’t real, Clara. I said she couldn’t possibly be as good-looking as Deacon made her out to be.” He glances at Soraya, then winks at me. “Guess I was wrong on all counts.”
Well, so much for my brief bout of confidence, as well as my short friendship with Elijah. But Soraya just smiles.
“This is Clara and Elijah,” I say before Elijah can speak again.
Elijah tips his balloons at Soraya. “Ah, shantee, mi zi bo play!”
“Is that French?” asks Soraya.
“No, just gibberish. Are you guys going to dance? Did you know Deacon’s a really good dancer?”
Soraya chuckles. “I’d heard that, yes.”
We eventually disentangle ourselves from Elijah and move toward the music.
“Sorry about that.”
She shakes her head. “Nothing to apologize for.”
The band stops butchering a song with a guitar and starts truly mutilating one on the fiddle. Soraya and I assume the position.
God, those eyes.
“Deacon? I’m enjoying this.”
“Me too. I’m glad you called me tonight.”
She sucks her lips into her mouth for a moment. “No. I mean, I’m enjoying this.”
I know exactly what she means. “You know, I’m excited about going to college with you.”
I suddenly want to punch myself. That was really fast-forwarding things. But she smiles.
“Me too, Deacon. I feel like such a kindergartner, but I’m glad I’ll already have a friend on campus.” She gets a mischievous look on her face. “Provided your fans let me have any time with you.”
I shake my head. “That’s old news. Seriously. Can we talk about something else?”
“Fine.” She pulls my head toward hers and kisses me.
I’m so pleasantly surprised that I forget to close my eyes.
Which is unfortunate, because I notice someone on the edge of the crowd taking our picture. And it’s not a kid. It’s a grown man with a camera.
It’s after midnight when I get home. Jean’s long asleep. I can’t wipe the stupid grin off my face.
Maybe it’s pathetic that I never kissed a girl until I was eighteen, but I don’t care. Soraya was worth waiting for. And apparently she feels the same way, with all that talk about getting together when we’re at college.
God, Soraya and I alone together in the dorms.
I’m too excited to go to bed. And too wired to look at the stars. Even though I’ve gorged myself on fair fare, I decide to check for leftovers in the fridge.
Sure enough, Jean has placed all the food from dinner inside: chicken, baked beans, bread, dirty dishes, half a cup of coffee, the plastic centerpiece from the table, used napkins, and the dish soap.
I close the door, suddenly not hungry, and no longer happy. I press my forehead against the refrigerator’s warm, impersonal exterior and try to conquer the growing fear in my gut.
“Yes, my name’s Deacon, and I’m trying to schedule a checkup for my grandmother. . . .
“I’ll hold.
“No, not for me, for my grandmother, Jean.
“No, a woman. J-E-A-N.
“Just a checkup. I know she went last month!
“Sorry, I’m not trying to be rude. I’d just like someone to talk to her. She’s getting a little forgetful and I . . .
“No, not an emergency. I know where urgent care is, we don’t need that. I’d just like to speak with a doctor. . . .
“That’s a month from now! Can’t you see her sooner?
“She doesn’t need to go to the emergency room!
“Fine, we’ll be there. Call me if something opens up sooner.”
TWENTY-TWO
ShadeeLady: Miss u
DeaconLocke: Miss you more
YES, I HAVE OFFICIALLY BECOME THAT GUY. I DON’T care. Soraya is texting me and there’s no nicer feeling in the world.
Actually, there are a lot of nicer feelings, but only when she’s in the room with me.
Unfortunately, I’m standing in the school commons and class is about to start. But I’ll see Soraya again tonight.
“Hey, Deacon?” It’s Clara. She approaches me in that quiet, supplicating way of hers. I have no idea how she ended up with loud, crazy Elijah. But then aga
in, I have no idea how I ended up with Soraya.
“Hi, Clara.”
“Good picture of you in the paper yesterday.”
“Thanks.” Then I realize I have no idea what she’s talking about. “What picture?”
She tilts her head. “You didn’t see it? Look!”
She pulls out her phone and brings up an article from the Arkansas Times.
There’s a photo of the dancers at the fair we’d been to. And right in the front, right in the middle, there’s me and Soraya. Kissing.
Apparently the guy with the camera hadn’t been a stalker.
