Denton Little's Deathdate

by Lance Rubin

  “Denton, you did great, and you don’t have time. You’re supposed to meet up with Paolo.”

  “No, no, he can wait, it’s fine, really. Wanna do this again?”

  Taryn plops down onto the couch next to me, fully clothed. “I’m not really in the mood, Dent. I love you, but I don’t just want to be some sex object so you can feel like you did it correctly.”

  “That’s not it at all. I wanna make you feel good.”

  Taryn puts her hands on my face. “Denton, you made me feel so good. And you make me feel so good. And I…” She starts to cry.

  “I know, I know, I won’t be able to come to prom, I’m sorry.”

  “Not that, you just…” Taryn wipes her nose with her hand. “You’re…Oh.”

  “I’m ‘oh’?”

  But Taryn is looking at my lower half, transfixed. I want to believe it’s because she’s awed and astounded by my manhood, which has just rocked her world, but it’s pretty clear that isn’t the case.

  The splotch is again spreading, across my waist, down my left leg, and even, yes, over my manhood.

  “Aw, man, it’s purpling my balls.”

  We watch as the ink stain comes to a halt, having given me a strange pair of purple-skin pants. Taryn is a combination of scared, delighted, and grossed out. “This is so weird.”

  “It’s not a big deal. This always happens to me. It’s this allergy thing I get in the springtime.”

  “Really?”

  “No!”

  I am hyperventilating a little because this creeping discoloration is really freaky. And I’m not ready for it to kill me. I lean back against the couch, feeling the rough stripes of the fabric against my back.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Taryn says. “I thought you might have just put that together.”

  “No,” I say. I’m starting to regain my normal breathing patterns when I look down and see something horrible. Once again, I find myself without words.

  “What?” Taryn says, following my sight line down to her thigh.

  She shrieks. And rightfully so. Because on her thigh is a reddish-bluish-purplish splotch just like mine.

  I hide my nakedness behind the couch as Taryn talks up the basement stairs to her parents, who came to check on us when their only daughter started screaming like a lunatic.

  “No, we’re really okay. Denton played a joke on me, and it scared me more than he meant it to.”

  Yeah, funny joke, right? I gave Taryn the splotch! Hilarious!

  “Denton’s okay?” Taryn’s mom asks. “He’s not…”

  “Dead? No, he’s doing fine.”

  Attagirl, way to embrace the d-word.

  “Don’t be rude now, Taryn.”

  “I’m not being rude, Mom! I’m just being realistic.”

  But the basement door is already closed.

  Taryn pops her head over the sofa, looking down on me in my naked crouch. “I don’t know how I played it so cool, because this is really bad! What is this? Are we both dying?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I mean, you’re not dying. Your deathdate isn’t for decades—”

  “SIX decades!”

  “So there you go; you’re not dying.”

  “But don’t you think it’s a little weird that we had sex and I immediately got this splotch thing that you have?”

  Yes. Yes, I do. I think it’s very weird. I’m freaking out. I STDed you. I think I STDed you. “No, it’s not that weird.”

  “Do you think it’s an STD?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  If I were half a man, now would be the time to tell Taryn about Veronica. But I can’t. I just can’t. It’s scummy and embarrassing and hurtful and what the hell did Veronica give me?

  Taryn is meticulously examining her splotch, and I notice something.

  “You don’t have the dots.”

  “What?” Taryn looks up, hair in her face.

  “The little bright red dots that I have. You don’t have those.”

  We sit side by side on the couch and compare our purple skin. My network of electric red dots is bigger than ever, and one touch anywhere on my legs shifts the whole lot of them, still in perfect formation. But Taryn’s splotch looks more like an ordinary rash.

  “So mine is kinda different,” Taryn says.

  “Yeah, definitely different.”

  “Maybe it’s just an allergic reaction.”

  “I bet it is.”

  Taryn takes two deep breaths, wipes away some tears, and looks at me. “Why are you still naked?”

  “It’s around here somewhere,” Paolo’s mom mutters into the pantry.

