Before I can answer, my phone rings. It’s that special chime that lets me know that Soraya is calling. Jean recognizes it, and busies herself tidying.
“Hey there!” I say.
There’s a long pause. I can hear Soraya’s voice, but she’s talking to someone else. Did she dial me by accident?
“Deacon? Hey. Listen. I . . .” She sounds nervous. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this.”
I quickly sit down on Jean’s bed. I guess I always knew this was coming.
“I hate to do this,” she continues.
She’s dumping me. That’s got to be it. I’ve screwed up somehow. Or more likely, she just realizes that she can do better. A lot better. I close my eyes and wait for the sugarcoated kick to the groin.
“Deacon, can you come over for dinner tonight? My parents want to meet you.”
I almost laugh. She’s not breaking up with me!
Then I’m suddenly back in hell again.
Meet her parents?
Soraya lives in a white, single-story house with lots of well-maintained shrubs. The car I pushed that one time is parked in the driveway, next to an SUV. I stand across the street, clutching a bouquet of grocery-store flowers. I’m still wearing my graduation clothes. I have to make a good impression.
One good thing about being terrified of girls—you never have to meet their dads.
What if he doesn’t like me? What if I do something stupid? I mean, that’s kind of inevitable, but what if I do something really stupid?
God, their family is religious. I don’t know anything about their culture. What if I offend them?
It’s only when I remember that Jason lives in this neighborhood that I finally get the courage to approach Soraya’s house. I can’t risk him seeing me standing here freaking out.
Her mother answers my knock. She’s a pretty woman with Soraya’s cheeks and eyes. She’s wearing a dark red-and-white headscarf. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that those are the University of Arkansas’s colors.
“Deacon! It’s so nice to meet you.” She has a very slight accent. “Please, come in.”
I thrust the flowers at her. “These are for you!”
“They’re lovely. Let me just—”
“Mom!” I’m relieved to see Soraya rush in from another room. “I said I’d get the door.”
“I didn’t want to leave your friend outside. Now come help me put these in some water. Deacon, Soraya’s father is on the back porch. Why don’t you go ahead outside. We’ll meet you in a moment.”
I’m hoping that Soraya will insist on going with me, but she follows her mother to the kitchen.
“Sorry,” she mouths.
Well. Now I have to meet her father with no backup and no gift in hand. Maybe I should have brought more flowers. No, that’s stupid. I should have brought some food. Why didn’t I bring some of Jean’s potato salad?
I find Mr. Shadee manning a barbecue grill. He’s a short, shabby-looking man with a mustache. He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, making me feel somewhat ridiculous in my tie. He smiles when he sees me.
“You must be Deacon.”
“Yes, sir. I am Deacon.”
“Soraya’s told us a lot about you. Grab yourself a drink.”
“Yes, sir. I will.” I pull a can of something from a cooler.
“So you go to Fayetteville High? You play any sports?”
“No, sir.” I barely manage to stop myself from apologizing.
“Junior ROTC?”
“No, sir.”
He flips a couple of burgers and then shuts the grill. “The reason I ask is that you’re standing at rigid attention. You’re a guest in my home. At ease. Relax.”
“I will, sir.”
He smiles behind his mustache. Glancing at the back door, he moves closer to me.
“I understand you’re kind of a celebrity. I saw you on TV the other day. Your grandmother seems very sweet.”
“Yes. She is.”
“I wish Soraya could get to know her own grandmother better, but she lives overseas.”
“Yes, sir. She told me that.”
He stares at me for another moment. I can tell I’m not holding up my end of the conversation, but at least I’m able to answer his direct questions.
“You’re on the net a lot too. And the radio, the paper . . . I’d actually heard the name Deacon Locke before Soraya ever mentioned you.”
“Thank you.”
He takes a swallow from his soda and glances at the door again. His face grows serious.
“I’d like to discuss something with you, before the girls come out.”
