Denton Little's Deathdate (21 page)

The decor in the lobby of Haventown Gardens is what I would classify as trying to be fancy but only barely succeeding. The carpet features pictures of flowers in ornate vases, and the walls have oddly shaped mirrors in random spots.

Two girls, who I quickly identify as Rhonda Davis and Jackie Krieger, talk in hushed tones right inside the front entrance. Jackie's fired up about something—I think that her prom date is missing.

“
He
asked
me
to come to this thing!” Jackie says, her eyes wide. “I didn't even wanna say yes, but I felt bad!”

“I know, it's not right,” Rhonda says.

This is as good a place to start as any.

“I agree,” I say.

Jackie and Rhonda both jump a little, startled.

“What? Who're you?” Jackie says. Her blue dress crinkles as she takes a step away from me.

“I'm Denton Little. We go to school together.”

“Oh yeah. I didn't recognize you. Wasn't that your funeral yesterday?”

“Pretty much.”

“That why your skin's all messed up?” Rhonda asks.

“Yep. Most likely.”

“That sucks,” Jackie says.

“Tell me about it.”

“That your family?”

“Yeah.” Everyone nods a hello to Rhonda and Jackie.

“Cool that you brought them to prom,” Rhonda says.

“Yeah. Look, Jackie, I don't even know who your prom date is, but you shouldn't worry about it, you know? Who cares?”

“What?”

“You're such a funny, self-possessed person, you probably don't need a guy at this thing to have fun.”

Jackie gives me the stink eye. “How d'you know how I am?”

“Oh, 'cause we were on the same volleyball team in our freshman-year tournament. Remember that?”

A smile slowly creeps over her face. “Aw, man, you're that goofy white dude, I remember you! You said some funny shit.”

“Wow, thanks. Well, I should get going, but really, enjoy tonight, you guys. Life is short.”

“Yeah,” Rhonda says, either touched or confused.

We walk down a long hallway that appears to lead to the main party room. I feel great. My ankle isn't hurting anymore, so I've stopped limping.

“That was so sweet,” my stepmom says. “What you said to those girls.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say.

“Yeah, man, you weren't kidding about this spreading-the-love thing,” Paolo says. “That was borderline insane, and I loved it.”

We reach the end of the hallway, where a long table is set up in front of two closed doors, behind which lies the prom. Loud music is barely muffled by the doors, one of which opens as a crying girl in a pink dress exits the party and shuffles quickly by us. Before the door closes behind her, we get a glimpse of a dark room with flashes of neon.

With the distracting peek into the party room, I only belatedly take note of the two teachers manning the ticket table: Mrs. Lucevich, the tiny art teacher, and…Oh no.

It's Mrs. Donovan, the AP calculus teacher who I publicly insulted during my eulogy. I never thought in a million years I would have to come face to face with these people again. This presents something of a challenge.

“Well, hello there, Denton,” Mrs. Lucevich says, sounding pleased and slightly taken aback.

“Hi, Mrs. Lucevich. Um, hi, Mrs. Donovan.”

“Hello,” Mrs. Donovan says, not raising her scary skeleton face up from the exams in front of her.

“Denton,” Mrs. Lucevich says, her voice a little quavery, “how are you doing? What a nice surprise to see you here.” I can tell she's choosing her words carefully, skirting any question of
Why are you purple?
or
Why are you not dead yet?
“And is this your family?”

“Yes, hi there,” my stepmom says. “I'm Raquel Little, Denton's mom. And this is my husband, Lyle.”

“Hi,” my dad says, shaking Mrs. Lucevich's hand.

“I taught Denton art a few years back.” Her eyes are
glassy as she looks at me. “He's a wonderful artist.” That's a stretch. “So, I'll just need tickets, and you folks can head on in.”

“Even from the parents?” my stepmom says.

“Well, I suppose we could make an exception for you four adults,” Mrs. Lucevich says, winking at my stepmom. “Just tickets from the three kids, then.” I give Paolo a
Told ya so
look.