Local dance celebrity Deacon Locke and his companion enjoy a quiet moment at the Spring Festival. For more pictures and 4-H contest results, click here. . . .
“She seems very nice.”
I stare at the photo. Soraya looks good. I never realized how big my ears look in profile. I wonder if she’s seen this. I wonder if she feels as impressive as I do right now. I hope so.
“Hey, Deacon? My boss at the hardware store saw this, and, well, I kind of sort of maybe mentioned that we were friends.” The sentence almost ends as a question, like I’d disagree with her on that point. “So anyway, he wanted to know if . . . look, he’s trying to unload all the winter stuff and he’s having a barbecue at the store this Thursday. Do you think you could come?”
“Yeah, I’ll stop by.”
She just stares at me. “Actually, I told my boss that . . .” She starts to mumble and look at the floor. I kind of have to do the limbo to face her.
“What was that?”
She keeps her head down, but her eyes shyly look upward. “I told him you’d help out.”
I really do not feel like spending an afternoon moving boxes of snow shovels or whatever, but Clara looks so nervous.
“Okay. I wish you’d asked me first, but I can give you a hand cooking hot dogs or something for an hour or so.”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that. He just wanted you to show up and have your picture taken.”
“I dunno. . . .”
“Please? And maybe record a little radio commercial for the store. And, um, help judge the lawn-mower races. And . . .”
I cross my arms. “And what?”
“Participate in the toilet-seat toss.”
I’m about to think of an excuse, but she bats her eyes at me. “I think Soraya would be impressed.”
“Fine. But only for a little bit. And next time I need a miter saw, I expect you to hook me up.”
She winks at me and we walk off to class together.
It’s the first truly hot day of the year, and about a hundred people mill around in front of C & R Hardware. There’s loud music, free food, and a small petting zoo (I don’t see Mr. Oinky there, though).
Dozens of people, mostly teens, have gathered on the parking lot, dancing to the hip-hop beat. Soraya and I are in the middle of the crowd. Though we never danced to this sort of music at the Y, Soraya still manages to instruct me, without making it obvious that I don’t know what I’m doing.
I’d told Clara I could only stay for an hour, and we’ve been here three. I’m kind of enjoying myself. Mostly because of Soraya, but also because the DJ keeps mentioning my name and pointing me out. People ask to take my picture. Mr. Branson, the manager, brings us complimentary sodas.
Across the lot I spot Clara. She’s wearing her work uniform, which she has sweat through as she struggles to load some boxes into the back of a customer’s truck. I glance at Soraya.
“I should probably . . .”
“You should.”
Before I can give Clara a hand, the DJ interrupts the song. “This is Alejandro Cooper with KWWW. I’m here at C & R Hardware of Fayetteville. C’mon down and enjoy their spring clearance sale! There’s free popcorn and hot dogs, along with dancing sensation Deacon Locke. Deacon, why don’t you come up here?”
Everyone is staring at me. Hey, why not? I take Soraya’s hand and join the DJ at his little stage.
“. . . and mention KWWW and receive five percent off your purchase of lawn furniture. And here’s Deacon Locke! Deacon, why don’t you give a shout-out to our listeners?”
I shrug, then shout into the mic.
“That’s the spirit. And is this your girlfriend?”
I’m suddenly at a horrific loss. I have no idea. I can’t say yes, I don’t dare assume that. But what if I say no and she’s offended? I can’t even look to her for help, because she’ll know I’m too chicken to just answer.
The DJ is looking at me nervously. Dead air.
“This is Soraya. She taught me everything I know about dancing.”
Soraya smiles and leans toward the microphone. “I teach beginning dance at the YMCA. New classes are—”
“That’s great! This is Alejandro Cooper, talking with dancer Deacon Locke and his girlfriend. Now let’s warm things up with the latest hit by . . .”
I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Mr. Branson, Clara’s boss. He’s a stout, bearded man whose clothes seem a size too small.
“Deacon, you’re a natural, the crowd loves you. Do you mind if we snap a couple of publicity photos? Just lean against the John Deere there.”
I try to position myself in a way so that I’m not in front of Soraya.
“Uh, no, Deacon, just you.”
Soraya looks embarrassed as she steps out of the shot. As I try to smile sincerely, I notice two guys standing near the radio station van.
