Deacon Locke Went to Prom

  “Sir, this is really coming out of nowhere. Does my grandmother know about this? I live with her.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. In fact, she was supposed to be here today, but I guess she couldn’t make it.”

  This sends me into a fresh spiral of worry. Did she forget? Is she sick? Is this man lying to me? I wish I wasn’t here alone. I have to be honest with this guy.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure how your show works. What is it you need me to do, exactly?”

  He looks slightly annoyed, as if I haven’t been doing my homework. As if I’m the only one in the world who doesn’t watch his program.

  “It’s very simple. You’ll be paired with a professional dancer. Each week, you’ll prepare a routine and perform for our viewers, coast to coast. After two weeks, our panel of celebrity judges will start eliminating some of the couples. If you’re voted off, you’ll fly home, more popular than ever. But if you make the finals—”

  “Wait . . . fly home? You won’t film this here?”

  This strikes Mr. Delaney as humorous and he laughs at me. Not kindly. “No, Deacon. At our studios in Los Angeles. We have a very nice hotel we’ll put you up in.”

  L.A.? This is getting more and more insane. I have to talk to Jean.

  “When would we do all this?”

  He checks something on his phone. “You’ll arrive late in July. Filming starts in August and could last through Christmas, depending on how well you do. And of course there’s promotions and commercials and—”

  Time out! “I have to start school in the fall.”

  This doesn’t appear to faze him in the least. “So skip a semester. Skip a year. You’re young.”

  Drop out of college . . . college with Soraya! . . . so I can be on some dippy TV show?

  “Mr. Delaney . . .”

  He stops smiling. “I can tell you have mixed feelings about this. Of course you do. This is all sudden and surprising and thrilling.”

  Two out of three.

  “But I have to tell you, this opportunity won’t last. Right now, those internet clips have put you at the height of your popularity. And if you just continue this way, people will start to forget about you. In three months, everyone will be like, ‘Deacon who?’ But if you appear on our show, who knows where that might lead? Television commercials, personal appearances, maybe even a recording contract. Do you sing?”

  “No.”

  He keeps talking. “The deal I’m offering you pays fifteen thousand dollars, and that’s if you don’t make the finals. And there’s no reason, if you let me point you in the right direction, you can’t make ten times that much over the next couple of years. That’d go a long way toward your college expenses, wouldn’t it? How are you planning to pay your tuition? Athletic scholarship?”

  “Not exactly.”

  I remember the frightening student loan contracts I’ve signed . . . the huge debt I’ll owe when I graduate. I remember the look on Jean’s face when she said she wished more than anything she could help me pay for school. Is this why she helped set this up? Does she actually want me to postpone college?

  Delaney smells blood. “My nephew graduated from UCLA last year with a degree in chemical engineering. You know what he does now? He manages a 7-Eleven. Of course, he still owes his student loan payments. He’s living in a studio apartment with two other guys.”

  I’d like to think I’m smart enough to avoid a situation like that. But am I?

  “Deacon, you’re about to become a man. And I’m asking you to make an adult decision here. Postpone college for a little bit. Come to California. Have the time of your life. Make your brand grow. Then, in a year or so, you can enter school with your tuition almost paid for. I’d call this a no-brainer.”

  “Did you talk to my grandmother about this?”

  He shrugs. “Our people did. I’m not involved in that end of things.”

  I’m feeling very overwhelmed. “How long do I have to make a decision?”

  He is not smiling now. “Not long. Not long at all.” He hands me a thick sheaf of papers. “I’ll need this signed by you and your guardian by the end of the week. You can have someone look it over if you wish.”

  “Sure.” I scan the contract, but it’s incomprehensible.

  “I hope you’ll make the right decision, young man. Getting you on this show, it’s going to put your school in the limelight. Don’t you think your friends would enjoy that?”

  Is he talking about Elijah and Kelli, or about all those strangers who mobbed me at the photo shoot?

  I try to smile. I shake his hand. “I’ll . . . I’ll let you know. Very soon. Thank you for the opportunity.”

  He nods, unsmiling. “Good boy.”

  School is out. Everyone has gone home. The last day in high school and I’m leaving alone. Just like I first started.

  As I walk, I use my phone to look at clips of Celebrity Dance Off. Even with their very liberal definition of “celebrity,” I still feel somewhat outclassed. There’s a woman who once dated a movie star. A guy who used to play for the Chargers. A woman who used to be a judge on a different dance-contest show. That one-armed Afghan war vet (thank God his pecs weren’t injured, holy shit). The daughter of a disgraced politician.

  The format is simple. The contestants are paired off with a professional dancer and work on a new routine each round. After the first couple of episodes, the judges start eliminating teams. The grand-prize winners get $50,000. And that’s in addition to the money we get just for appearing.

  The show itself is in surprisingly good taste. Everything seems laid-back and fun, with no nasty comments or backstabbing.

  Hey, they wouldn’t call it reality TV if it wasn’t real, right?

  There’s just one problem.

  Actually, there’re a lot of problems. But one bigger than the others.

  She’s slender, black-haired, and a great dancer. And we have plans to go to school together.

