I reach out a hand to her, smiling desperately. She smiles back. But doesn’t take the hand.
“We’re both starting new adventures in the fall, Deacon. I think . . .” She rubs her hand across her eyes. “I think maybe we should both start . . . without any attachments.”
I physically stagger, just a bit. “I don’t want that. I don’t think you want that.”
She just shakes her head. “You said it yourself, you’re supposed to be the bad boy. You’re going to be dancing with women, going to parties, meeting famous people. You don’t need to be pining away for some girl in Arkansas.”
“Listen to yourself! You really think I’m that shallow?”
She twists her hair. “Maybe I’m the shallow one. Everyone thinks you’re seeing that Kelli girl behind my back. It’s not your fault, but it still kind of hurts. Next semester I need to concentrate on my classes, not be thinking about you, what you’re doing and who you’re with. And if maybe you’ll end up happier in California and I’d just be in your way. You may not believe me, but I think you might like life out there.”
“I’m not my father. I’m not going to move to California because it might be fun. I didn’t ask for any of this.”
She smiles, faintly. “But you have it. And it would make me very happy if you enjoyed it. Be a TV star. Try to make it to the final round. Make me proud. And if you move back to Fayetteville afterward, look me up.” She chokes on that last bit.
“I don’t understand. I don’t understand why we can’t do the long-distance thing. I don’t understand why me being on TV matters!” I notice Mr. Shadee peek through the living-room curtains.
“Good-bye, Deacon.” She touches my hand and kisses my cheek. “I wish I was stronger.”
“Well, I wish I was too.” Because I’m about to break down crying. Turning my back to her, I jog toward the street.
“Deacon?”
“Yeah?” I don’t turn around. I can’t.
“Break a leg, okay?” Her voice comes out as a forced rasp.
“I will.”
I make it down the street before the tears start.
It must have taken me a couple of hours to walk home. I don’t remember any of it. By the time I arrive at our house, I’m soaked in sweat, my shoes are muddy, and the sun is going down.
She ended it. Just like that. For no good reason. Her boyfriend of a few weeks suddenly plans to move out of state, starts getting in fights, becomes possessive and angry, and shows up in a video with another woman, and all of a sudden she wants me to give her some space.
Damn. I knew I’d do all the wrong things, but this is a spectacular failure, even for me.
My only comfort is I won’t be leaving for another couple of months. Maybe if I make a huge effort to be a good boy and not get into any compromising positions, Soraya will miss me and want to see me again.
Meanwhile, Jason is probably already lurking under her bedroom window, playing romantic songs on his guitar. Soraya says that she doesn’t have any feelings for him. Well, if she could fall for me, then she could fall for anyone. Especially a guy with money and talent and carefully maintained beard stubble.
The yard is still filled with pieces of gutter and some of Clara’s equipment. I need to clean all this up. But not now.
I find Jean sitting in the dining room. Both our places are set, but Jean’s already eaten.
“Well, you finally decided to come home.” Her voice is uncharacteristically icy.
“I’m sorry, I hope you didn’t wait.”
“You couldn’t pick up a phone and call me?”
Too busy getting my heart crushed. “There was an accident. Elijah fell off our roof.”
Her eyes widen. “Is he okay?”
“He’s . . .” And it suddenly hits me. With all the craziness with Soraya, I never called and asked how bad Elijah’s injuries were. Way to be a friend, Deacon.
“He’ll be fine.”
“What on earth was he doing up on the roof in the first place?” she snaps.
I’m shocked. I expected her to be concerned, to ask more probing questions, to insist on baking a casserole to take to his family.
“We were just . . .”
“You may think it’s funny to pull stunts like that, but I assure you, I am not laughing. Did it ever occur to you that you’re no longer a boy? That maybe instead of jackassing around with your friends, you could start trying to act like an adult?”
All of a sudden, I’m not thinking about Soraya or Elijah. I’m looking at this woman in front of me, and I’m very scared.
