Denton Little's Deathdate (15 page)

“I think…this might…be it…,” I am barely able to say.

“No, I think you're just having a panic attack,” Felix says, his narrow brown eyes filled with fear. “Let's go back inside.”

All the blades of grass combine into a blurry mass of green, a child's finger painting.

Bright white dots appear on the outer edge of my field of vision.

“I don't know, I don't know, he just saw that bluebird die and started breathing heavy,” I hear Taryn saying to someone.

I've given up trying to control the roiling ocean that is my respiratory system. Instead, I try to focus on all the things in my life I love and am thankful for:

I love green grass.

…

…

I love

…

…

…

…

It's hard to think.

Then all is black.

The beeping is steady, reliable, almost comforting.

There is a machine next to my bed.

Beep. Beep. Beep
.

The room is all white.

On the wall, there's a drawing of a cartoon bird.

I peer down at my arm, expecting to see an IV, some sort of hookup to the beeping machine. There is nothing.

“Hello?” I say.

Someone clears his throat from the corner of the room.

Mick, my death counselor, has, I guess, been sitting in a chair the whole time. As always, he's wearing a polka-dot tie.

“What's happening?” I ask.

He blinks and gives me a half smile.

I am uncomfortable.

I push off the covers and walk out into the hallway. It is strangely deserted. Fog the frog—Millie's and my
old friend—hops by. I turn a corner and find myself in a pizzeria.

“Get a room, you two,” Paolo says from behind me. I spin around. He's sitting in a booth with Veronica, Taryn, and Phil. There's one damp slice of pizza in the center of the table.

Phil has an arm around Taryn, his face nuzzling her neck. She's laughing.

“V, you don't do this, do you?” Paolo asks.

“What,” Veronica says, “get all PDA with my hot college boyfriend from college? Sometimes. We do it everywhere.”

“I'm right here,” I say to them.

They all turn their heads and stare blankly.

“Who are you?” Paolo says.

“HEY!” a thick woman behind the counter shouts. “YOU.” She points at me.

“Yeah?”

“Phone call.” She holds out the receiver. I walk across the tiled floor to get it. “Hello?” I say.

“You wasted it.” It's a low voice I don't recognize.

“Excuse me?”

“You wasted your life.” Then a dial tone.

“What was that about?” Veronica says, appearing at my shoulder, her face close to mine.

“You're supposed to be dead,” Phil says, appearing at my other shoulder.

“I'm not dead now?” I ask.

“Nah.”

“You know what you need?” Veronica says, starting to crack up. “A haircut.” She pulls out shiny silver scissors.

“Yeah!” Phil shouts. “Haircut! Haircut!” All the customers start chanting along with him. “Haircut! Haircut!” I do not want a haircut.

Veronica runs one hand through my hair, her fingers lightly grazing my scalp.

“This is how we cut the hair,” she sings as she starts snipping, her body close to mine.

“That actually feels good,” I say.

I smile at Veronica.

She smiles back.

“Not for long,” she says.

She grabs a handful of my hair and pulls.

I scream.

I gasp as I open my eyes. Paolo's mom is looking at me.

“It's okay, shh. It was just a dream,” she says.

I blink and look around, trying to orient myself. I'm in my bed. Paolo's mom is in my desk chair near the bed, her bag and her camera at her feet.

My stepmom bounds through the door. “Ohmigod, thank you, thank you, you're alive! You're still alive!”

My dad and Felix and Taryn and Millie and Paolo and Veronica follow closely on her heels. My stepmom's arms wrap around me tightly once again. If I had a nickel for every tearful goodbye/reunion we've had in the past twenty-four hours, well…I'd have fifteen or twenty cents. But it seems like it's all we do lately.

“I sit here for hours and nothing, but I go out to pee for three minutes,” my stepmom says, “and of course you wake up.”

I'm still shaking off the grog and confusion. “Hours? What time is it?”