  Elijah’s worried about losing Clara, even though they’ll both be living in the same town.

  Now, Soraya, she’s worth waiting for. Deacon Locke, not so much.

  When I reach home, I find Jean sitting on the couch, and for a moment I think she’s asleep. But she’s not. She’s staring blankly at the television, which is playing an infomercial. She’s still wearing her robe but no makeup, and her hair hangs down limply over her forehead and shoulders.

  “Jean?”

  She jumps up with a start. “Deacon! I wasn’t expecting you. Is it that late already?”

  It’s actually quite a bit later than I normally get home.

  She stands. “Is something wrong? You look upset.” She reaches for her brush and begins fixing her hair.

  “Jean, there was a camera crew at my school. They barged in on the awards announcements. People want me to be on some dancing show on TV.”

  Jean pauses midbrush. “Was that today? Oh, I’m so sorry. I was supposed to be there. How was it?”

  I take the remote and shut off the television. “So you did know about this?”

  “They contacted me a couple of weeks ago. Said they needed it to be a big surprise or they wouldn’t ask you to be a contestant. I hope it didn’t upset you.”

  I fake smile as I sit down across from her. “No, it just really threw me. Um . . . so what do you think about all this?”

  She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  I lose it. The confusion and frustration that’ve been building up since I was first ambushed by the dance show spew forth.

  “Doesn’t matter? Jean, how could you keep this from me? And you’ve been badgering me about college for years. Now you’re saying maybe I shouldn’t go? Answer me!”

  She stares off into the distance, and for a moment I think she’s about to cry. I stand there, waffling between apologizing for my outburst and waiting for Jean to apologize for my weird situation.

  She looks back at me, and I’m suddenly struck by how old she looks.
Worn-out. Tired.

  “I say my opinion doesn’t matter because it’s not my decision. I’m not the one they offered that contract to, and I’m not the one with college to pay for.”

  “You’re avoiding my question.”

  She doesn’t deny it. “When that show contacted me, I thought it was nothing but stupid Hollywood fluff. But . . . they made some good points. All you’d have to do is work for a few months at something you’re good at, something you enjoy, and you’d have an excellent down payment at least for your schooling. It’s something to think about.”

  “Think about? I didn’t know about this until today! I was getting kind of excited about college and now I’m supposed to move to California instead? I’m only eighteen, I can’t handle this!”

  Jean doesn’t answer. She just looks past me at a photo on the wall. Grandpa Howard in his army uniform. He was a teenager too.

  Okay, maybe I am old enough to decide for myself. But that doesn’t make things any easier.

  “You think I should do this, don’t you?”

  “It doesn’t matter—”

  “Damn it, just answer me!”

  Wow. First time I ever swore in front of her. But she takes no notice.

  “All I can say is a chance like this doesn’t come along often. I’d hate for you to regret not going for it someday.”

  I press my knuckles to my forehead. “So basically, the risky, regrettable choice is go to college, while the sensible, financially prudent course of action is to drop out of school and move to L.A. and try to be a TV star.”

  This gets a laugh from Jean. “That sounds like something your father would say. Of course, your father would never be in this situation.”

  I sit there with my hands between my knees. “I wish someone would just tell me what to do.”

  “Deacon . . .”

  “I know, I know.” I stare at my grandfather’s portrait. He never had an opportunity like this. “I’m not saying I’d mind, you know, being a TV star. Making some money. Seeing California for the first time.”

  “You’ve lived there before. When you were six, I think.”

  This is news to me. “It all runs together. You know, I’d do this in a heartbeat, except . . .”

  She nods, knowingly. “Soraya. Have you told her?”

  I shake my head. “Any guy would be lucky to be with her. And for some reason she wants to be with me. I’m not really in a position to move out of state for three or four months.”

  Jean leans over and takes my face in her hands, something she hasn’t done since I was in elementary school. “Just talk to her. You might be surprised.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I MAKE IT THROUGH THE GRADUATION CEREMONY without incident. I arrive at the school at the last possible minute, walk across the stage when they say my name, and leave with Jean the moment it’s over. She understands. It’s not like we have to wait around for my father.

  She also understands why I choose not to go to the school-sponsored grad night celebration. I really don’t want to discuss my show-business opportunity, not until I’ve made a decision. I won’t miss anyone at the party, except maybe Elijah and Kelli.

  But now I’m with someone I want to be with very much. We sit alone on astronomy hill, leaning backward on our elbows, staring at the sky. It’s completely overcast, but neither of us cares.

  Jean took us out to dinner as a graduation celebration, though Soraya’s school doesn’t end until next week. Afterward, I asked her if she’d go for a walk with me, by the light of my electric lantern.

  She turns and smiles at me. That beautiful, somewhat shy smile that I like to think she shows only me. Good God, am I seriously thinking about moving away?

  But I have to at least talk to her about this.

  “There’s something I need to show you.”

  She scoots closer to me, her smile widening. It kills me. I almost chicken out. Instead, I take out my phone.

  “This happened yesterday.”

  I show her the clip of my ambush by the Celebrity Dance Off producer. Her smile gradually fades as she realizes what’s going on.