Oh, God, that picture in the paper. Of me kissing his daughter. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might have seen it. He’s probably pissed. He’s going to demand that I leave, that I stop seeing her. Why did I come here?
“You okay?”
“Fine, sir.”
He suddenly seems as uncomfortable as me. “This is going to sound kind of ridiculous. And maybe I’m just being an overprotective father. But since my daughter is seeing you, I feel I have to mention it.”
He looks back at the house while I try to suppress a smile at the confirmation that Soraya and I are a thing.
“Deacon, you know how the internet is. Something gets said, a photo comes out, a video clip becomes popular . . . I don’t have to tell you how many people have watched that little film of you and your grandmother. I guess the point I’m trying to make is that I’m not excited about the idea of Soraya getting caught up in all that. She’s my little girl, and people . . . well, they can be unkind. I’d just as soon you didn’t include her in all this hubbub.”
Strangely, his little speech makes me feel more comfortable. “Mr. Shadee? I know exactly what you mean. There are a lot of idiots out there with laptops. I’ve heard people say things about Jean that I didn’t appreciate. To be honest, I have no idea why any of this is happening, but I have a feeling it’s not going to go on very much longer. And the last thing I want is for Soraya to be embarrassed.”
He smiles. At that moment, the ladies join us on the porch. Soraya looks at me questioningly. I wink at her.
“Deacon,” says Mrs. Shadee, “I hope you brought your appetite.”
I join the family at a picnic table. “I could eat.”
Now I may not be the most politically correct guy in the world, but I like to think I’m fairly tolerant and open to new ways of doing things. But the Shadees . . . a lot of their customs are strange and foreign to me. Very different from the way we do things at my house.
For instance, their plates and napkins are made of paper, unlike the china dishes Jean insists we use, even when we eat outside. And when Jean has company, she has an elaborate ritual of asking each guest if they’d like a certain dish, and laboriously doling it out, one entrée at a time. Mrs. Shadee, on the other hand, commands me to help myself, and to grab seconds. Soraya’s father even hurls a burned burger over the fence to a neighbor’s dog.
Somewhere between the coleslaw and ice cream sandwiches, I finally manage to relax. Soraya’s parents badger me about my college plans, and when they find out I’m going to stay in Fayetteville, they seem pleased.
Eventually, I have to get going. Soraya walks me to my car.
“I like your new clothes, Deacon. Though I’m sorry you didn’t wear that white leisure suit you wore to dance class that one time.”
I smile at the memory. “Jean said she accidentally took it outside, doused it with gasoline, and burned it. She said she should have done that when my grandfather first bought it.”
We both laugh, though I’m not certain Jean had been joking.
“Well, you look better in this. Black’s your color, I think.” She flicks my tie.
I glance back at her house to make sure no one is watching, then turn to kiss her.
She’s not puckering up.
“So what were you talking about with my dad?”
“Huh?”
“Wh
en you two were out on the porch. What did he tell you?” She has an intense, irritated look on her face, and I can’t tell if it’s me or her dad that’s caused it.
“Um, he was just worried about me dragging you into all that internet crap. I told him I’d do my best.”
Soraya runs her hand through her long hair, twisting it between her fingers. “I told him not to say anything.”
I’m suddenly on alert. “Say anything about what? Soraya, what’s going on?”
She smiles, thinly. “Oh, he’s just freaking out over nothing. You know how parents are.”
“Not really. Talk to me, is something wrong?”
She places her hands on my shoulders. “Nothing, Deacon. Nothing at all to worry about. And I’m sorry to make you come over here, but they’d been bugging me to meet you.”
“I had fun. I like them.”
“That’s the right answer.” She pulls my face toward hers and kisses me.
TWENTY-FOUR
YOU EVER REALLY LOOK FORWARD TO SOMETHING, like a vacation or the Lyrid meteor shower, and then when it finally arrives, it doesn’t seem real?