“Yeah, about that,” I say, laying it on as thick as I can. “We sorta thought, you know, that I would be, you know…by now. So none of us bought tickets. I'm so sorry.”

“Oh right, of course, I completely understand,” Mrs. Lucevich says, absentmindedly twiddling her fingers on the table. “Well. I think we should be able to—”

“No,” Mrs. Donovan says, still not looking up from grading papers. “We can't let anyone in who doesn't have a prepurchased ticket.” She points to a placard next to her, which reads:
NO STUDENT WILL BE ADMITTED WITHOUT A PREPURCHASED TICKET
.

“Well, surely you can make an exception in such an extreme situation,” my stepmom says.

Mrs. Donovan looks up at last and locks her eyes on me. My insides crunch, like a
Jetsons
car contracting into a suitcase. “No, I don't think we can.” She returns to her papers.

“Are you kidding me?” my stepmom says. “Please don't look away. Maybe you don't entirely understand what our situation is.”

“Oh, I understand,” Mrs. Donovan says, head up once again, giving us all a long look at the dark bags under her eyes. “You think because it's your son's deathdate, you should get some sort of special privileges.”

My stepmom looks stunned, at a loss for words.

“Much like your son thinks I should consider therapy.” Damn right, lady. “Unfortunately, he didn't buy a ticket in advance. Not only that, but admitting your son would essentially be an invitation to die on school property. It would be irresponsible of me, considering the liability issues.”

“Are you insane?” my stepmom asks. “We're not going to sue the school. We just want our son to be able to enjoy the prom.”

“And this…” She gestures to my skin. “What if it's contagious? Have you had a doctor examine it?”

I actually see the steam shoot out of my stepmom's ears and nostrils. “Yes. We have, in fact, and he said it's not contagious,” she lies.

“Hmm. Well, be that as it may, there's nothing to be done here. Please step away from the table. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Mrs. Donovan,” I say. “Could you look at me for a second?”

She does not.

“Okay,” I continue, “I did say some terrible things, and I'm sorry, but I know you have good qualities, too—”

“Don't you dare apologize!” my stepmom says, a woman possessed. “Don't you dare apologize to this wretch of a person.”

“Mom, I got this—”

My stepmom leans in and says, “Mrs. Lucevich, is it? Would you please be able to sell our group some tickets?”

“No, Candy,” Mrs. Donovan says.

“Um, well, gosh, I just don't know if I should,” Mrs. Lucevich says.

“Okay, then I'd like to see the principal, or whoever is higher up than you two.”

“That won't be necessary,” my dad says, stepping out in front of my stepmom. I can't believe he's giving up so easily.

“Dad,” I say, “just let me talk to her—”

“No,” he says, turning to our little group. “If you guys, uh, wouldn't mind, I'd like to have a quick word alone with Mrs. Donovan.”

Well, this is interesting.

“Lyle?” my stepmom says, confused.

There's a look in my dad's eyes I've never seen before.

“Please, just back it up down the hallway. This won't take long,” he says, lightly shooing us away.

“What's happening?” Millie whispers to me. “Is this something he always does?”

“No,” I say.

“Exciting.”

We all take backward steps down the hallway as my dad says, “Uh, Mrs. Lucevich. Candy. If you wouldn't mind taking a quick breather as well, I'd appreciate it.”

“You shouldn't leave your post,” Mrs. Donovan says, seeming possibly the slightest bit nervous.

Mrs. Lucevich is confused. Even from our vantage point thirty or so feet away, I can see the turmoil inside her brain. “Um. I…Well…I suppose I could use a quick bathroom break.” She stands up, looks quickly to Mrs. Donovan, then down the hall to us, and walks through the doors behind her. Mrs. Donovan has gone back to her paper grading.

My dad looks up to the ceiling and takes a deep,
calming breath. He takes off his glasses and puts them on the table. I am mesmerized.

“Please put that aside for a second,” my dad says to Mrs. Donovan. She continues grading. My dad slowly leans down to the table and places his hands on either side of Mrs. Donovan. “Put it away,” he says, in a voice I've never heard before.