“I . . . all we were doing . . .”
“Deacon, I am a little tired of your excuses, your whining, and your troublemaking.”
“I’m sorry.” But I have no idea what I’m apologizing for.
“If you’re truly sorry, you’ll clean up that mess your friends left in the yard. Now, have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry,” I truthfully reply.
“Then I think you’d best go on up to your room. Good night.”
“Night.”
I wait until I’m alone to start hyperventilating. She’s not right. She’s not right at all. She was obviously mistaking me for my father back there.
I can’t leave. I have to stay here and watch out for Soraya.
I mean Jean. I have to take care of my grandmother.
I pull out my phone and begin to compose a letter.
Dear Mr. Delaney,
It is with great regret that I ask to be released from my contract. . . .
THIRTY-ONE
I GET UP EARLY THE NEXT MORNING TO CLEAN UP the yard before Jean gets up. And by cleaning up, I mean sitting on the porch obsessively waiting for a text from Soraya.
I get an email from Mr. Delaney instead.
Deacon, I am getting a bit tired of your constant complaining. You were not the only young man we could have selected for this opportunity. We chose you, however, and you signed a contract. If you produce a doctor’s note saying that your grandmother is incapable of caring for herself for five months, and that you are the only person available to watch out for her, we will consider releasing you from your contract. However, we have already spent considerable resources planning for your appearance on Celebrity Dance Off. If you do not honor our terms and conditions, we will hold you responsible for lost revenue, to the amount of $25,000, payable at once. Please see article three, section one of your contract for specific details.
I’m terribly sorry that your grandmother is not doing well, but I find it difficult to believe that this happened so suddenly, or that you are the only one who can help her at this time. I think that the money you would earn on our show, as well as additional opportunities this would open for you, would be a greater help to your grandmother in the long run.
As a show of faith, we would be willing to provide you with plane tickets home twice a month for two days, during the course of the filming, subject to future change. We have no wish to cause strife for your family, but we are not prepared to reconfigure the show at this late date. It’s time you started doing your part. I notice that a new nightclub has opened in Fayetteville, El Bar Sin Nombre. I think it would be nice if you showed off some of your patented dance moves there this week. Get a friend to take some pictures.
Incidentally, I’m glad you have chosen not to associate yourself with only one girl. We would like our female audience members to feel that you’re available. Good choice on your new lady friend, as many of our viewers can identify with girls of a certain size.
God, I want to wash my eyes after reading his letter. So if I try to pull out of the show, he’ll utterly destroy me financially. The only way out is to get a doctor to say that Jean is nuts. And if a doctor makes that diagnosis—which would be completely wrong!—wouldn’t they have her committed or something? I’m only eighteen, I don’t think they’d trust me as a guardian.
I also get a note from Kelli.
Forgot I was talking to a celebrity ☹
She
’s pissed about the video. She never emojis.
I decide to pretend that my problems do not exist and I concentrate on cleaning up the bits of gutter, shingles, and other debris in the yard. I’ve barely started when Elijah’s toy car pulls up the driveway.
He hops out, brandishing his bright-pink cast at me.
“Came by to pick up Clara’s drill and nut drivers.” He giggles when he says the last part.
“How’s the arm?”
“Terrible. I was nearly forced to amputate it myself with a pocketknife, but the doctor swears it’s just a crack.”
“I’m sorry about all this, Elijah.” I’d offer to sign his cast, but Clara has already covered 100 percent of the surface with flowers and hearts.
“I’m still alive. Um . . . is Jason? You didn’t throw him into the old well, did you?”
“No.” But only because we don’t have an old well.
He sits down next to me, picks up Clara’s cordless drill, and begins revving it in an irritating matter. “What was all that about, anyway? You two were ready to go at it.”
I look over at Elijah and realize he’s my only friend who’s not pissed off at me right now. “Someone shot a video of Kelli and me. We were just hugging, but it kind of looked like we were sucking face.”
