Deacon Locke Went to Prom

  She shrugs. “Most everyone around here is nice. But sometimes people can be real jerks. Take Mr. Oinky.”

  I look at the pig, who’s dozing in the grass. “He’s a jerk?”

  She frowns, and I think I’ve said the wrong thing. “When he was a piglet, some assholes dumped him in our yard. He had some nasty graffiti on him. My father was furious, wanted to call the sheriff. But all I could see was a piggy. I wanted to keep him. I was nine.”

  I can’t decide if this story is horrible or touching. I guess it’s both.

  “I like Fayetteville, but I don’t love it. I just hope I’m not making a mistake, staying here for school. I’ll give it a year, see if it’s a good fit.” She then blinks. “Wow. I just told you my whole life story.”

  “Thank you, Soraya.” I mean that, too. No one’s ever trusted me with their heartache before.

  “So how about you? What’re you going to major in?”

  Ah, the same question Jean keeps asking. “I’m not sure. I don’t have to decide right away.”

  “Do you think you’re going to settle down in Arkansas?”

  “Probably.”

  “Any idea what you want to do for a living?”

  “Soraya . . .” I nervously crack my knuckles. “Jean keeps asking me that. So does my guidance counselor. And my friend Kelli. And . . . I guess it makes me weird, but I don’t know. I don’t know what kind of job I want. I don’t know where I want to live, or if I want to get married someday, or travel the world or live next door to Jean. And I’m scared as hell about borrowing a godzillian dollars for school when I can’t answer those questions yet. Pretty strange, huh?”

  Soraya regards me with her dark eyes. “I think you’re kind of an oddball, but you’re not strange at all. When the right thing comes along, it’ll hit you. Take my father. He’s an engineer for the highway department. Started college when he was seventeen, and has been building roads for the past twenty years.”

  “I guess he must love it.”

  “Ha! He hates it! You’ve never heard such bitching. Listen, don’t let anyone make you into something you’re not.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  Though we’re still sitting, she puts her hands on her hips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Because you’re . . .”

  “I’m what?”

  Perfect. Beautiful. Sophisticated. Kind. Wonderful. “Self-confident.”

  She leans back against the tree. “If only you knew, Deacon. When I was younger I . . . didn’t like where I came from. I tried to pretend that I wasn’t . . . Muslim. Lebanese. Nonblond. When I was in sixth grade, I tried to tell everyone my name was really Samantha Jasmine Smith. Have you ever heard of a stupider name?”

  “‘Deacon Locke’ springs to mind.”

  She smiles wryly. “That’s why I started dancing. I guess every little girl around here takes a dance class at some point in her life. I just wanted to fit in. I mean, my mother was the only woman in my neighborhood who wore a hijab. Dancing made me feel more like everyone else. And by the time I got to junior high, I realized I kind of liked it. That’s why I kept up with it, even when most of the other girls quit.”

  “You’re really good at it.”

  She rolls her eyes and shoves my shoulder. I wish she’d do it again.

  “I’m serious, Soraya. They wouldn’t ask you to teach if you weren’t talented.”

  She shrugs. “Yeah. Plus I work for free.” We’re silent for a moment. “Sorry, Deacon, I don’t know why I told you all that. I guess living with someone like Jean, you don’t know what it’s like to be embarrassed by where you come from.”

  I think about it. “When I was twelve, my father had me deliver a package of something to a bunch of strange guys down on the Miami docks. And when I was fourteen, he made me ride in the trunk when we crossed the Mexican border.”

  “For God’s sake, why?”

  I shrug. “He never told me. My point is, everyone is ashamed of their family at some point.”

  Her eyes are wide. “You win.”

  “It’s not a contest. But thanks for letting me talk.”

  “Thank you, Deacon.” She reaches over and takes my hand. When we stand up, she doesn’t let go for just a second. Just for one beautiful second.

  “My parents are expecting me. Are you okay to get home?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Hey . . .”

  She looks at me expectantly. I brace myself.