  I’m sitting at Paolo’s kitchen table, feeling like I’m eight years old again, the morning after a Pow-Dent sleepover. I’d usually wake up first and pad out to the kitchen table to chat with Paolo’s mom as she cooked mind-blowing chocolate chip pancakes.

  Currently, though, she’s sifting through shelves, looking for some anti-anxiety supplement thing she thinks might help me. (Apparently, I seem anxious. Who knew.) Paolo isn’t home yet. He’s off working on “a surprise” for me. A sweet gesture, but unless it’s some kind of life-lengthening elixir, I don’t think I’m interested.

  “Aha!” she says. “Here it is.”

  “So, it’s like Xanax, or something?”

  “Gosh, no, I wouldn’t give you that garbage. This is herbal, from my homeopath.” Paolo’s mom turns around, a proud smile on her face, unscrewing the lid on a white container. “Take two. They will absolutely make you feel better.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I say, downing the pills with a swig of water. I do feel better, almost immediately.

  “Right?” Paolo’s mom says to me.

  “Yeah, those are amazing.”

  “Picture?” she asks as she grabs her digital camera off the counter. She hardly goes anywhere without her camera.

  “Oh, ha-ha, sure.” I smile from my place at the kitchen table as the flash burns my retinas.

  “It’s a keeper,” she says, looking down at the screen. She stares at it intently, and I see her tear up a little bit, which catches me off guard. I feign a sudden interest in the plaque above the sink that says THE DIAZ FAMILY.

  “Mom, didn’t we talk about this?” Paolo says as he appears in the kitchen, a big plastic bag in his hand. “How we’re gonna limit the number of cries per day?”

  “I know, I know.” Paolo’s mom sniffles. “Just thinking about you two, how much fun you used to have…One quick picture, then I’ll leave you boys alone.” She snaps a shot of me and Paolo smiling uncomfortably. “Denton, you are a gem. I’ll see you at your Sitting.”

  As she heads out of the kitchen, Veronica heads in, and my insides leap. Mother and daughter narrowly avoid bumping into each other before Veronica sees me in the kitchen and changes her direction.

  “You can come in here,” I call out to her, but I know she won’t.

  “Don’t mind her,” Paolo says, reaching down into his big bag. “She’s been superweird since your funeral. I think she’s gonna miss saying mean things to you.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “That, or she’s moping about being apart from her boyfriend.”

  “Wait, Veronica’s got a boyfriend?”

  “You know, some college thing. Okay, so I have in this bag a final parting gift for you. Ready?” He unfolds this huge rectangular cloth canvas, which he’s covered with photos and images and his signature awesome cartoon drawings. When I look closely, I see that it’s got references to all these different moments and events in my life, to movies I love, to inside jokes we’ve had.

  “Wow. This is amazing.”

  “I know, right? It’s for your coffin.”

  “Oh. That’s why it’s shaped like that.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  I don’t like thinking about my body underground in a coffin, even with this amazing me-collage on top of it. It’s still preferable to cremation, though. Body burned into nothingness? No thanks!


  “Thanks, Pow.”

  “On to more important things: you and Taryn get nasty again?”

  “We…did.” Unlike Paolo, who’s pretty graphic in describing his sexual adventures, I’m not much of a kiss-and-teller. It makes me uncomfortable, like I’m exposing my most vulnerable self in casual conversation. Not to mention that Veronica could be overhearing everything we’re saying. I should at least throw Paolo something. “And it was good.”

  “Just good?”

  “It was great, okay? But then…”

  I tell Paolo about the splotch that was on Taryn, how freaked she was, and how—with an awkward kiss and a “See you at my Sitting”—I had to leave her mid-freak-out to come here.

  “Holy crap, dude, that sucks.”

  “I know.”

  “She really did STD you!”

  “Or maybe I gave something to her.” I sigh. I walk to the fridge, all nervous energy, and take inventory, hoping for some kind of cranberry juice.

  “No, man, I mean—just finished the cran-apple this morning, sorry, hombre—maybe she gave it to you yesterday!”