Mrs. Donovan looks up. My dad is angled in such a way that we can't see his face, but we can see Mrs. Donovan's, and she looks terrified. He continues speaking, now very close to her ear, in strong, hushed tones. We can't make out what he's saying, but it seems intense. Mrs. Donovan subtly nods throughout.

“Holy shit,” Paolo says. “I think your dad is pulling a
Teen Wolf
on Mrs. Donovan.”

“I was thinking the same thing!”

My dad says a few more things, then looks to Mrs. Donovan, who gives one final nod. He slowly rises from the table, popping his glasses back on his face. I'm not sure what just happened or what my dad said to Mrs. Donovan, but it seems like it might have been something along the lines of
I'll kill your entire family
. She is trying to hold her head high, but her expression reeks of defeat. I almost feel bad for her.

My dad turns back to us. “Well, we can go in now.”

I want my dad to explain where that badassery came from, but it seems awkward to talk about it in front of Mrs. Donovan.

My stepmom reaches into her purse. “Should we pay for the—”

“Nope, nope,” my dad says. “We can just go in.”

My stepmom is shocked but impressed. “Well, okay, then.”

We slowly walk past the table as Mrs. Lucevich reemerges from behind the prom doors. “Ah, you figured something out, then. So glad to see that!” She holds the door for us as we walk through, Paolo and Millie leading the way, followed by Paolo's mom, then me and Felix, then my parents. Before I walk into the landscape of neon and darkness, I turn to Mrs. Donovan. “Thanks,” I say.

She doesn't respond.

At first, I'm overwhelmed by the music, the people, the bouncing lights. But just as suddenly, the feeling melts away, replaced by a powerful sense of purpose.

Of course I was supposed to come here.

“I love you, Dent, but I do not want to be here right now,” Felix says, staring at the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor.

“You can leave if you want,” I say, feeling the beats thump around me, inside me.

“No, I really can't,” Felix says.

“This is fun,” Paolo's mom says, doing tiny, controlled salsa moves.

“Please don't dance like that, babe,” Paolo says. He looks to me and Millie and gestures to the dance floor. “Shall we?”

“Absolutely. Wait,” I say, turning to my father. “Dad.”
Pink and green spots reflect off his glasses. “Thanks for what you did out there. That was really amazing.”

“Oh,” my dad says, looking down. “That was…It was nothing.”

“I agree, it was amazing,” my stepmom says, giving my dad a kiss. “We'll be over here on the side.” She adjusts the belt on her long green dress. “Be careful, please.”

“We will,” I say, walking away. I turn back once more. They look to me expectantly. “You guys are incredible parents.” I turn away before I can see them react.

Paolo leads us toward the crowd. “This room is amazing!” I shout over the music. The theme of this year's prom is Livin' It Up! The irony is not lost on me, but they've done a beautiful job. Streamers in bright, rich colors, magnificent palm trees, luscious bunches of bananas, and—on the wall behind us—a big, sparkling papier-mâché mermaid.

“Dude,” Paolo says, “I mean this in the best way, but are you on drugs?”

“If friendship is a drug, then yes!” I pull Paolo and Millie in for a hug. They laugh. “Okay,” I say, looking them both in the eyes. “I'm gonna go connect with some people now.”

“Do your thing, bro,” Paolo says. “Give us a holler if you're getting your ass kicked.”

“Best wishes,” Millie says.

They walk off. I close my eyes, taking a moment to soak in the room and the moment. I remember how soon I will die and how little I have left to lose.

When I open my eyes, Anuj Mehta pops into view, shimmying to the music. Bingo.

I approach casually, say hello, and open my heart to him.

“What?” Anuj leans in closer as his prom date, a stick-thin girl I don't recognize, stares at me warily.

“I just said,” I repeat, “you were really fantastic in
Damn Yankees
last month. You brought so much humor to the role.”

“Oh,” Anuj says, all sheepish. “Thanks.”

“Do you think you'll give acting a shot?” I ask. “Like, as a career?”

“Uh.” He looks to his date—who still isn't feeling my purple vibe—as if she knows his dreams better than he does. “No, my parents would hate that.”