  “I’ve got some friends stopping by this Friday. We’re going to do a little astronomy.” Good Lord, that sounds nerdish out loud. “You want to come by? Take a look at my telescope?”

  She tilts her head. “That’s not a euphemism for something, is it?”

  “What? No! Oh God, no!”

  She grins. “It sounds like fun.”

  Wow. I mean. Wow. “Okay. Eightish. The big white house next to the golf course.”

  “I’ll be there. My parents might need the car, is it okay if I have a friend bring me?”

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak further. She grabs Mr. Oinky’s leash and walks away, pausing once to smile at me over her shoulder.

  I did it. I did it. I invited Soraya over to my house.

  And she said yes.

  Imitating a thousand romantic-comedy characters, I fall back against the tree and slowly slide down to a sitting position, a stupid smile on my face.

  I sit there for a while, thinking about Soraya and what she said. I’m kind of enraged that she’d ever think she had any reason to be ashamed. I’d like to find out whoever dropped off the pig and break his legs.

  Stupid bigotry. The religious people should get together sometime and work out their differences.

  I wonder why no one has ever tried that before.

  TEN

  SO SORAYA IS COMING HERE. TO MY HOUSE. SHE’S going to show up in about an hour. I’m going to teach her about astronomy. We’re going to go up the hill and hang out together in the dark.

  I must flee. If I start running now, I can make Louisiana by next week.

  No. I can do this. I talked to Elijah. He promised he’d come and bring Clara. And Soraya said a friend might be driving her, though I’m not sure if she’s staying. And of course Jean will be here. I doubt she’ll want to actually join us at the telescope, but she’ll help me break the ice. Everyone likes Jean. She’ll fill in the conversation gaps. Provided Elijah leaves us any.

  I think this as I clean up two years’ worth of soda cans and candy wrappers from the hill, move the picnic table up there, take down my tarp, and spread several old quilts in front of my observation point.

  Jean, of course, has gone into full hostess mode. She’s cleaned the already immaculate house and put out little trays of snacks.

  “Jean, you don’t have to do this. I’m just having a few friends over.”

  “Of course.” She begins to wind up the vacuum-cleaner cord. “Anyone I know? That boy with the guitar?”

  “No.”

  “That Kelli girl?”

  “No.”

  She pauses and looks directly at me. “Our dance instructor?”

  I sputter.

  “It’s about time. I was afraid you were going to get scared and I’d have to put up with all that staring for another class.”

  My guts sink. “Was I that obvious?”

  “I wasn’t talking about you, Deacon.”

  This does not relax me in the least.

  “I’m just showing everyone my telescope,” I insist. “It’s not a date or anything.”

  “Does Soraya know it’s not a date?”

  Oh God.

  Jean wipes her hands on a rag and examines me up and down. She adjusts my collar.

  “Change your socks, they don’t match your pants. I’ll see you later.”

  “What?” Where’s she going? It’s not bridge night. Or dance night. Or pool night.

  “Peggy and Barb have been pestering me to join them for cards. I told them I’d play this
evening.” She picks up her jacket.

  “Wait! Don’t leave!” I know that Soraya likes Jean, but she may not find Elijah as charming. And the fewer people here, the more I’m going to be expected to talk. And I can’t hope that things will go as smoothly as at the park the other day.

  “I’ll be back. Just after ten. Enjoy yourselves. No drinking.”

  “But . . .”

  She smiles at me with a twinkle in her eye. “Good-bye.”

  Two minutes later, I hear her car start up and drive off.

  I quickly change my socks so I’ll have enough time to sit in the front room and hyperventilate. Soraya is coming and I have no idea how to handle myself.

  It’s okay. Two or three other people will be here, besides Soraya and me. Maybe more. Maybe Elijah invited people. I mean, he never said he was going to do anything like that, but you never know. Soraya and I probably won’t even have a chance to be alone all evening, gosh darn it.

  The phone in the kitchen rings. With a growing sense of dread, I answer it.

  “Hey, Deke?” It’s Elijah. “I hate to do this, but we gotta bail on you tonight. Clara’s got the flu or something.”

