Mike: C’mon, it’s all in good fun. By the way, listeners, have you seen a picture of this kid? I swear, this boy’s so tall he once made a slam dunk by dropping the ball! I don’t want to start any rumors, but the last time this guy went swimming in Scotland, there was a Loch Ness Monster panic.
(Labored bagpipe music)
Mike: So seriously, Deacon, what’s the story behind you and your grandma?
Me: Well, my grandmother didn’t get to attend her own prom. My grandfather was in Vietnam at the time.
Mike: Get out! You know, my grandpa tried to sign up for military duty, but they turned him down. And he wore his purdiest dress and everything. Go figure. Now, Deacon, it was sweet of you to take your grandmother and all, but let’s be honest. Are you sure there wasn’t some lucky girl or other hominid female you would have liked to have gone to the dance with? C’mon, just between you and me . . . and all my listeners.
Me: Your listeners? But I heard they were both out of town.
(Pause. Recorded female voice: Oh no he di’n’t!)
Me: Just messing with you. Seriously, I know someone who does the same job you do.
Mike: Um . . .
Me: My laptop.
Mike: Ain’t you the funny guy. But let’s be serious. . . .
Me: Sirius? I thought you weren’t allowed to say that word.
(Rim shot)
Mike: Well, I can see when I’m outclassed. Deacon, thank you for being on our show. If you’d like to see Deacon and Jean in action on the dance floor, check out our webpage. And if you’d like a date with Deacon’s grandma, call 1-800 . . .
Me: Hey!
Mike: Just messing with you. And, Deacon, as a way of saying thanks, we’d like to send Jean a box set of Tony Bennett Sings Tupac’s Greatest Hits on eight-track. We’re also sending you a brand-new Cyborg 500 cell phone, courtesy of Sooner Cellular, your hometown wireless dealer. Stop in today and sign up for a plan that’s right for you!
I lean over and turn off the radio. Jean stares at me over her cup of coffee. I smile sheepishly.
Jean picks up the box containing the cell phone that the radio station overnighted to us.
“I guess he was just joking about those Tony Bennett tapes.”
“Sorry, Jean. Do you want the phone?”
She passes it to me. “No, Deacon, something tells me you’re going to need it.”
I sit next to Soraya on the bench in front of the cellular store. She called me after school to congratulate me on the interview. When I told her about my new phone, she offered to take me out here so I could activate it.
That part was fun. But now she’s insisting on setting me up with a social media site. I could do without that.
“And when’s your birthday?”
“March eleventh. Seriously, what’s the point of this?”
She doesn’t look up from my phone. “It’s a good way to keep in touch with your friends. Especially when you graduate and you won’t see them as much.”
I’m not convinced. “I prefer to stay in contact the old-fashioned way. Next year I’m going to take a photo of every meal I eat, and when I get them developed I’ll drive to my friends’ houses and show them off.”
Soraya ignores me. “Help me fill this part out. What kind of music do you like?”
“What do you call the stuff Madcap Mike plays?”
“I dunno, Top Forty?”
“Yeah, anything but that.”
She keeps entering information. I stretch to see what she’s doing, but she hides the screen. “Almost done. Now we just need some pictures. Smile!”
“Huh?” Too late.
She shows me the photo and grins. “What do you think?”
“You can see right up my nose.”
“Everyone can see up your nose. Let’s try again. Smile big. No, try not to grimace. Oh, good grief.”
Suddenly, she wraps her arm around my neck. She stretches up so our faces are on the same level and snaps a selfie of us both.
Now there’s a real smile. On both of us, actually.
“Soraya? Can you set this as my . . . what do you call it?”
“Profile pic? Sure.” She hands me the phone.
My online persona is kind of sad. I have one photo (though it’s with an amazingly pretty girl). I have one friend (Soraya) and one pending (Elijah). One “like” (Madcap Mike of KZAR, Tulsa).
When Jean was my age, her online profile wasn’t this pathetic, and they didn’t even have electricity back then. I remember that photo of her, hanging out with her big group of friends. I’d like to be able to show off a picture like that one day.