My stepmom joggles her sleeve to get a look at her watch. “Two-forty-seven.”

Those numbers take four seconds to mean something.

“Wait, two-forty-seven in the afternoon?”

“Yeah, you've been sleeping awhile. At least eight hours,” my stepmom says. “How do you feel?”

“Oh man, I guess okay…I was having strange dreams. I thought maybe I was dead.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” And my stepmom's got me in another tight hug. “Not yet, not yet.”

“You're okay, bud,” my dad says unhelpfully.

“How could you not tell us about this purple rash?” my stepmom asks, leaning back to look me in the eyes. “This could be very serious. You need to share these things with us.”

“I didn't want to worry you.”

“You're way too late for that, sweetie.”

“Well, it doesn't hurt or anything. And it's not spreading too fast….” I look down at my hands. They're purple. With red dots. “Oh no,” I say. I roll up each hoodie sleeve in quick succession. Purple arm. Second purple arm. “When did this happen?”

“While you were sleeping,” Taryn says, her first words since I've woken up.

“Starring Sandra Bullock,” I say. Even in a distressing moment, I can't help myself.

“And Bill Pullman,” Taryn responds. This is a little game I make her play, which she usually doesn't enjoy, but today she's willing to indulge me.

“Nice one, I didn't think you'd know his name. Hi, Tar.”

She smiles.

“Also Peter Gallagher,” Millie says. “My favorite actor.”

“Um. Right,” I say. “Him, too.”

“Your face is purple also,” Millie says.

“Aw, seriously?” I rub my hand down my cheek, as if I'd be able to feel it. “My face?”

The room nods.

I sigh. “Super.”

“So,” my stepmom says. “We'll give you a few minutes to get yourself together, and then your father and I will take you to the hospital.”

No.

“We wanted to take you as soon as you passed out, but Felix said it seemed like a panic attack, and the best thing we could do was just let you sleep.”

“And I still think the hospital is unnecessary,” Felix says. “No one wants to spend the last hours of their life like that if they don't have to.”

“Felix,” my stepmom says, “he's purple, for God's sake! And Taryn has it, too. I mean, come on! We have to be responsible here.”

“The doctor thought it was just a twenty-four-hour virus,” Taryn says quietly.

“Yeah,” I say, “Taryn went to the ER yesterday, Mom.”

“It seems like,” Felix says, “whatever this virus is, it's not harmful if there are no red dots. Like, in those cases, I think it might be dormant. Benign.”

“Suddenly you're a doctor over here?” my stepmom says.

“No, no,” Felix says, shrugging and shaking his head.
“But I know how to use the Internet. I was reading up on how viruses usually operate. Just a theory.”

“Super theory, really, but Denton
does
have the red dots. So what about him? What about your brother?”

“Mom,” I say. “I completely understand why you'd want me to go to the hospital, but honestly, I already wasted so many hours of my last day sleeping.”

Wasted
.

The word slaps my face like ice water.

“You wasted it,” the voice on the phone in my dream said.

All at once I understand.

I haven't just wasted these hours by sleeping.

I've had a golden ticket since I was five, since I learned of my premature deathdate, and I've been trying to “just live a normal life.”

If that doesn't qualify as wasting, I don't know what does.

“Denton, do you hear what I'm saying? DENTON!” my stepmom shouts into my ear.

“Whoa, yes, yes, I'm fine. Sorry, zoned out for a second.”

“Don't apologize, please don't apologize.”

I should have died this morning—murdered by Phil on the front lawn—but I didn't.

I've been given a gift.

Maybe I've only got an hour, maybe six, but whatever I have, I can't squander it away trying to do the right thing, worrying about what people think.

“Okay, sure, no problem, I'll go,” I say to my stepmom.

There's no way I'm going to the hospital.

I need to find Brian Blum.

Not sure how, but I will.

I'm more awake now, and as I look at Paolo's mom, I think about the way she was staring at me when I woke up, just the two of us alone in a room. Kinda creepy. I shift slightly in the bed, and my hand grazes Blue Bronto, tangled up in the covers. I'm reminded of an even bigger question.