  “What? No!”

  “Calm down, dude. It’s only a twenty-four-hour bug. She’s just feeling a little blah.”

  I nearly yank the phone out of the wall. “Do you have the flu?”

  He laughs. Laughs like this is funny. “No, man. We’re not that close yet.”

  “They why can’t you come?”

  There’s a pause. “It’s just you and Soraya, right?”

  “Probably.”

  “They why would you want me there? I mean, if Clara was coming too, it would be one thing, but you and me and your date? That’s just awkward, man.”

  “It’s not a date!”

  He laughs again. “You’re going to do fine, bro. I believe in you.”

  “Then get over here!”

  “I gotta run. Deep breaths, Deke. Don’t slip her the tongue until your third date.” He hangs up.

  So my little informal scientific gathering has just turned into a night alone with Soraya on a dark hilltop. What if she thinks this was all some setup to get her alone? What if she gets angry?

  What if she likes the idea?

  Get a grip, Deacon. You can survive. One step at a time. Just concentrate on what you’re going to say first.

  Dear God, what do I say first?

  For an hour, I rehearse dozens of opening lines. Then, just when the clock strikes eight, I hit upon the perfect greeting.

  Good evening.

  I roll it around in my skull a few times and decide that it fits. Good evening. Good. Evening. Good evening!

  Perfect.

  The doorbell rings. This is it. Last chance to make a break for it and start all over in Mexico.

  I answer the door.

  “Good eeeee . . .”

  Here she is, backlit by the front-porch light. She’s wearing a sleeveless sweater, a light jacket carelessly slung over her shoulder. She stands there smiling at me, like a model in a clothes catalog. Her beauty strikes me like a crowbar to the jaw. Every time I see her, she grows lovelier.

  And next to her stands Jason, the guitarist who helped me prompose to Jean.

  Soraya smiles at me. “Thanks for having us over, Deacon. Jason says you two have already met.”

  “Deacon!” Jason claps his hands one time. “Hope you don’t mind me tagging along. Soraya lives on my street and she needed a ride.”

  I stare.

  Soraya clears her throat. “I’ve been looking forward to this. You can’t really see the stars in town.”

  I stare.

  “You can actually see the Milky Way out here,” adds Jason.

  I stare.

  Soraya runs a hand through her silky hair. Moths are beginning to fly into the house.

  “Is it just us, or are other people coming?”

  I can just slam the door in their faces and lock them out of my life forever. Or say I can’t do this tonight because my appendix just ruptured. Or punch Jason in the nose.

  But I don’t. I force my facial muscles to smile.

  “Good evening. Thank you both for coming. My friends Elijah and Clara were supposed to join us, but they were forced to cancel.”

  I grab a flashlight from a table, then join them on the porch, shutting the door behind me. “Shall we? The stars are this way.”

  If the universe were a kind and friendly place, it would be overcast and I would have an excuse to cancel.

  I can’t remember the last time the sky was this clear. And the evening is cool, with just the hint of a breeze. A perfect night for stargazing.

  A perfect night for stargazing with Soraya. She’s walking just behind me, next to Jason. I lead the way, resisting the urge to make a sweeping gesture with the flashlight and accidentally bop him in his acne-free face. First he charges me a wad to play one song for Jean. And now that I’m genuinely starting to like a girl, here he is with his cheekbones and clean nails.

  We scramble up the hill. I turn to offer my hand to Soraya and guide her over the tricky step at the top. Jason is already helping her.

  The only thing that keeps me from cursing the heavens is the advice from the prophet Elijah: be good at something and do it in front of her. Okay, maybe Jason has the moves and the looks and can buy shoes in regular sizes, but I’m the astronomer here. This is my arena.

  I flip on the battery-powered lantern I left on the picnic table and gesture to a couple of lawn chairs. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  Jason assumes I’m including him in that invitation and sits down next to Soraya. I busy myself with the telescope.

  Jason claps his hands once. “So what’re you going to show us tonight?”

