He pulls up a chair and begins flipping through the magazine Kelli brought me. I’m not sure if I’m more annoyed or relieved at the interruption.
“Whoa, astrology! What’s my horoscope? I’m a Gemini.”
Kelli winks at me. “Astronomy, Elijah. Real, actual science.”
He runs a hand through his thinning blond hair and fixes Kelli with a deranged grin. “I didn’t used to buy into the whole star-sign thing either. But get this. My uncle, he was a Cancer. Now guess what he was just diagnosed with?”
She frowns. “Cancer?”
“No, crabs.”
Kelli laughs. Maybe a little more than she’s ever laughed at anything I’ve ever said. I’m about to suggest that Elijah find somewhere else to be when a loud trumpet blast cuts through the lunchroom.
When I turn and see a crowd of sequin-suited mariachis march into the room . . . I wish I could say I’m surprised. I truly do.
We stand for a better look. I peer over the spectators’ heads.
Yep, should have seen it coming. The grinning guy with the rose in his hand. The teary-eyed girl. The invitation to prom. The applause from the crowd.
“Where the hell do you find mariachis in Arkansas?” says Elijah, hovering at my elbow. He taps his forehead, as if trying to force the thoughts back into his brain. “Seriously, can you believe this? Another promposal. Isn’t that a douchey word? What the hell are we coming to?”
He turns and faces Kelli. “You’re a girl, right?”
She nods, warily.
“I mean . . . is this what women expect these days? Someone clunking out hundreds of dollars before the dance even happens? Do us poor guys even stand a chance?”
I hold my breath. What if she agrees with Elijah? I’m totally screwed. I can’t prompose. Not like that. Please say no.
Kelli rolls her eyes. “Ha! This is nothing but a scam created by the corporate overlords to get us to pour cash into their coffers. Not to mention an attempt by the patriarchy to reduce women to a subservient and supplicant role.”
I don’t know what most of that means, but it seems like she’s not impressed by the promposals. I start to breathe again.
“Although . . .”
Crap.
“I mean, it might be nice if a guy, you know, put a little thought into asking you. Nothing crazy, but it might make one feel special to know he took a little time to . . .” She shakes her head, then sneezes. “I have to go. See you, Deacon.”
I watch as she vanishes among the sparkly sombreros.
Wonderful. Even Kelli wouldn’t mind some sort of theatrical promposal. And thanks to Elijah, I can’t pretend I don’t know this.
“So is she your girlfriend?” asks Elijah, who, it seems, is still here.
“No, Elijah.” I try to do the gravel-voiced “leave me alone” tone. I apparently fail.
“Why not? Are you gay? ’Cause I’m cool with that.”
“No.”
“She’s kind of cute. You should take her out. Haul her up the side of the Empire State Building in your hand.” He laughs at his own joke, a braying, donkey-like sound.
“Elijah, it’s not that I want you to go away, but I want you to GO AWAY.”
He waves both palms at me. “Hey, you don’t have to tell me twice.”
He then proceeds not to leave.
“Actually, Deacon, maybe you can help me. You see, I’m kind of having a problem of a romantical nature myself. There’s this girl Clara. She’s in my math class. She’s so funny and smart and . . . wow. She works at C & R Hardware. I was there the other day buying a C-clamp. One of my many vices.” He suddenly looks at me with a grin. After a moment, he shrugs and continues. “She was demonstrating a power drill. And normally I find drills so boring.” Again, the weird smile. “Hell, did you ever meet a girl and she’s all you can think about, and you know you don’t have a chance, but you’re just going to kick yourself if you don’t end up asking her out? Should I go for it?”
Since the semester started, I’ve maybe said ten words to him. He’s said about ten thousand to me. I have no idea why he thinks I, of all people, would have romantic advice for him.
“Sure, man. Whatever.”
The warning bell rings.
“Okay. I’ll do it. Thanks, Deke.” He galumphs off.
Deke?