They’re a couple of older men, dressed in short-sleeve business shirts and ties. They stand in the shade, whispering to each other. This wouldn’t be odd, except they’re staring directly at me. It’s a little unsettling.
“Mr. Branson, who are those guys over there?”
He’s looking at his camera and doesn’t appear to hear me. “Perfect. Hey, are you two going to be around in another hour? I’m taking the department managers out to dinner at Shogun Steaks. Could you join us?”
I’m pretty sure that’s one of those fancy Japanese places where they throw the knives. I’d really like to see that.
“Sure!” I say. Soraya nods.
“Great! In the meantime, you’ve got a lawn-mower race to judge!”
“Your public awaits, Deacon.” Soraya kisses my cheek.
Feeling confident, I strut toward the line of pedal-powered tractors, where a group of grade school kids is ready to compete. As I turn back to smile at Soraya, I glance toward the radio van.
Those guys are still there. And they’re still watching me.
It’s nearly seven by the time I finish my duties. Soraya has gone inside the store to freshen up. Mr. Branson is pulling the car around. This was an enjoyable afternoon. I just wish I hadn’t eaten all those hot dogs earlier.
“Hey, Deke.”
I’m surprised to see that Elijah is here, and more surprised at how sweaty and exhausted he looks.
“Hi! I didn’t know you came.”
He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’ve been here for hours.”
“Didn’t see you out dancing.”
“Yeah . . . I was afraid Clara was going to hurt herself moving some of those boxes, so I helped her.”
Jesus. Clara. I’ve been here since school let out and I never even said hi to her, let alone offered to help her with anything.
Elijah suddenly shakes his head rapidly and smiles. “At any rate, I’m glad I caught you. Clara just got news that she got into this junior STEM program through the college. Real competitive. It’s kind of a big deal. I’m going to surprise her and take her out to Denny’s tonight. You and Soraya want to come? I want to show her how proud we all are.”
“Oh, uh.” I see Mr. Branson’s car parked in front of the store. Soraya has already climbed inside. “The thing is, Mr. Branson asked Soraya and me to have dinner with him.”
Elijah’s smile slowly expands, though not in a good way. It creeps across his face till he’s sort of grimacing. “Really. You’re eating with Clara’s boss. That’s nice.” br />
“Um . . .”
“Funny, Clara has worked here over a year, and he still calls her Carla. But hey, you dance around for a couple of hours and he’s your BBF. That’s great.” His smile is so wide, I almost expect it to wrap around and meet at the back of his head.
Should I feel ashamed? Because I don’t. It’s not my fault I already had plans. I was here as a favor to Clara, anyway.
Elijah’s painful smile suddenly vanishes. “No biggie. You guys have fun.”
He starts to walk away.
“Hey, tell Clara congratulations.”
He waves to me without turning around.
I should do something. Get Clara a card or a present. But should I do that for someone else’s girlfriend? I’ll ask Soraya.
In the meantime, I’m looking forward to dinner. Hey, we’re obliged to go. One does not say no to the manager of one of the largest home improvement stores in northern Arkansas.
TWENTY-THREE
JEAN’S BEDROOM MIRROR ISN’T TALL ENOUGH FOR me to see my full reflection, but I like what I do see. The black shirt. Black pants. New shoes. Red tie. My hair’s kind of reached a nice length, just touching my collar. I smile. I resist the urge to snap a selfie.
Jean looks at me with pride. “I told you it was worth it to have that shirt altered. Fits you like a glove.”
She’s right. Though it strikes me as kind of pointless. When I wear it next week, it’ll be under my graduation robes. Still . . .
Jean sighs. “You’re leaving high school. It seems like just yesterday that I was graduating. I remember what my father told me.”
“What’s that?”
“‘Jean, you’re good-looking. You’ll find a husband.’ Girls didn’t really go to college back then.”
I wrap my arm around her and hug her.
“Deacon,” she says when she disengages, “I’m glad you have the opportunities I didn’t. I wish you didn’t have to take out those loans. I wish I could help you out more. I wish . . .”
“That Dad was coming,” I finish for her. She nods. Maybe he’s planning on popping in and surprising us.
Maybe I’ll get a job as a jockey.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re going to do great at college. Just remember that Animal House was a movie, not a documentary.”