He looks baffled. “Does Jason have a thing for Kelli?”
“Soraya. He’s after her and made sure she saw the clip. She didn’t believe him, but she still dumped me. How does that make any sense?”
“Sorry, man.”
“Seriously! Is Soraya crazy? Am I crazy?”
He scratches ineffectively at his plaster. “Deacon, you’re tall, good-looking, and famous. If you can’t hold on to a girl, I’m worried for the rest of us.”
I laugh a little. It’s nice to talk to someone this week and have it not end in a fight. I almost tell him about Jean and her problems. But I’m not ready to share that with him yet.
“Elijah, I’m so screwed up. I don’t want to be on that stupid show, but I don’t see the point of going to college if I don’t have Soraya. And is there a way to get her back? What do I do now?”
“Something for yourself,” he answers with no hesitation.
“What?”
He faces me. “Do something for yourself. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve done nothing but worry about other people. You did whatever Kelli told you, and she never treated you that nice. You took your grandmother to the prom, just to make her happy. You’ve spent the past month trying to impress Soraya. You agree to do this silly TV show, but your heart’s not in it.
“How about you do something for Deacon for a change? I’m serious, man. Tonight. Go crazy. What do you like to do? You name it, I’m in. Let’s make a night of it. C’mon.”
His enthusiasm is a little contagious. And he’s right. Maybe getting out of the house for a while would help clear my head. I could forget about Soraya for the evening. Refresh myself, give me a chance to decide what to do about Jean.
Plus, I really kind of want to say screw everything today. I remember what Mr. Delaney suggested I do.
I smile at my friend.
“You ever been clubbing?”
El Bar Sin Nombre is in the industrial area of Fayetteville, and it blends in. There are no signs, no parking lot, no exterior lighting. I would have taken it for an abandoned warehouse or factory, except for the long line of people waiting to enter.
Elijah, Clara, and I stand across the street, each waiting for someone to make a move forward. I’m dressed in some of my mandatory new clothes. Clara is wearing a surprisingly short miniskirt and sleeveless sweater. Due to his cast, Elijah has to wear a T-shirt.
Clara turns to us. “Are you sure you’re up for this? I know things have been rough. It’s okay if you’d rather stay home.”
I’m touched by her concern for me, but Elijah and Mr. Delaney are right. I need to get out of the house. I’m about to thank Clara when I realize she’s not talking to me.
Elijah squeezes her hand. “I’m fine. Can’t feel it at all. Now c’mon, are we just going to stand here?”
We just stand there. Eventually, I cross the street.
The bouncer is much shorter than me, but also much wider. He eyeballs the people in line ahead of us. Clara and I pass, but he holds out a hand at Elijah.
“Sorry, kid. Dress up a little next time.”
Elijah looks heartbroken. “I couldn’t get the cast through the sleeve. . . .”
The doorman is not moved. “Then come back when you get it off. Move aside, please.”
Well, so much for dancing tonight. I wonder if there’s anything good on at the movies.
Unless . . .
God, do I have it in me? Could I really be that obnoxious?
Clara is looking at me, her eyes wide and sad. I should at least try.
I tap the doorman on the shoulder. He turns and does not smile at me.
“Excuse me, sir. Um, what’s your name?”
“Garth.” His expression does not invite conversation.
Here goes nothing. “Nice to meet you, Garth. I’m Deacon Locke. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”
No reaction. He just stares. Not only are we not getting in, I just played the “Do you know who I am?” card and got shot down. It’s humiliating. I feel six feet tall.
But then his face breaks into a gold-toothed smile. “That guy from TV! You danced with your grandmother. You’re going to be on . . . um . . .”
“Celebrity Dance Off,” I say in my best radio-announcer voice. “I hope you’ll watch. You know, they always ask the contestants where they danced back home, and, well . . .” I pat the side of the building. The people behind us move in closer to listen.