That night, I sit on the hill behind our house adjusting my telescope. It’s hours after Jean has gone to bed, probably nearly ten o’clock. The sky is a little overcast. I can’t really see anything but Jupiter. No matter. Sky gazing near Fayetteville isn’t what it used to be, not since the suburban sprawl began edging out here.
When I first started visiting Jean, this place seemed like it was in the middle of the jungle. I must have been five or six. Probably younger than that, right after my mom died. Dad was just beginning to go off on his “business trips.” He’d leave me here for days. Sometimes weeks. Jean and I would explore the overgrown meadows behind her old farmhouse. She would have been in her late fifties then, but she always had the energy to chase a five-foot-tall kindergartner around the yard. And when Dad started pursuing financial opportunities around the country, the trips to Jean’s were the only stability in my life.
I focus in on the moon but can’t see much. It was Jean who gave me my first telescope, actually. A toy thing that once belonged to my aunt. This house was always brimming with cool stuff: my late grandfather’s tools, his old army uniform, his prosthetic leg. I would have been the king of show-and-tell, had I ever stayed at a school more than a couple of months.
I have many memories of my father yanking me out of bed in the middle of the night, looking jittery.
“C’mon, Deacon, we have to haul ass. You’re going to love Denver. Move it, boy. No, we don’t have time to get your books. Now, Deacon!”
I counted once. I think I attended twelve elementary schools. Maybe more. Seven junior highs. It wasn’t until my father left for Europe that Jean put her foot down. I was sixteen, and Jean insisted that I move in with her.
Dad . . . he didn’t argue. Not even that fake arguing you do for appearance’s sake.
“This is just for a little bit, Deacon. I’ll send you a ticket, soon as I get things squared away here.”
I didn’t exactly run out and take Dutch lessons.
I pack up my telescope. The universe is being boring tonight.
I’ve enjoyed my time here with Jean. Fayetteville’s an okay town. It’s home to the University of Arkansas, and it rarely snows. But I think even if Jean lived in Detroit, I’d like living with her.
She’s my best friend.
But high school is coming to an end soon. And as much as I’d like to, I can’t stay here.
I’ve already been accepted into the U of A, here in town. Don’t have a major picked out. They don’t offer an astronomy program. Actually, no college offers a worthwhile astronomy program except MIT, and I don’t have the grades for that. I don’t have the grades for a scholarship, either. I’m going to have some serious student debt when I graduate, and you can’t make a living staring at the sky.
But now what? I’m kind of at the point where I have to decide what I want to do with my life.
I can’t live with Jean forever. And I don’t want to live a selfish life like my father. And that leaves . . . what?
Like the universe, my future is limitless. And like the universe, my future is mostly uncharted and kind of scary.
I guess that’s why I want to go to prom. If I go to the dance, even with a friend, I can kind of not be a weirdo. Kind of have a fun high school experience like everyone else. And the clock is ticking. I don’t know how long it takes to arrange getting a tux and stuff, but I don’t have time to burn.
I swear to the empty heavens, come hell or Elijah, I am going to ask out Kelli tomorrow.
What’s the worst that could happen?
See also: ironic foreshadowing.
THREE
REMEMBER THAT MOVIE ABOUT THE MAN WHO makes su
its out of human flesh?
When I run into Elijah before school, he looks less sane than that guy.
He’s wearing some sort of . . . clothes. It’s not wholly a tuxedo, or a dress suit, or office casual. Rather, it’s some unholy, Frankensteinish combination.
And he’s carrying a bundle of screwdrivers, wrapped in a ribbon.
“I’m taking your advice, Deacon.”
This is why I avoid talking to people. I’m quite sure I never advised anything like this.
“I’m going to ask Clara to the prom.”
Wow. This cannot end well.
But then I take a second look at the screwdrivers and it suddenly clicks into place.
“It’s a bouquet,” I guess.
He nods, smiling in a disturbing way.
“Because she works at the hardware store.”
He nods again. “She’s in the metal shop right now. I’m going to do it. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.”
He just stands there. “Um, Deacon, you wanna come with me? Be my wingman?”