“Soraya? You’re not teaching a class today, are you?”
She shakes her head.
“Want to go do something? Maybe see what’s happening on campus?”
“That sounds like fun. Actually, I think Jason’s band is playing at Java Jim’s. We could stop by.”
“Or . . . maybe we could visit the pig again.”
We stand. As I move to slip the phone in my pocket, it vibrates. Elijah has approved my friend request. And uploaded a photo, it seems. No, a video.
It’s the clip. The one of me and Jean dancing. And another link to my radio interview. Thanks, pal.
As we get into Soraya’s car, I feel the phone buzz in my pocket again. And again.
I’m more interested in my real-life companion, but I can’t help but worry.
The sun is going down when we pull up in front of my house. Thanks to my fancy new phone, I was able to call Jean and tell her I was going to be late. Who knew?
Soraya slurps the dregs of the milk shake I bought her. I got one for myself too, but I couldn’t even finish half of it. How does she stay so skinny? Must be the dancing.
“Hey, Deacon? Send me that picture you took of me by the fountain.”
I hate to admit it, but I’m falling into the dark and addictive trap of taking pictures with my phone. Especially when they’re of Soraya. Or of the two of us when we have to squeeze together for us to both be in the shot.
I fumble with the device, trying to remember how to send a picture. Then a message pops up that kind of throws me.
“Something wrong?” asks Soraya.
“It’s nothing. Just a few friend requests.”
She looks over my shoulder. Well, not over my shoulder. No one can do that. Around it. “Wow. A hundred twenty is more than a few.”
She’s right. Some of them are people I know: Clara, Kelli, and Hunt. And then there’s people from my school who I’ve had classes with. Also, disturbingly enough, our waiter from the seafood place.
But many of these names I don’t know. Some of them from out of state.
There are also a lot of comments on the video Elijah posted.
ALEXIS: UR TOTES ADORBS, DEACON
SARAH: HOTNESS!
MANDY: DO YOU EVER MAKE IT TO LITTLE ROCK? I’D LOVE TO GO CLUBBING WITH YOU SOME NIGHT.
JENNIE: SWOONWORTHY!
MANDY (A DIFFERENT ONE): I WISH MORE GUYS WERE THIS NICE.
SIMON: DEACON, DOES YOUR GRANDMOTHER HAVE A SOCIAL MEDIA ACCOUNT? I CAN’T SEEM TO FIND IT. MY NAME IS SIMON. I’M 70 YEARS OLD AND I ALSO ENJOY DANCING. IF YOU WOULD BE SO KIND AS TO ASK HER TO DROP ME A NOTE . . .
I turn to Soraya to make a joke, but she suddenly looks frowny.
“You’re certainly popular with the ladies.”
She’s right. Almost all the requests are from girls.
And if I’m not mistaken, this makes Soraya uncomfortable.
“Um, I’ll just delete those.”
“No!” She clears her throat. “I mean, don’t. You and Jean are popular. You should enjoy this.” She begins toying with her hair. “You’re a good dancer. The clip is cute. It’s only natural that people would want to get to know you. Of course, I knew you before all this happened, but hey, whatever.”
Oh my God, she’s a little jealous.
That’s kind of awesome.
I turn off the phone. ??
?Losers. You wanna come in? Say hi to Jean?”
“I’d love to, but I’m going to be late as it is. Good night, Deacon.”
Again, that smiley pause where I wonder if I should kiss her or shake her hand or what. I just awkwardly climb out of the car.
As she drives away, I make a promise to myself that if we ever go out again, I’ll kiss her.
And then she’ll slap you and you’ll never see her again.
That won’t happen.
It could, though.
She likes me. Why not show her I like her?
Because she only tolerates you. Don’t make an ass of yourself.
Shut up!
You shut up!
Wanna make me?
THE PRECIOUS!
It doesn’t help my confused state when my phone buzzes with another friend request from a stranger. Shaking my head, I go inside.
Jean’s still up, sitting on the living room couch. I’m glad. After all the weird happenings this week, I could really use an hour or so of normalcy with my grandmother.