I point to Elijah. “The thing is, it’s my friend’s birthday, and I said I’d show him a good time. It’s not his fault he has to keep the cast out in the open, doctor’s orders. I guess that’s how it goes on the MMA circuit. So, what do you say? Could you bend the rules for my little buddy tonight?”
Garth beams. “Hey, any friend of Deacon Locke’s is welcome here.” He slaps Elijah on the shoulder, causing him to wince. “Just try to style it up a little next time, okay?”
We walk through the door, side by side.
“Thanks, Skipper.”
“No problem, Gilligan.”
The inside of the building is the exact opposite of the outside. Neon tubing, mirrors, strobe lights, and video monitors. All designed to draw attention. The music is loud, but not painful, vibrate-off-your-lungs loud. There are about fifty people in here. Half of them are dancing, the other half are on their phones.
Soraya would have liked it here. She would have already dragged me out onto the dance floor. She would have warned Elijah to dress up a little more. She would have made me not nervous and afraid.
“Deacon?” says Clara. “Would you like to dance?”
It’s a sweet offer, but I shake my head. “Later. You two have fun. I’m going to get something to drink.”
Within seconds, Elijah and Clara are on the dance floor, moving in time to a beat. They’re certainly . . . enthusiastic.
I make my way to the bar. I notice that the older patrons are all wearing over 21 wristbands. Celebrity or not, Deacon Locke is not getting served beer tonight.
The bartender ignores me for five minutes as he takes orders from other people. And when he does finally serve me, he’s not impressed when I ask for a Fresa Blaster (#berryblasterific).
I sip the syrupy thing and check my phone one last, last time for a message from Soraya. Nothin’.
“Hey, aren’t you Deacon Locke?”
Will this never end? I strap on my smile and turn. Much to my surprise, I actually know the girl who’s speaking to me. She’s a cute, slender brunette, and I know I went to school with her. Not a clue to her name, though.
She seems to read my thoughts. “Regina Callahan. We had trig together. Had no idea you were a dancer until that craziness on the last day of school. When does that
show start?”
“We start filming this summer. Should start airing in September.” I think.
She leans against the bar. Unconsciously, I follow suit, and nearly demolish a tray of garnishes. She giggles.
“I’m more graceful on the dance floor,” I say, a little defensively.
“Well . . . want to show me?”
Wow, I walked right into that. But she has a nice smile and I can’t spend the whole night sitting at the bar, drinking pure high-fructose corn syrup. I take her hand.
Regina isn’t as good a dancer as Soraya, but neither am I. As we dance, I find it’s kind of nice to not feel outclassed. Since we started in the middle of the song, we dance to the next one too. And the next.
People are watching us. It’s clear I’ve been spotted. Phones are out, and people are shout-whispering to one another over the music. It’s just like when I danced with Jean at prom.
Only it’s not. Tonight, I’m supposed to have people notice me. I’ve been told to be in the public eye, so, by God, I’ll do it. I kick it up a notch. I dance faster. I try moves I never attempted with Soraya: dips, twirls, leaps. Regina seems surprised, but as long as I’m leading, she seems willing. People holler and whistle at us. We’re the center of attention. And when I move to Los Angeles, it’s going to be like this every night.
After what seems like an hour, Regina asks me to stop. “I need a break, Deacon.”
I’m soaked with sweat and kind of breathing hard. “Yeah, me too. Do you want something to drink?”
She glances at her nails. “No. Do you, um, want to step outside for a second? It’s cooler out there.”
That works for me. She leads me out a back door and into a little patio paved with cigarette butts. We sit on a low cinder-block wall.
It’s much quieter out here, with just the hum of traffic and the thump of the music from inside. It’s also a little chilly. Regina moves closer to me.
“Deacon? Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” I say, though that’s probably a mistake.
“You seemed so sad when you were sitting at the bar earlier. Is anything wrong? Anything I can help with?”
“No, nothing.” I’m disgusted that my answer has that whiny “I have a long, sad story to tell, but you’ll have to wheedle it out of me” tone.