That’s what it’s like with me and graduation. Here it is, my last day of high school ever. The ceremony is tomorrow. And yet, I can’t work up any kind of emotion. Maybe it’ll all hit me when I move out of Jean’s house in August.
In the meantime, I sit in the auditorium with the rest of the senior class. Principal Kznack and the other administrators hand out awards. It’s purely a delaying tactic to keep the graduates from going nuts on the last day.
Elijah sits next to me. “Now I don’t have any problem going to NWACC. None at all. But Clara, she’s still stuck in high school for another year. Makes a man worry.”
“It’ll be fine,” I mumble. How the hell did we end up in the second row? Now I can’t slump down and take a nap. Not that there’s anything they could do to me anyway, with only thirty minutes left of my public education.
“Easy for you to say, Deacon. I don’t have a million online fans.”
“Neither do I.”
I should have known better. He pulls out his phone and brings up that stupid clip. But I’m right. The clip doesn’t have a million likes.
Just 720,013.
“Quiet, Elijah. Kelli’s on.”
Actually, Kelli hasn’t been off the stage since they started handing out the academic awards. At first, she would return to her seat after she received each certificate and recognition, but that started to prove tiresome. She stands onstage, carrying an armload of plaques and papers.
“And finally, the award for the most volunteer hours logged . . . big surprise, Kelli Henshaw!”
The audience unenthusiastically applauds as Kelli finally sits down on my other side, staggering under the weight of her loot. I look at the clock. There’s still lots of time until the final bell, and I think that was the last award. The crowd is getting restless. How are they going to fill up the end of the assembly? I hope not with speeches.
Mr. Kznack takes the microphone. “We have one more very special award to give out.”
There’s a pause. Then the lights lower. To the sides, I see faculty members closing the doors. Up onstage, mysterious, dark figures emerge from the wings.
Elijah’s breathing grows rapid. “It’s a trap. They’re going to arrest someone.”
Kelli shushes him.
“I’m serious. This is how they got Dillinger.”
I’m straining to see what’s happening on the darkened stage. One of the people up there has a large video camera.
The principal speaks. “It comes as no surprise to us that one of our Bulldog family has become quite famous this year.”
No. No.
This is not happening.
But it is. The screen at the back of the stage fades from the school logo into the infamous clip of Jean and me at the prom.
“Deacon!” screams someone in the audience.
I sit there sweating as the audience hoots and cheers our performance.
There’s loud clapping and laughter when the video ends. Will people not let this die?
The lights come back up. “Deacon, would you please come up here?”
I don’t want to. And they can’t make me. Whatever little certificate they’ve made up isn’t worth it.
But then I feel Kelli’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Deacon. You can do it.”
Right. Confidence. Let’s do this. I stumble and trip past everyone in the row. I should have a sense of humor about this. Like the guy who won the “craziest clothes” award. It’ll be over in a couple of minutes.
As I take the stage there’s another burst of cheering. “I love you, Deacon!” shouts some girl.
I turn to the principal, trying to smile. But it’s not Mr. Kznack standing next to me. It’s a strange man in a business suit.
Which wouldn’t be worrisome, except I’ve seen him before.
At the hardware store. He was one of the guys watching me.
Elijah was right. I’ve been set up, somehow. I look to my friends in the audience. Kelli nods, encouragingly. Elijah looks confused.
I’m aware that the man with the camera is now standing at the front of the stage, filming us. And to the side, someone dangles a boom mic over my head.
Dear God, what’s happening?
The man in the suit scoots closer to me. He smiles like we’re old friends.
“I’m Patrick Delaney, from the United Broadcast Network.” He gently pulls me closer to him and faces the cameraman. “We’re here in Fayette, Arkansas, with—” He touches the side of his head and listens to an invisible voice in his earpiece. He then smiles and faces the camera again. “I’m Patrick Delaney, from the United Broadcast Network. I’m here in Fayetteville, Arkansas. With me is Deacon Locke, the young man whose dance skills have captivated a nation. How’re you doing, Deacon?”