  I target the fifth planet. “Jupiter. Soraya?” She joins me at the telescope. “Just bend over and look through the eyepiece.”

  She’s so close to me. So very close. I resist the overwhelming urge to lay my hands on her shoulders.

  “Wow! You can really see it,” she says, sounding impressed. “What are those little dots next to it?”

  “Those are Jupiter’s four largest moons. They were discovered by Galileo. Ganymede is the only known moon to have an atmosphere. Europa has a sort of an ocean, and scientists speculate life could develop there. Io is the only moon with active volcanoes.”

  I’m doing it. I’m showing off and succeeding.

  Soraya stares, enthralled, into the telescope. “That’s amazing. Why is the moon named Io?”

  “I . . .” I don’t know. I have no idea. I know there’s a big complicated system for naming solar-system objects, but I never studied that aspect.

  “Io was a priestess and a lover of Zeus.” Soraya looks away from the telescope to listen to Jason. “She was briefly transformed into a cow, and later became the great-grandmother of Hercules. The Ionian Sea is named after her.”

  Soraya is no longer paying attention to the heavenly vista I’ve opened for her. “Are all the planets and moons named after gods and goddesses?”

  Jason looks at me, apparently offering me the opportunity to answer. I just stand there like a moron who didn’t take five minutes to study planet nomenclature. He turns back to our own goddess.

  “All of them except the moons of Uranus.” He pronounces it “yer-ANN-us,” like he’s embarrassed by the name. “They’re named after Shakespearean characters: Oberon, Ophelia, Miranda.”

  “Can we look at those, Deacon?”

  I so, so want to say yes. But Jason beats me to the punch. “Not with that telescope.”

  I massage my temple. Unfortunately, he’s right. Uranus would be nothing but a gray smudge through my scope.

  I show Soraya Saturn, and she’s pretty impressed by the rings, but Jason then starts to go on and on about the Titans.

  Stupid moons.

  Even when I try to subvert his charm by showing a remote nebula known only by a number, Jason launches into an int
eresting story about some supernova in the Middle Ages that caused an end-of-the-world scare.

  Poophead.

  Soraya stretches. Maybe, mercifully, she’ll end this evening.

  But then she spies the blankets I’ve laid out. She kicks off her shoes (her toes are so long!) and lies down in the middle. She pats the ground next to her. I join her in a flash.

  And Jason flops his grotesquely perfect body down on her other side.

  I might as well leave and give them some time alone.

  “So do all the stars have names?” Soraya asks.

  “The major ones do,” I answer, before Jason can. “Vega, Deneb, Polaris, Betelgeuse.”

  “That’s a real star? Which one is it?”

  “Um, that big red one, by the horizon.”

  She lifts herself up on her elbows for a better view. “Beetle Juice. I’ve always wondered about that name. Why do they call it that?”

  I know this! I know this! I don’t remember where I read it, but I know this. I burst in before Jason can answer.

  “It was actually named by an Arab astronomer. You see, during the Middle Ages, the Islamic lands were the cultural hub of the world. A lot of the famous Western astronomers, like Kepler and Copernicus, based their research on the works of Middle Eastern scholars.” And didn’t sit around telling namby-pamby tales about goddesses, Jason.

  I can see Soraya smile in the flickering lamplight.

  “What does the name mean?” asks Jason. He sounds genuinely interested, but I’m sure he’s just trying to make me look foolish. But I have the answer to this one.

  “It’s Arabic for ‘the armpit of the giant’!”

  Crickets. Literally.

  Soraya lets out a sudden giggle. Jason laughs.

  I pretend to be interested in the sky. Armpit. I’m trying to impress a girl and I start talking about armpits. I’m mentally kicking myself so hard, I almost don’t notice the shooting star.

  “Ooh!” yips Soraya. “Make a wish.”

  In 1954, a meteor struck and injured an Alabama woman. I wish for a repeat performance starring myself.

  No one speaks for a while. Just when I start to relax and take comfort in Soraya’s presence, Jason opens his mouth.