  “Right. Look…Taryn and I didn’t sleep together yesterday.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “We didn’t.”

  “Did you have sex today?”

  “We did.”

  “But not yesterday.”

  “Not yesterday.”

  Paolo has plopped down at the kitchen table, thinking really hard about all this.

  “You said you had sex yesterday, though.”

  “Well…I did have sex yesterday.”

  Paolo is thoughtful, then astounded. “Dude…” He is speaking very quietly. “Are you telling me you got yourself a prostitute?” He mouths the word prostitute.

  “No! What? No!”

  “You said you had sex that wasn’t with Taryn, so I don’t know!”

  “Okay, okay, look, I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but I had sex with…” I shake my head toward the kitchen door twice.

  “Why are you jerking your head around like that? I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “No, look at me, I had sex with…” And I again give my head two violent shakes toward the living room as I simultaneously point with my finger.

  “No…,” Paolo mutters.

  I shrug.

  “You did it with my mom?” Paolo whispers.

  I’m about to violently disagree when the door opens and Paolo’s mom walks in.

  “Sorry to interrupt again. Left some work stuff in here.”

  Paolo is completely still as she rifles through a stack of papers near the phone. “Oh,” he says. “Cool. Yeah.”

  He stares at me with a mixture of discomfort, disgust, and awe.

  “Got it,” Paolo’s mom says, holding a notebook. “So serious in here.”

  She walks out.

  “Wow,” Paolo says, shaking his head in wonder. “You could cut that sexual tension with a knife! Can’t believe I never noticed it. I mean, it makes sense in a way. I could see myself doing it with your mom if she weren’t married.”

  “Whoa, whoa, stop, stop. Ew, man.”

  “Oh, so you can do it with my mom”—Paolo realizes how loud he’s being and reins it in—“but when I even mention returning the favor with yours, you get all squirmish.”

  “Squirmish is not a word, and I absolutely did NOT do it with your mom. Geez, dude, give me some credit here.”

  Question marks hover over Paolo’s head. “You didn’t do it with my mom?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, so what was all the—” Paolo stops short, looking as if he’s just seen someone rub feces on his bike. “Veronica.”

  I grimace.

  “My pure sister, Veronica…”

  “I’m sorry, dude.”

  “Tainted. By you.”

  “Okay, let’s not—”

  “Oh man…”

  “Is this weird?”

  “A little!” Paolo’s eyes bug out for a second like a cartoon.

  “Weirder than me doing your mom?”

  “Uh, yeah. It’s my sister!”

  “Okay, well, your logic system is different than mine, but in any case, I’m sorry. To be completely honest, I don’t even remember it happening.”

  Which, I have to say, is quickly becoming one of the great tragedies of my life. I’m harboring all the guilt and shame of being a cheater without any of the awesome memories of the sex itself.

  “You don’t even remember? Wait. I was with you the whole time Veronica was here, then my mom drove you home.”

  “What? No, man. I woke up in your house this morning.”

  “This house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shame on you, dude!”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “So you came back?”

  “I don’t remember getting in your mom’s car in the first place.” Do I? There’s a fuzzy memory trying to make itself known in my brain.

  “Look, all I know is I said good night to you and my mom and went to sleep as you guys were heading out the front door. Right after you made those prank calls.”

  “Prank calls?”

  “You gotta remember that! You called almost every pizza place in town, said you were a state official and that pizza was being banned? Enzo was really upset.”

  “Enzo of Enzo’s Pizza?”

  “Yeah, dude. It was amazing.” Paolo takes out a pack of clove cigarettes, pops one in his mouth, and lights it up right there in the kitchen. It’s a little startling, as it’s a new habit.

  “You’re allowed to smoke in the house?”

  “I guess so,” he says, and I’m suddenly impressed that, considering how much his mom spoils him, Paolo didn’t grow up to be more of a dick. “Just like you were allowed to stay here so you could bang my sister.”

  “Paolo, I’m sorry, really.”