Even on a regular day, this offer holds no charm. Today, however, I have a good excuse.
“Um, Elijah, I’m kind of . . . waiting for my friend Kelli.”
He looks me over, perhaps noticing that I’m dressed in my finest clothes from Harold’s Big and Tall Emporium of Little Rock. He smiles, somewhat madly, and departs.
Kelli will arrive any minute. And while I have no elaborate promposal planned, so what? She’s an intelligent, classy girl. And even if she says no, at least I can say I tried.
And what if she says yes? What if she smiles at me with those dimples and I go to the dance with her wearing one of those dresses with the bare shoulders and arms?
She’d be wearing the dress, not me. Just clarifying.
“Hey, Shrek, gimme a hand.”
My pleasant daydream is interrupted when someone shoves a massive guitar amp into my chest. I reflexively grab it and look down to see who’s being so rude.
Like a lot of people in this school, I’ve never talked to him. But I still don’t like him. He’s got that hair. You know the hair. Like he woke up an hour early to brush it so it looks like he just rolled out of bed. And he’s got the teeth and the nose and the chin thing going on. And suspenders. Expensive clothes. Creases.
He pulls a guitar out of a case. It’s an acoustic, but he’s got some sort of adapter for the amplifier. As he reaches to plug it in, he sees the expression on my face.
It is not one of jolly camaraderie.
“Sorry, pal. Could you do me a favor real quick?”
“No, I’m waiting for someone.” I try to hand him back the amp.
He smiles in what I guess he thinks is a friendly way. All I can think of is that he must use a special razor to maintain such carefully trimmed beard stubble.
“My name’s Jason. Someone hired me to serenade the girl he wants to ask to prom. You can’t hear a thing in these halls without amplification, and the guy who was supposed to hold that skipped out on me. Wanna do me a solid?”
The only words I hear are “serenade” and “prom.” My mind grinds into action.
“Are you free after school today? Could I hire you?”
He plugs in and starts tuning his instrument. “Sure thing. Fifty dollars, all up front.”
I bobble his amp with one hand. “Golly, it would be a real shame if I dropped this.”
“Prices subject to negotiation. You ready? Just hold that above your head. Don’t smile. All eyes on me. Here she comes.”
I resist the urge to drop the thing on his foot, but only because I need his help. Joe Cool here can help me ask Kelli after school today. That’ll be a lot easier for me, what with him doing all the work. God, what luck I ran into this guy.
I hoist the amp over my head and am nearly deafened when Jason blasts a chord into my ear. I stand there grinning like a moron as his target girl freezes like a possum on the interstate when she realizes the song is for her. Like a mute Atlas I watch as he finishes his song and promposes on behalf of someone else. The girl, a freckle-faced redhead, breaks into tears when he hands her a rose and requests she accompany some guy named Leo to prom.
Of course she says yes. Lucky Leo.
This is so perfect. Kelli’s bound to say yes to a spectacle like this. We’ll both have a fun prom memory and I’ll be able to claim at least one date before I graduate.
I’ll have to ask Elijah about my horoscope today. I bet it’s got at least four stars.
As planned, Jason meets me in the commons after school. Kelli will be in the gym, setting up for the student council blood drive. Jason carries his guitar case, I haul his other equipment.
“So what’s her favorite song?” he asks.
That’s a good question. It’s not something we’ve ever actually discussed. I rack my brain for something Kelli-esque. “‘Workers of the World Unite’?”
He shakes his head. “Anything else?”
“‘I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar’? ‘The Plane Wreck at Los Gatos’?”
“How about I pick something out?”
Well, he’s the one with the guitar. “Maybe a good idea.”
We stop in front of the gym door. “Do you just want me to sing, or you want me to pop the question too? That’s five dollars extra.”
I stare at him blankly. I kind of assumed he’d do everything. He misinterprets my confusion for deliberation.
“Let’s practice. Pretend I’m Kelli. Charm me, Deacon.”
“Uh . . .” I can’t do it. Even with Kelli in the other room, I can’t manage the words.