I deserve answers.

“Cynthia,” I say, too forcefully for the casual tone I was hoping to strike, “can I ask you something?”

I want her to look nervous at this, but she looks as sweet and composed as ever, maybe even a little flattered that I've singled her out for questioning. “Sure.”

“Well,” I say, inserting a healthy, dramatic pause, “why do you have baby pictures of me with my dad locked up in your office drawer?”

Paolo's mom's expression doesn't change as she takes in my question. A quick scan across the room, though, shows me that everyone else's expression has, their collective interest piqued. I feel kinda bad that I've put Paolo's mom on the spot like this, but whatever. I'm tired of feeling bad.

She looks down and sighs. “Yeah, I thought maybe you'd found those when you were in my office yesterday.”

“I did.”

“Oh gosh, I know that must have been weird for you. This is…a little embarrassing.”

“Cynthia…,” my stepmom says. “What is this?”

Paolo's mom takes a deep breath. “Well, we all know that Veronica and Paolo's father left me a long time ago, before I met any of you. And being a single mom got lonely at times…. Oh, this feels so silly…. But when I first met Lyle, I…”

“Oh,” my stepmom says.

“I had a tiny crush, that's all.” Paolo's mom looks down and covers her eyes.

There's a silence as we all process what she's just said.

“Wait, on my
dad
?” I say.

She nods.

My dad is confused and blushing.

“Ah, I must seem pathetic,” Paolo's mom says.

“Pretty much,” Paolo says.

“It was only for a few years—”

“Years?”
my stepmom says.

“But I just left the photos in my photo drawer. As a reminder. Of…what one day I could maybe find with someone. You're so lucky, Raquel.”

Lucky to be with my dad? Has she ever tried to carry on a conversation with him?

“Well,” my stepmom says, looking supremely uncomfortable. “Thank you. But, Cynthia…you didn't even meet Denton until the boys were in kindergarten.”

A seed of something sprouts in my mind.

“Right, no, obviously,” Paolo's mom says. “So, those baby photos…”

“Oh no,” Paolo says.

“Denton, do you remember in elementary school when you and Paolo worked on that family history photo project?”

Paolo's mom had a crush on my dad.

“Uh-huh,” I say, only half listening.

“Well, when you guys were over, I…I made copies of some of the photos that had you and Lyle in them.” Paolo's mom looks lost. “I'm not proud, I don't know what I was thinking. Please forgive me, Raquel. Lyle, too.”

“Excuse me,” Veronica says as she weaves through the people in the bedroom and walks out the door.

If my mom were a stalker, I'd be uncomfortable, too.

“Ron, wait,” Paolo's mom says. She seems like the loneliest lady in the world.

But hold on a second: those photos weren't just of my dad. They were photos of me, too. In fact, the first photo I saw featured me by myself.

Not to mention that Paolo's mom has been taking photos of me—with or without my dad—the whole time she's known me. I can even remember one of my soccer games in third or fourth grade: I was waiting around on defense, daydreaming, when I noticed Paolo's mom and her camera way behind the sideline. I thought it was strange because Paolo wasn't on either team. I was about to wave at her, but then the ball soared past me, and the coach shouted, “Wake up, Little!” I sprang into my pretending-to-play-defense stance, and when I looked again later, she was gone.

Paolo's mom once had a thing for my dad. She's been taking photos of me since I was a kid. I know close to nothing about my biological mom, whose name may or may not be Cheryl.

Ohmigod. What if…what if Paolo's mom
is
my mom?

I stand up out of bed.

“I, uh, I'm gonna go pee,” I say.

“I'm truly sorry,” Paolo's mom says.

“You're aggravating him,” my stepmom says. “Just give it a rest.”

“No,” I say. “It's…”

I have no idea how to finish that sentence.

I pad out the door and down the hall.