“Deacon! Guess what!” She jumps to her feet. “We’re going to be on TV!”
Wow.
TWENTY
THAT WEEKEND, JEAN AND I SIT IN THE BACK ROOM of Fayetteville’s only TV station. They call it the greenroom, but it’s actually painted beige. A young woman has just applied our makeup.
I really do not care for wearing makeup.
“Deacon, isn’t this exciting? I’ve never been on television!”
I’m not really sure why this happened. Jean said she was contacted by some guy named Jeffery Berkowitz, who’s the producer of a local show called Fayetteville Today. He said they like to interview local celebrities and wanted Jean and me to be on the show.
Jean was super excited. Me, not as much. But maybe it’ll impress Soraya.
Stick that in your guitar hole, Jason.
“Just wait until Peggy hears about this! Maybe she’ll finally shut up about being in that life insurance commercial.”
Apparently high school never actually ends.
“So how do I look?” Jean asks, touching her hair.
The truth is, she looks great. She looks like she’s in her forties. She looks young and vibrant.
“You look wonderful.”
There’s a rap at the door and Berkowitz enters. “Hey, you two, are you about ready?”
“And waiting!” chirps Jean. “Is there anything we need to know?”
“You’ll do fine,” the producer replies. He has an odd way of talking, always looking right over your shoulder. Every time we have a conversation, I get the impression there’s someone sneaking up behind me. “Just talk to Pamela, not the camera. And relax as much as possible. Think of her as your friend.”
Yet another “friend” I’ve made this past week. I should run for office.
A man with headphones ducks his head through the door. “We ready to go?”
Berkowitz leads us to the stage. It’s set up like someone’s living room, except for the lack of ceiling, the lights, the cameras, and the thirty or so chairs where the audience sits.
Pamela Benton, the host, is already in her spot. She’s an attractive black woman, and she smiles when she sees us.
“Please, have a seat,” she says, indicating two comfy chairs.
She talks to the man in headphones for a moment, then turns to me.
“Don’t be nervous. You’ll be fine.”
I actually was feeling surprisingly calm, but her comment makes me wonder if I look nervous, which unsettles me.
The director guy begins counting down like he’s about to launch a rocket or something. Music starts to play.
Pamela apparently has permission to look right at the camera. “Welcome back to Fayetteville Today. This morning I’m pleased to introduce Jean Locke and her grandson, Deacon. Welcome.”
“We’re so glad to be here, Pamela,” says Jean, beaming.
“Hi,” I say, unsure of where I’m supposed to be looking.
“Jean and Deacon recently became an internet phenomenon when Deacon escorted Jean to his senior prom.”
On a large monitor behind us, I hear the familiar soundtrack of the infamous YouTube clip. I try to smile.
“Aren’t they adorable?”
The audience seems to agree. Everyone applauds.
“Jean, I understand that you were unable to attend your own prom?”
Jean looks wistful. “Yes, when I was Deacon’s age, I was already engaged to his grandfather, Howard.”
Behind us, a large photo of Grandpa Howard appears on the screen. He’s in his dress uniform, but he still looks more awkward than macho. Just like his grandson.
“Howard was called up to serve his country, and was wounded in Vietnam. I was unable to attend my senior dance, with him stationed in Southeast Asia.”
I feel somewhat uncomfortable about her sharing this story with the world. Pamela reaches over and pats Jean’s hand. “So tell me, Deacon, what inspired you to take your grandmother to prom? I mean, surely a guy like you could have had his choice of any girl at your school.”
Now is not the time to tell the world about Deacon, the gigantic awkward boy who never had a date. But how can I make myself not sound pathetic?
Ah, hell, this is TV. I lie.
“Well, Pamela, I wouldn’t say there were a lot of girls I could have asked out.” Zero is a number, right? “But when I realized that Jean had missed her special day, how could I not ask her? I mean, I wasn’t seeing anyone, and here was my chance to take a very beautiful lady to the dance.” I break the rule and face the audience. “Am I right?”
