I move over to Jean, kind of forcing her partner to retreat. She smiles at me, but just as the music starts, she suddenly stumbles against me.
“Jean?”
“Oh, it’s my darn ankle again. I’ll have to sit this one out.”
Her ankle hasn’t given her trouble in months. “Do you need to see the doctor?”
“I’m fine, Deacon. Look, here’s someone who wants to dance with you.”
I turn and realize that Soraya has approached us without me even noticing. I think she had come over to check on Jean, but my grandmother quickly trots off and sits down.
Soraya looks at me questioningly. Before I can say anything stupid, she smiles and takes my hand.
We begin to dance. I’m not sure who is controlling my movements, though it’s certainly not me. But I’m happy enough to be the puppet for now.
I don’t have nearly enough composure to meet her eyes. I just stare straight ahead, while she looks me in the chest. But she has her hands in mine. And they are so soft and warm. So very warm.
And then the song ends. And just like that, she’s back at the front of the class, giving more instruction.
Me, I wish I was a smoker so I could go out for a cigarette right about now.
As the class progresses and I proceed to dance with every grandma in the place, I find my blood pressure stabilizing. Yes, Soraya is beautiful, but so what? That probably just spells trouble. Just because she smiled at me doesn’t mean she’s not stuck-up or snooty. Hell, I doubt she’d even talk to me, let alone . . .
What’s the next step with a girl after talking to them?
The class ends. Jean collapses in a chair, gulping bottled water. I gather our things, determined not to do something stupid and reckless like trying to strike up a conversation with our teacher.
I hear a familiar voice at my elbow. “Hey, got a second?”
I manage to turn, just before my central nervous system shuts down completely.
“Deacon, right? And is that your grandmother over there?”
I nod. Dat my grammy! Soraya smiles. “I think that’s wonderful. So many of my students . . . well, they don’t have a lot to do during the day. They can’t get around like they used to and their families ignore them. It’s sweet that you’re taking the time to do something like this with your grandma.”
She then reaches out and squeezes my arm. Just touches me. Like it’s no big deal.
“Anyway, I look forward to seeing you next week. You’re not a bad dancer.”
And then she turns to go.
Me dance pretty.
Jean is standing next to me with a smug grin on her face. “So what did you think of the class, Deacon?”
Soraya has left the room. I permit myself to blink.
“Not bad. Not bad at all.”
SEVEN
“SO I WAS THINKING I’D TAKE PHYSICS AND STATISTICS first semester to get them out of the way. Or do you think that’ll be too much of a course load?”
It’s the following Monday and I’m back to having lunch with Kelli. She sits at a library table, a catalog from the University of Arkansas, Little Rock, in front of her. I’m crammed at a nearby computer station, grunting in agreement every so often.
“I mean, math isn’t my strong suit. What if I can’t hack all that? What do you think, Deacon?”
“Absolutely.” The internet is fighting me. I don’t get online a lot. We don’t have a computer at home. Hell, I don’t even own a cell phone. And every time I access an online clothing store, I get an error message saying the district technology department has blocked it.
“Are you listening to me? What the hell are you trying to do there? It’s you, so I know it’s not porn.”
I hunch down. “Just trying to order some new pants.” And shirts and shoes. Dance class is tomorrow and, well, maybe it would be nice to dress up a little bit. If I could figure out this online-ordering witchcraft.
Kelli leans over. She glances at the library desk, then enters the override password that she learned as a volunteer here. The lockout message vanishes.
“So why are you shopping online?”
“Because Walmart doesn’t carry things in circus sizes.”
“No . . .” She scoots her chair over until its arms touch mine. “Why are you shopping for clothes at all? I always figured they’d bury you in those brown Dockers.”
I pretend not to understand the question. Sometimes a guy just needs new clothes.
As I scroll through the casual department, I can feel Kelli’s smirk boring into the back of my neck. I might as well get this over with.