“But it's your life, Anuj. And you're always, like, mind-blowingly good in all the plays and stuff. I'm not just saying that.”

“Oh cool, thanks.” Anuj grins and combs his hand through his hair. “But I had to beg my parents to even let me do those shows.”

“Just think about it. That's all I'm saying.”

“All right,” he says, in a way that suggests maybe he actually will. “Hey, you're Denton Little, right?”

“I am.”

“No offense, but aren't you supposed to die today?”

“Any minute, man,” I say as I walk away. “Any minute!”

I scan the room for who's next, and it becomes clear that my presence is no longer under the radar. Heads turn in my direction, talking to each other confusedly, checking the time on their cell phones and doing the math, trying to understand how I could be here. A huge chunk of people visibly steps away from me. But others make a beeline for
me, and I'm soon in a messy whirlwind of high fives, hugs, and pats on the back.

“Dude!”

“Denton Little's here! Awesome!”

“What happened to your skin?”

“I can't believe it, you came!”

“When do you think you're gonna die?”

“Are you coming to Wildwood this weekend?”

“Yes, yes, thank you, thank you,” I say, projecting my voice as I clear some space for myself. “I feel very fortunate to still be alive. But I'm going to die literally any minute, so I'm trying to be really efficient with my time. I have things to say to each and every one of you, important things, so continue with your dancing, and I will find you.”

“What is he talking about?” Ben Goldstein says.

“Liza Rondinaro!” I say, spotting her a few people deep into the crowd. “I'm so sorry about what happened with us freshman year.” We dated for two months, then I dumped her in an email.

“Oh…It's okay,” Liza says, pushing a ringlet of hair behind her ear and looking awkwardly at Scott Landman, who I assume is her date tonight. “You don't have to—”

“No, you need to know that you are not unattractive, and you have a really unique sense of style; we just didn't have that much to talk about.”

“Yeah, I know,” Liza says as Scott starts to pull her away. “Please, I get it—”

“But that was no excuse for me to end it the way I did,” I call out. Liza and Scott are far off on the dance floor now, so I let it go.

I tell Miller Bendon that his artwork is comic-book-level good.

I tell Ratina Jacobs that she's the only person I know who can pull off wearing overalls.

I tell Shu-wen Tsao that I've always enjoyed her dry sense of humor.

I tell DeShaun Robinson that I love his playful energy. I don't know him that well, but one time I saw him throw a football through the window of the teachers' lounge, and it cracked me up.

I tell Ed Powers that he's the most optimistic person I know and he should never lose that. Also that he has a badass superhero name.

“Wow, seems like it's going well,” Paolo says over my shoulder. He's still with Millie.

“Oh, hey,” I say. “It is.”

“Can we talk to you for a sec, though?”

“Okay,” I say, raising one finger to Shaina Lester, our conversation about her wonderful ability to clean lab beakers—seriously, she makes them shine—temporarily put on hold.

“What's up?” I ask, walking a few steps to the side with them.

“Well—” I notice Paolo's splotch has made its first public appearance, creeping up over his shirt collar. “Oh yeah,” he says. “It's gotten bigger. So now Millie knows.”

“Probably transferred to Paolo through saliva,” Millie says. “Like mono.”

Paolo and I stare at each other, realizing we're morons.

“Saliva!” I say. “Yes, of course! Millie, you're a genius.”

“So you think we just made out but didn't have sex?” Paolo asks.

I stare at him. “No, man, neither. I think we shared a bowl last night. And the same glass of water.”

“Ohhhh…Saliva,” Paolo says. “Anyways, we wanted to let you know Phil is here.”

“All right,” I say. “It's a free country, I guess.”

“Yeah, but he's been…saying some weird stuff. About you.”

“Sticks and stones,” I say. “Right?”

“Not exactly,” Paolo says. “He's been—”

“Is everything going okay?” my stepmom says, appearing beside us. “You have so many friends, Denton. I'm so impressed.”