“Right. Just let me handle it. Try to look . . . just try not to look ridiculous.”
It’s a good thing he has a beautiful voice. I have half a mind to fire him, and then just march into the gym and . . .
Who am I kidding? Jason owns my butt.
We slide into the gym. As I expected, Kelli is there, amid the morass of cots, tables, and medical equipment.
But she’s sitting down on the job. On one of the cots.
Next to some boy. I recognize him. He’s a blocky guy named Hunt. He’s on the football team. Not something throwy, something tackley.
It’s quiet in the gym. Even though we’re not anywhere near them, I can still hear Kelli’s voice.
“We’ll have fun, Hunt. I mean, even though prom is nothing more than a sexist, capitalist display of . . .”
It’s hard to miss the rose in her hand and the grin on her face. We retreat out the door before she notices us.
Six hours. If I had asked her at lunch or before school, I would have been first. But I waited, and I blew it.
I want to throw something. And the nearest something to me is Jason.
He looks up at me with real sympathy.
“Hey, Deacon, that’s rough. But listen.” He lays a hand on my arm. “I still have to charge you for this.”
I stand in the school-bus line, surrounded by people, alone. I’m wearing earbuds, so no one attempts to talk to me. They’re not actually hooked up to anything, but it doesn’t matter.
I totally blew it. And the sick thing is, it’s not losing a chance with Kelli that really bothers me. Well, not just that. It’s that she was my one shot at going to the dance. My one shot at normal. My one chance at—I don’t know—cool. The sort of guy my dad used to be.
Now I’ll start college without ever having a date. I’ll end up being that weird guy who never leaves the dorms and eats alone and dies one Friday night but no one notices because it’s President’s Day weekend and when everyone comes back the smell is terrible and the whole thing gets exaggerated into an urban legend that spawns a bad horror movie.
I blame Jason.
Plus, I have to go home and tell Jean that I won’t have a date. And listen to my grandmother rant about how Kelli missed a great opportunity, and I should get right back on that horse.
The thing is, Kelli was the only girl I know well enough to ask to a dance. And I apparently
didn’t know her as well as I thought. How the hell does she know this Hunt guy?
Perversely, I wish I could talk to Elijah. His promposal will have tanked by now. Maybe we can get together and commiserate about the fickle natures of women over a soda or two. Manly.
Hey, there he is! He’s just coming out of the building, still wearing his obnoxious suit thing. I wave at him.
But he’s not alone. There’s a girl with him. Short-haired and skinny. She’s walking with Elijah. And laughing.
She’s carrying a bouquet of screwdrivers.
She must have said yes.
Great.
Good for them.
Buttheads.
FOUR
I COME HOME TO AN EMPTY HOUSE. JEAN IS NOT there to greet me. Good. I’m a grown man, practically. I don’t need my grandma to soothe my hurt feelings with a warm cup of cocoa and a lullaby. Hell with that.
In fact, there’s no point even in dwelling on what happened today with what’s-her-name.
You know. Kelli. The really smart, cute girl who I apparently was crushing on a lot harder than I admitted to myself, and blew my chances with because I waited too long to ask her out. Whatever.
I need a distraction. I consider taking out my telescope, but it’s broad daylight. There’s only one star up, and you’re not supposed to look directly at it.
Instead, I decide to do some of the home repairs that I’ve been neglecting. I’ll start with that sagging gutter. I have no idea how to go about fixing it, but how hard could it be?
As my father used to say, “Just tell the landlord it was like that when we moved in.”
By the time Jean putters up an hour later, the drainpipe is in worse shape than before. I’ve also skinned my knuckles and stuck my hand in a fetid clump of rotten leaves.
Jean stands at the foot of the porch.
“We do have a ladder, you know.”
“I’m fine.” Peachy. I’d whistle a merry tune if I could whistle. And felt merry.
Jean is silent for a moment. “Everything okay?”
“Dandy. Hand me that roll of duct tape, will you?”
I spend several fruitless minutes trying to reattach a bracket.
Jean doesn’t leave. “Why don’t you come inside?”