“Very, very confused.”
The audience laughs.
“Deacon, are you a fan of our show Celebrity Dance Off?”
Nope. I’m going to have to wing it.
“It’s that dance show, right? With the celebrities?”
More laughter. I force a weak giggle. Behind me, the logo for the show appears on the screen.
“Mr. Locke, I think we’ve kept you in suspense long enough.” He turns to the crowd. “And I know you all are anxious to hear what your principal has to say.”
Everyone laughs. Even Mr. Kznack shrugs in an “Aw, you got me” gesture.
“We at UBN have been watching your dance clips with great interest. And we’ve come here today to invite you, Deacon Locke, to appear on season seven of Celebrity Dance Off!”
The crowd screams. A blast of music fills the auditorium. I assume it’s the show’s theme song. Teachers, students, and the principal are all clapping.
And I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t watch this show. I don’t know what they want me to do. Did the principal know that was going to happen? Did Jean?
I’m scared and confused and everyone is looking at me. There’s a microphone hanging over my head. I glance at Kelli, but she looks as flummoxed as I do.
Mr. Delaney is very subtly nodding at me. I’m trapped. I have no other option.
“I . . .” I clear my throat, face the senior class, and smile. “I can’t wait. Go, Bulldogs!”
Chaos. Pure chaos. Screaming. Paper wads flying. People yelling my name.
I stand there next to this strange man, grinning and waving, not knowing what I’ve agreed to or what’s expected of me.
But I do know that hundreds of my classmates are cheering for me. And that’s kind of neat. I wish Soraya could see me right now.
Then it occurs to me that she has a TV. She will see me.
Eventually, silence is restored. The principal joins us. But Mr. Delaney is not finished. Not yet.
“This must be pretty exciting for you, Deacon! And as a special thank-you . . .” An assistant appears at his shoulder and hands h
im an envelope. “We’d like to present your school with this check for two thousand dollars.”
I stand there, holding up the envelope, as photographers capture my stunned expression. Surely this will end soon. Someone will explain everything.
Mr. Kznack approaches the podium. For once, I’m glad to see him.
“Thank you, Mr. Delaney. Thank you, Deacon. Now before we leave, I have a few announcements. . . .”
“Just a moment,” says Delaney, subverting Mr. Kznack’s authority in front of everyone. “Deacon, we need to take a few more pictures. Can you get a few of your friends up here?”
I frantically gesture for Elijah and Kelli. But it’s too late.
Dozens of students rush the stage. Kids I’ve barely talked to, kids I’ve had classes with, people I’ve never spoken to in my life. They crowd into me, touch me, force themselves next to me in an effort to be in the photos. I’m knocked around and nearly lose my footing. The camera flashes blind me. Mr. Delaney is giving me instructions, but I can’t hear him over the noise in here.
I just face forward, smile, and pray this will end soon.
Eventually I wind up in Mr. Kznack’s office with Mr. Delaney. We are alone. I’m supposed to have gone home by now, but I need answers. Explanations.
Delaney is on his phone and I patiently wait for him to finish. Eventually, the call ends.
“Mr. Delaney, I don’t want to appear . . .” Enraged? Panicked? “Ungrateful, but you really kind of took me by surprise back there. What was up with the jump scare?”
He gives me a warm, friendly, and completely fake laugh. “That’s kind of our thing at Celebrity Dance Off. We like to capture our contestants’ reactions when they first find out they’re going to be a dancing star. I can show you some clips. . . .”
“Uh, that’s okay. And celebrity dance-off? I’m not famous. I mean, not even close.”
He slaps me on the back as if I just made a joke. “But you are, Deacon. You see, we take our contestants from the ranks of everyday Americans who have found their way into the spotlight and into our hearts. For instance, last season we featured Major John Renwick, a marine who lost his arm in Afghanistan. Such a touching story.”
I wonder how he enjoyed it when the camera crew snuck up on him.