“Kelli? If a guy wanted to make a, uh, good impression, would that shirt work?”
She laughs. “Deacon, it’s not clothes that impress a girl.”
“Who said anything about a girl?” My dismissive comment comes out as suspiciously paranoid.
She blows her nose, then reaches over and moves the mouse out of my reach. “You want some advice? As your friend and someone who’s known you awhile?”
I turn to her in gratitude. “Yes. Please.”
Kelli tents her fingers under her chin and stares at me like a doctor about to deliver unpleasant news. “Okay. First of all, you have a bad habit of not looking girls in the eye. You kind of . . . well, you tend to focus on a couple of much lower points, if you get my meaning.”
Oh, God . . . oh, God. I don’t . . . I mean . . . surely not. Do I? I don’t remember . . . am I really one of those chest-staring assholes? I guess I’m only human, but I don’t leer . . . do I? Oh, God, there was that time last spring, when Kelli wore this tank top. . . .
She bursts into laughter. “Jesus, you’re funny when you freak out. FEET, Deacon! Every time you’re around a girl, you stare at the floor. I assume you’re not some kind of foot fetishist, so make eye contact.”
I’m making eye contact with Kelli. “I kind of hate you right now.”
She doesn’t react. “Number two: every time you talk to anyone, you have this whiny voice, like you’re apologizing for existing. And you mumble. You’re the biggest guy in this school, so stop acting like you’re afraid to talk to people. Good lord, I’ve been wanting to tell you that for a long time.”
Had I actually been hoping to connect with Kelli on a more personal level? “Any other glaring personality flaws you’d like to mention?”
She looks at her watch. “Yes, but we’re running short on time. Just one more thing.” She smiles, and the dimples show.
“Deacon, for some reason I don’t think you like yourself very much. And you don’t think people like you. But they do. Or they would if you didn’t always keep to yourself.” She jams her finger against my forehead. “I know there’s an interesting guy in that big blockhead of yours, somewhere. Maybe. Try to let him out sometimes. I’d hate for you to . . . blow it with someone you like.”
And just for a moment, as her eyes meet mine, the silliness goes away. For a second, I think I kind of understand what she’s implying.
“Kelli . . . thanks.”
She stands. “You’ll do fine.” She punches my shoulder. “Just don’t overthink things.”
Right. Be suave, confident, and above all, don’t be Deacon. I can do that.
“And a one and a two and a stop!”
Everyone in class stops dancing within five seconds of each other.
I’d like to say I’d been paying such close attention to Soraya’s instructions that I literally didn’t miss a beat, but I’d actually been listening to my dance partner. She’d been telling me about when she’d participated in the original Selma to Montgomery march and how her late husband had lost an eye to a police baton.
I’m starting to feel like my generation was cheated, somehow. Where were you when the Avengers movie came out? It’s just not the same.
Soraya wraps up the class, complimenting each and every one of her students individually. When she tells me I have an excellent sense of rhythm, I almost jump for joy. I really would, if the ceiling was a foot h
igher.
And now class is over. Jean is having a conversation with Johnny Reb. The other students are leaving. Soraya is alone, gathering her stuff.
For the past two days, I’ve been telling myself that I’ll talk to her after this class. Just go right up to her and say . . . words. I’ve got it all plotted out.
Me: Something
Soraya: Ha, ha, ha!
Me: Something else
Soraya: Oh, Deacon, you’re so funny and charming.
Of course, now that we’ve reached zero hour, it’s not so easy.
I’ll talk to her next week. Give myself the weekend to plan. Maybe ask Kelli for some more advice.
Maybe wait until I’m as old as the guys here and come to class to hit on women Jean’s age. Damn it, Deacon, just do it!
Do I go in brave, like Elijah, or smooth, like Jason?
Soraya hefts her heavy gym bag over her shoulder, then struggles to get a grip on her radio.
Or maybe I should go in like Deacon.