The audience bursts out with applause. Pamela does that thing women do, where she places her fingers at the juncture of her neck and chest, to show that she’s touched.
“Deacon, that’s about the sweetest thing I’ve heard. Jean, how did you react when he asked you?”
She laughs. “I was surprised, to say the least. I tried to get him to take one of the girls who are always chasing him, but he wouldn’t have it.”
The audience claps for a little bit.
“So did you two enjoy yourselves? Jean, was this dance what you’d been expecting?”
“It was even better. I’m lucky to have a grandson as thoughtful as Deacon.”
The audience says “awww.”
“And Deacon, did you have fun? I’d say that you did.” Again, the little clip plays.
“I had a fine time. We went with a couple of my friends.” I face the camera again and wink. “Hey, Clara and Eli.”
“Is there anyone else you’d like to say hi to?” Pamela’s grin is so cheesy I think I’m missing something. Then I glance at the display and realize they’re projecting my profile pic. The one of me and Soraya, leaning in close together, smiling.
“Oh, um, that’s . . .” What do I say? What do I say? “That’s my friend Soraya.”
Jean snorts. “Friend.”
The audience laughs. Thanks, Jean.
“Now, your graduation is in two weeks, is that right? What are your plans for after school?”
“Staying here in town, U of A. Go, Razorbacks.”
Everyone cheers.
Pamela beams. “Well, Deacon, something tells me that you won’t be taking your grandmother to your first college dance. And how about you, Jean? Any plans for the future?”
Jean opens her mouth to answer. But then she stops. Freezes. She looks at the audience, then at Pamela, as if she’s not sure who she’s supposed to be addressing. And then she looks at me, a plea in her eyes.
I quickly turn to our host. “She’s got all sorts of things planned. Karate lessons, painting, more dance, maybe turning my room into a studio. Right, Grandma?”
That’s the first time I’ve ever not called her by her first name. I’m not sure why.
Jean nods and smiles weakly.
“Aren’t they great?” says Pamela, oblivious to Jean’s confusion. “Ladies and gentlemen, Jean and Deacon Locke!”<
br />
I’m too concerned about Jean to enjoy the applause. Which is too bad, because I think it’s something I could really get used to.
“And cut!” says headphones guy. Pamela turns to us.
“Thank you so much for coming. I hope you enjoyed yourselves. This segment will air Tuesday at eight.”
Berkowitz escorts us back to the beige room to collect our things. We’re presented with a little gift bag of Fayetteville Today trinkets.
Jean smiles as soon as we’re alone. “That was a hoot and a half. You handled yourself well out there. I mean, move over, Jack Nicholson!”
“Jean, are you feeling okay?”
“Never better. Would you like to get something to eat? I’m starving.”
“Sure.”
Again, she just went dizzy for a moment. I’m sure that’s all. Those stage lights were so bright.
But I’m going to make an appointment with her doctor this week. Just in case.
TWENTY-ONE
IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO MAKE A CALL WHEN YOUR PHONE keeps buzzing in your hand. There’s a constant stream of alerts: friend requests, chat requests, emails . . . ever since that radio interview aired, it’s like I’m carrying around a swarm of angry bees. I’d turn the thing off, except sometimes Soraya texts me and I can’t risk missing that.
I glance at the screen. More messages from strangers.
Meghan: Deacon, if ur ever interested in dancing with someone younger, give me a call
Erin: Awesomesauce!
Meredith: Why can’t more guys be like you?
Savannah: Hope to see you on campus next year!
Kandis: <3
Brian: I like to dance too, Deacon. I’m just throwing that out there.
I’m about to give up and use the wall phone, when my device jolts again.
Soraya. She’s calling me.
I adjust my hair, check my teeth in the reflection from the fridge, and answer.
“Hello.” Did that sound desperate? I think I sounded desperate there.
“Hey, Deacon! You busy right now? There’s a little street fair going on downtown and I wanted to know if . . .”
“Sure!” Wait, what if she wasn’t asking me to go? What if she was going to ask me something else? Talk about presumptuous!
“Great! Meet me by the fountain.”