  “And then you banged Taryn today! It’s like, that’s not right, you know?” He gestures frenetically with his clove. “Messing around with my sister’s heart.”

  “She seems to be doing fine, Pow. She doesn’t even wanna look at me.”

  “Yeah, ’cause her heart’s been messed with!”

  “But she’s got some boyfriend, so who cares? I mean, what about my heart, you know? Which, may I add, won’t be beating for much longer?”

  Paolo exhales a stream of sweet-smelling clove smoke. “It’s okay, D. I’m just joking around.”

  But I’m not sure if he is, and frankly, I don’t think he knows either.

  “I don’t mean to get all worked up about this,” Paolo says. “Maybe it’s just because Veronica’s always had a crush on you for, like, forever.”

  “Really?” Whoa. My heartbeat quickens.

  “Nah, of course not really.”

  “Oh.”

  “I always thought she genuinely hated you, actually. That’s why this is so shocking. You want one of these?”

  “No thanks. Trying to stay substance-free for my last hours so I can die in a clear-minded state.” Also, cloves give me a headache.

  “I hear ya. Definitely not the way I’m gonna do it, though. I have the total opposite philosophy.” He drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I might try to OD, bro.”

  “I hope you’re kidding.”

  Paolo raises his eyebrows and shrugs while inhaling his clove. The multitasking throws him off, and he has a coughing fit.

  “Anyone dying in there?” Paolo’s mom shouts from the hall.

  “Nope, all good,” I say.

  Paolo takes a sip of my water. “Hey,” he says. “Are you supersure you wanna remain substance-free?”

  “Yeah, no clove for me.”

  “I’m not talking about a clove. I’m talking about this little friend I brought.” He says the last part in a high-pitched funny voice as he opens up the pack to reveal a joint nestled in cozily amongst the cloves. “You did my sister, dude, you owe me at least a hit.”

  I first smoked pot a few mont
hs ago. It’s fine, but I don’t think it works on me. I end up sitting there asking “Wait, so what did you say it should feel like?” way too many times.

  “You’re actually guilting me into doing this?”

  “I dunno, you actually did my sister, so…”

  “All right, all right, fine, one hit.”

  “Hooray!” he says in the high-pitched voice, pulling the joint out and making it soar over our heads like a rocket ship. “Wheeeeee!”

  “But I’ve got some serious stuff I wanna talk to you about, so don’t get too high. And I wanna get back to my house a bit before midnight so I can talk to my dad.”

  “Cooly, let’s head out to W-Town. Lemme take a whiz and grab my bowl.” W-Town is short for WoodsTown, the name we invented for this spot in the woods behind Paolo’s house. (And, yes, I have a special hangout spot with both my girlfriend and my best friend. Joke away.)

  “Why do you need your bowl? You have the joint.”

  “Extra for me. Hee hee! Could you be a dear and grab a paper clip from my mom’s office? For bowl-cleaning purposes? Thank you forever!” Paolo says in a goofy voice as he closes the bathroom door behind him.

  I walk down the hall to Paolo’s mom’s office. No one responds when I knock on the door, so I let myself in.

  Before Paolo got his own computer, he and I used to spend hours in here playing on his mom’s computer, random games and stupid instant-message conversations. It’s pretty much how I remember it, except that it seems smaller now. There’s a huge shelf of books, a desk with a computer, and a large filing cabinet next to that. Paolo’s mom works as the librarian at Bridge Road Elementary, one of the two grade schools in our town, and when I was young, I never fully understood why an elementary school librarian needed a full office. Now I get that this is probably less of a work-related room and more of a place where Paolo’s mom can be alone with her thoughts and pay bills or whatever it is adult people need to get done.

  She’s an impressive lady, having raised Paolo and Veronica totally on her own. No one talks about Paolo’s dad much, but from the little information I’ve gathered, I know that he left Paolo’s mom before Veronica had turned one and before Paolo was even born. Lame. Paolo’s mom has had boyfriends over the years, but none of them have stuck around all that long. The sadness of the entire situation is hitting me for the first time.