“Here, let me give you a hand.”
She rewards me with a smile and passes me her bag. As I follow her out the door, Jean catches my eye.
She winks.
Great. I’m going to hear about this tonight.
The first ten seconds of walking are fine. But then things start to get awkward. Silence descends upon us like a blanket of peanut butter. And it’s still a good two minutes until we’ll get to the parking lot.
I must say something. “So . . . you don’t go to Fayetteville High, do you?”
“No, I go to a private school.”
“Saint Pius?”
Soraya gives me an odd look and shakes her head. I worry that I’ve offended her somehow, but after a minute, she smiles at me.
“So I see that your grandmother signed up for women’s self-defense.”
This is news to me. “Tell the instructor to be careful. Jean is the sort of person who’d go for a man’s . . . eyes.”
Soraya smiles. “That was the impression I got. She’s quite a handful, I can tell. Does she live with your family?”
Now it’s my turn to be a little sullen. “Jean is my family.”
I’m afraid I’ve killed the conversation, but Soraya keeps talking. “Everyone around here knows her. Did she really once paint a shirtless portrait of Tony Orlando?”
“Is that who that was supposed to be? I always thought it was Samuel L. Jackson.”
She laughs. So do I. I’m doing it. I’m talking to her. Talking to Soraya. Just all casual. Like I do this every day.
I even remember to hold the door open for her when we leave the building. That’s how it’s done, Jason. Smooth.
Soraya is parked on the street. I place her bag in the backseat. She hops in the front and rolls down the window.
“Thanks, Deacon. I’ll see you next week.”
“Okay.” I smile, look her right in the eye, and turn to go.
That went well. Very well. By the time this class ends in a few weeks, maybe I’ll get up the courage to . . .
Click.
Click. Click. Click.
Uh-oh.
I turn to see Soraya, still sitting in her parked car. She turns the ignition, but nothing happens.
She looks up at me. “I told my dad the battery was no good. You got a set of jumper cables?”
I know that Jean’s trunk is filled to capacity with decoupage supplies, scrap metal, reclaimed wood, and a drum of clay, but no cables.
“Uh . . . no.” Perfect chance to play the hero and I can’t. “Want me to call . . . someone?” And if you say yes, can I borrow your phone?
She shakes her head. “I can clutch start it. Can you give me a push?”
I understand the last word. “Sure. Um, how far away do you live?”
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t mean push me all the way home. If you can just get me over that hill, I can pop the clutch and get it to turn over manually.”
She might as well be speaking Swedish. I know what “over that hill” means, though.
And I totally would push her car all the way to her house if she asked me to.
“Ready when you are,” Soraya says through the open car window.
I place my hands on the trunk and shove. Soon we’ve crested the rise. I jog alongside the car. I hear the engine cough, then start. The car starts to pick up speed.
“Thanks, Deacon!” she shouts as she starts to pull away.
I trot up next to the car and lean down to look through the window. “Hey, no problem! Can I help you with anything else?”
She glances nervously from me to the windshield. “No, I’m good.”
“You sure?” We’re really moving now. “Maybe we should go over to AutoZone and see about that battery.”
“No, really, it’s okay!”
“I’d hate if you wound up stranded somewhere is all.” I’m flat-out running now.
“Deacon! I have to turn here!”
“Okay.” I glance to make sure we can merge safely and I sprint out onto Highway 16.
“At any rate, I’ll see you at the next class!”
I think she’s about to reply, but someone honks at her and merges into her lane. I can no longer keep up, so I come to a stop.
Huh. That went well. Not only did I talk to Soraya, I kind of saved the day. Two for two, Deacon Locke. Yeah.
“Get out of the road, asshole!”
I’m nearly hit by a Volvo. Quickly, I scamper to the curb.