  The video ends and she doesn’t move. She doesn’t say anything. Just tucks her knees up to her chin and stares down at my house.

  “Soraya? I didn’t know this was coming. And I haven’t agreed to anything. They just took me by surprise.”

  An eternity passes. Then . . .

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  There! At last! Someone giving me some direction. What a load off. I can just call up Delaney and tell him I won’t do the show.

  Funny, I’m less relieved than I would have expected.

  “I won’t leave.”

  She holds up a hand, but still stares off into the night. “You have to do this. We both know that.”

  “I don’t know that at all. Why shouldn’t I just stay here and go to school with you?”

  She faces me. “Because you’re not that great of a dancer. You’re good, but not great. The reason you’ve been invited to this thing is because people like you. You’re sweet and nice and funny when you let yourself be. I know it. Jean knows it. Those TV people know it. And they want to pay you and make you famous, at least for a while. I’m not going to be the girl who sits here and tells you to give all that up.”

  That trembling lower lip. I’m hurting her. How can I hurt her?

  “Maybe I don’t want to go.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Of course you want to. You’d be stupid not to want to.”

  “Then just call me stupid!” Though she’s right. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be nearly as conflicted.

  She frowns at me. “Fine. You’re stupid. You’re stupid for even thinking about skipping this. You’re stupid for not being excited and you’re stupid for asking my opinion, because I don’t matter!”

  She gets up and stomps to the very top of the hill, standing there with her back to me.

  I dig my fingers into the earth. I grind my teeth.

  What does she want from me? I told her I’d stay. I told her I didn’t want to go. So why is she angry?

  “Deacon?” Her voice is thick with emotion.

  “Yeah?”

  “Now’s the part where you walk up silently behind me, wrap your arms around my waist, and we stand there sadly and quietly, but still together.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” This is all still new to me.

  I join her at the top of the hill. I wrap my arms around her from behind and kiss the top of her head.

  “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say. I feel her body unstiffen slightly. “This TV thing is exciting, but knowing you, it can’t compare. And I worry that if I go off to California, when I come back, you’ll . . .”

  She turns around in my arms. “I’ll what?”

  “You’ll be gone.”

  She has her back to the lantern and I have trouble reading her face. But I feel it when she shoves me with both hands.

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “You said that earlier.” Geez, it’s like I’m talking to Kelli.

  “I’m serious. Where the hell would I go?”

  Is this, like, a rhetorical question? “I dunno! Maybe you’ll meet some guy who isn’t six states away and gone for half a year.” Like, perhaps, a certain guitarist who’d probably like to take my place.

  Soraya throws up her hands like she cannot believe what I’m saying. “You know what? Forget it! Forget I said anything. I’m done talking about this.”

  Two-second pause.

  “Seriously, Deacon? You’re moving off to L.A., you’re going to be surrounded by beautiful blond women with fake boobs and tans, you’re going to be on TV while the producers try to make you into every American girl’s fantasy, and you think you’re the one who should be worried?” She throws back her head and yells in frustration.

  “Yes! I should be worried! Because this . . .” I point to myself. “This is all fake. You really are talented and beautiful
and fun, and I feel like such a jerk for leaving, you whiner!”

  “Well, we’ll just have to wait for each other, you big moron!”

  “Fine!”

  “Fine!”

  I’m not sure how we go from shouted insults to kissing, but you know what? I’m good with it.

  Sometime later, Soraya and I walk, hand in hand, back to her car. We stop in the driveway. I don’t think either of us is ready for her to leave.

  I reach up and brush a leaf out of her hair. God, she’s wonderful.

  Her eyes suddenly light up. “I got you a little something. I can’t believe I forgot.”

  She ducks into the car and pulls something out of her purse.

  “It’s just a little graduation present.”

  It’s a U of A stocking cap, with the Razorback pig on it.

  “I thought you’d need it this fall, but I guess you can wear it during those subzero Los Angeles winter nights. Hey, what’s wrong?”

  I shift my face back into neutral. “Nothing. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  It’s just that this is the first time someone besides Jean has ever bought me a present. The McDonald’s gift certificates and truck-stop toys from Dad don’t count.

  “I, uh, got you a little something too. Very little.” I fish it out of my jacket pocket.

  “Oh, a mix CD!”

  “Sorry it’s nothing better. All my assets are tied up in the Cayman Islands.”

  She’s eagerly looking through the list of songs. My one contribution. Elijah downloaded them all for me, burned the CD on his computer, and embarrassingly provided the blank CD and paid for the downloads. But I chose the music.

  “‘Dancing with Myself,’” she reads. “‘Save the Last Dance for Me.’ ‘Music Box Dancer.’”

  “It’s because we met at dance class,” I explain.

  “Thanks, that was kind of subtle. Oh, ‘Dancing in the Dark,’ good one.”

  “Number ten is my theme song.”

  She looks down the list. “‘Dancing Fool.’ Very appropriate.” She gently but firmly grabs my collar. “C’mere, fool.”

  I’m distracted as she kisses me. I am a fool. I’m really going to give this up for months?