“Oh yeah, it's going great, Mom. Thanks for coming to this and being so cool about everything. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” my stepmom says, teary-eyed.

“I think we may do some dancing now, right, guys?” I say, looking to Paolo and Millie, needing to get them alone again because, I'll admit, I'm a little curious to hear what Phil said.

“You know it!” Paolo says.

“Oh, we'll come, too!” my stepmom says. My dad puts a hand on her shoulder and gives her a look. “Okay, okay,” she says. “Maybe we'll join you in a bit.” Second Awesome Dad Maneuver of the night.

I step onto the dance floor, and lots of people cheer. It startles me.

“Yeah, Denton!”

“Denton's gonna dance!”

“Way to be real!”

The three of us start to dance, each doing a poor approximation of the robot.

“So what has Phil been saying?” I ask.

“Millie was the one who overheard it, right?” Paolo says.

“Yeah…He was saying that, you know, you're a pussy, and you stole his girlfriend, and—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, he knows all this stuff, Mills, get to the—”

“Right, okay, right, so then he was, like, saying his grandfather was a cop—which we know—and had it in for you or something. And maybe I misheard, but he started saying something about the government?”

“What?” I say.

“Yeah, so weird, right?” Paolo says.

“Sounds like he's just talking smack.”

“Only one way to find out, though.” Paolo's eyes gleam.

“Ah, look, I've got a lot of work left to do. I haven't even talked to Danny Delfino yet, and he needs to know how good he is at saxophone.”

“I thought he was a drummer.”

“He's
both
, dude, that's my point.”

“Oh wow, that is impressive. But, okay, how about you talk to Phil first and find out why he's saying all this crap about you.”

Phil is low on my list of predeath priorities. He's a mosquito buzzing at my ear.

I look to Millie. She shrugs. Guess it could be fun to swat a mosquito.

“All right, fine, but let's make it quick.”

“Yeahhhhh!” Paolo says. We move through a mass of bodies vigorously bobbing along to the music. On a couple of occasions, I catch people staring at me with full-on pity, and maybe also disgust, like I'm some kind of leper they don't want near them. We keep walking.

Though I thought my right ankle was fully healed, I may be wrong, as it feels a little stiff. Actually, my ankle up through my calf has a numb, sort of rigid feeling to it. Mildly concerning.

The jungle of people around us starts to rise and fall faster, in time with some frenetic beats. I get a glimpse of Phil across the dance floor in a green bow tie and black fedora, talking animatedly to two other dudes, just as a huge body slams into me and knocks me to the floor.

I land on one of my scraped-up elbows, and it stings. A lot.

“Dude!” Paolo says.

“Wipeout,” Willis Ellis says from where he's lying inches away. He smells like cologne and weed. “Sorry, dude. I was really feelin' it.”

“You again,” I say.

Someone spastically sashays by and almost steps on my fingers.

“Oh, heh heh, yeah. Me again.” He springs back up, surprisingly lithe for his size. “Help you up, brother?” He towers over me, this friendly ogre in a mismatched suit, his huge dreads hugged by a blue bandana.

“Uh, sure,” I say. He's pretty much proven himself to be my bad-luck charm, but I grab his hand. He yanks me to my feet. “Whoa.”

“Dude can fly!” Willis says. “Heh heh.” He's looking
down at my hand and the shifting red dots. “So cool that you're here, man. Really admirable. When my time comes, I'm just gonna sit at home, totally baked.” I extract my hand.

“You okay?” Paolo asks.

“Yeah, I think so. My elbow burns, but otherwise…” My right leg is very stiff, and I'm starting to feel some numbness in my left, too. “All good.”

“How many times can you crash into the same person?” Millie asks Willis.

“I guess a bunch,” he says.

“I mean in terms of statistical odds. Just thinking aloud.”

“Oh.” Willis scratches his ear. “Anyway, sorry, dude.”

“It's okay,” I say. “Did you ever think about maybe not smoking so much pot?”

“Why, you want some?” He reaches into the inside pocket of his brown blazer.

“No, no…Never mind.”

“I'll take some,” Paolo says.