EIGHT
SORAYA SITS NEXT TO ME ON THE PORCH SWING IN front of Jean’s house. She wears a billowing white dress and her long black hair blows free in the spring breeze. Neither of us says anything, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s like when you’re just so at ease with someone, there’s no reason to fill the air with pointless talking. I’ve never been this calm around anyone, not even Jean.
My hand slowly reaches over. Terrified that I’m making a stupid mistake, I gently lay it on top of hers. Her fingers are so warm, so soft. And they intertwine with mine. Just like on the dance floor. Only now, it’s so much more.
Soraya turns and looks at me. She smiles with her white teeth and says, “I’ve written an erotic book about punctuation.”
And suddenly I realize it’s not Soraya I’m sitting next to, but Elijah. And we’re not on the porch swing, but in his cramped car. Thank God we’re not holding hands.
“An erotic book about punctuation,” he repeats. “I call it the Comma Sutra.”
How I long for a comfortable silence. I try to recapture my daydream, but it’s gone.
“Get it, Deke?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not laughing.”
I never actually asked Elijah to start driving me home from school, and he never really offered. The arrangement just sort of developed. Kind of like athlete’s foot.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Elijah’s car is tiny. It’s like a novelty prototype. Something from Eastern Europe, assembled in a gulag.
Elijah elbows me in the ribs. “Dude, something’s on your mind.” He’s looking at me and not the road.
“No . . . well . . .”
“C’mon, out with it.”
“I met a girl the other day. And I really, REALLY want to—”
“Yeah?” Elijah asks with a leer.
“I want to get to know her.”
“Oh.”
“Any advice?”
Elijah grins. He then rolls down his window and leans his head to the side so the wind whips back his thin hair. “You’ve come to the right place, my friend. I got this.”
I doubt Soraya would be impressed by a screwdriver bouquet, but I listen anyway.
“Now, Deacon, I’ve found in my many frustrating years of chasing the female species that there are three things that really grab a girl’s attention. Any of them will do. Number one: be cool. Or be rich. Same thing, really.”
I shake my head. “No luck there.”
“Okay, number two: be really
good-looking.”
“Again, no.”
There’s a pause. Elijah starts to say something, but doesn’t. Eventually, he continues.
“Number three: do something really, really well. And it doesn’t have to be like sports or music or needlepoint. Just become an expert at something and do it in front of her. Never fails. Never.”
I feel like jamming my feet through the floorboards like Fred Flintstone. I have no skills. No talents. I’m shy, clumsy, and my dance skills are only just developing. There’s nothing I’m good at.
Except . . .
“Elijah, do you think she’d like it if I took her stargazing? I have a telescope.”
He rubs his chin. “Let’s see, you two, alone in the dark, as you explain the romantic mysteries of the universe? Yeah, that could kind of work to your advantage.”
“Jesus, she’ll see right through that.”
He’s unfazed. “So invite Clara and me along. We’ll all hang out, and if you want to be alone with her, we’ll make some excuse.”
He pulls up in front of my house. I’m suddenly almost nauseous with fear. Elijah has given me the perfect opening with Soraya. All I have to do is go up and ask her if she’d like to get her hands on my telescope. What could be more innocent than that?
Elijah is watching me as I struggle out of his car. “Hey, Deke, you get your tux rented yet?”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t wait on that too long. If Bruce Banner needs something that same weekend, they might run out of jackets in your size. I’m getting mine next Saturday, you want to come?”
“Sure.”
As he speeds off, I rehearse my little speech with Soraya over and over again. Every time it sounds worse.
Why has this girl rattled me? Aside from the fact that she’s beautiful and well-spoken and danced with me.
Well, if Elijah can ask out a girl, so can I.
Maybe.
I find Jean in the living room looking through a photo album. She’s got her record player on, spinning some tune about painting a door.
“Would you turn that noise down?” I say as I drop my bag.
Normally when I make a remark like that, she’ll say, “If it’s too loud, you’re too old,” or rip into modern musicians that I don’t actually listen to.