Denton Little's Deathdate

by Lance Rubin

  Something’s weird about all this.

  “It shouldn’t matter that it’s his deathdate; your job is to protect people. Now arrest this young man. I don’t care whose grandson he is.”

  “Please don’t!” Phil wails.

  “All right, all right, hold on to your dignity, son.” HorribleCop turns to Felix. “Young man, thanks for helping out here. You can rise up off Philip, if you don’t mind.”

  Felix awkwardly scrambles up, still bearing the strange load of sports equipment. I can tell that he doesn’t trust this man either. I’ve never loved Felix more.

  HorribleCop squats down clumsily and picks up the rifle. “Evidence,” he says, though he hasn’t even bothered to put on a glove before grabbing it. “Now you get on up, too, Philip.” Phil does a strange sort of push-up, slips on some morning dew, regains his footing, and rises. “Sorry for any inconvenience this fella has caused you all,” HorribleCop says to the assembled mass of people on the front lawn, putting his arm around Phil as if it’s a family picnic, “but you can be assured the issue will be handled.”

  “You’re referring to attempted murder as an inconvenience?” my stepmom asks.

  “Now, ma’am, don’t worry. We will not be taking this lightly, and this boy will be taken to jail.”

  “Oh no,” Phil says, barely audible through his messy emotions.

  HorribleCop squeezes Phil’s shoulder, which seems less stern reprimand and more Play along. Phil shuts up.

  “Philip, why don’t you apologize to Dinton?”

  Phil looks down for a few seconds and sniffles. “I’m really sorry, dude. I didn’t think it was loaded.” He’s not making eye contact, but he sounds sincere.

  “Thanks,” I say, almost in spite of myself. I wanted to stay silent, like a real badass, but the guy seems so pathetic.

  “Don’t hate me, Taryn,” Phil says, and I’m surprised to see that she has reappeared on the front porch, now wearing one of my stepmom’s fancy silk scarves, presumably to cover her purpleness. Taryn just stares at Phil, a well-calibrated blend of anger, disappointment, and sympathy playing on her face.

  “All right, all right, come on now, Philip,” HorribleCop says as he ushers him over to his HorribleCopMobile. “Don’t worry, buddy. Grudges don’t last forever. She’ll come around.”

  HorribleCop throws the rifle into the trunk, then opens the front passenger door. He doesn’t even have the decency to put my attacker in the backseat. As Phil gets in, he looks back at me, and for a moment I think I see a flash of a cocky I’m getting away with it expression in his eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by the contrite little boy.

  We all remain still as we watch HorribleCop get in the car, turn the key in the ignition, and drive away. He beeps the horn once as he passes. I’m not even kidding.

  “Pretty cool dudes,” Paolo says, breaking the silence.

  I turn to Felix. He’s not a big hugger, but I hug him nevertheless, crushing all that random sports gear between us. “Thank you.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” he says into my ear, and, much to my surprise, I can hear that he’s crying.

  “I’m so glad you were,” I say, astounded that he cares this much.

  “I really didn’t think he was gonna pull the trigger….”

  “Lemme get in on this,” Paolo says, worming his way into our hug.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you into that, Pow,” I say. “That was terrible.”

  “You kidding? I just crossed four things off my bucket list.”

  The rest of the mob pounces, led, of course, by Stepmama Bear, who wraps her arms around me. “My brave, stupid son.”

  “I know,” I say into her shoulder.

  And then Taryn is hugging me and apologizing on a nonstop loop. “I’m so sorry Dent I ran away and I am the absolute worst I just was so overwhelmed because this was my fault that he was here it was all my fault and I thought he was gonna shoot you but I swear I didn’t run in because of the splotch I mean it was partly that but mainly I couldn’t watch him shoot you I just couldn’t so I ran inside but that was terrible of me and I’m so so sorry….”

  “It’s okay, Tar. It’s okay.”

  “I’m not going to school today,” she says. “My parents said it’s all right.”

  “Oh. Right, yeah.” I forgot that school was a thing that would still be happening for people. “Thanks.”

  “Kiss me.”

  I don’t feel like kissing her. But I do.

  I’m relieved to hear a commotion behind me, which gives me a nice excuse to stop. “Wait, I just wanna see what’s happening over there,” I say, and she looks rejected, like she doesn’t fully believe that’s why I’ve pulled away.

  Over by the tree, a small group is huddled, staring at something and talking in hushed voices. “I think I can heal it. I really do,” Millie is saying as she sits cross-legged on the grass.

  “Heal what?” I say.

  “Oh,” Millie says, startled by my sudden appearance and seemingly unsure whether or not I should be shielded from this information. “Well…This bird.”

  Next to Millie on the ground is a little bleeding bluebird, its dark pebble eyes staring blankly up at the sky.

  “Phil,” I say, remembering the loud squawk after he fired his gun. “Aw, man.”

  The bluebird’s beak is slowly opening and closing, like it’s trying to tell us something really important, but no sound comes out. Its whole body quivers.

  “Oh, poor birdie,” Taryn says, having sidled up next to me. She’s wrapped herself around my arm.

  “Does anyone have a pen? Or keys?” Millie asks, looking up at us. “I wanna try to get the bullet out.”

  I reach into my pocket for my car keys, only half believing this is a helpful idea.

  “Um…I think it’s too late,” Taryn says.

  The bluebird’s wing and beak movements slow to an almost imperceptible level, its life evaporating before our very eyes.

  Then they stop altogether.

  The bluebird’s eyes remain open, and I’m tempted to push down its eyelids to help preserve its bird dignity.

  “Poor guy,” Taryn says.

  Staring at the dead body of this little creature that was alive mere moments ago is a real trip. World’s worst magic trick.

  It must be a size thing. I’ve seen bugs die, and it’s never seemed like a big deal. But when it’s bird-size or larger, it’s freaky.

  And people-size? Man, I can’t even imagine.

  Well.

  That’s not entirely true.

  There is a memory. One my brain and I have worked hard to bury deep down and far away.

  But it surfaces. My grandma Mima at her Sitting.

  She’s on the couch, in mid-conversation. Then, all at once, she’s clutching her chest and gasping for air. And her eyes. Vulnerable, pleading, desperate. Trapped.

  A chaotic, panicky feeling descends as my brain reminds me in huge, bold, italicized, highlighted letters:

  YOU ARE PEOPLE-SIZE. THIS WILL BE YOU. JUST LIKE MIMA.

  “Hey, hey, you okay?” Felix says into my ear as I crouch over, hyperventilating. I can be held up at gunpoint for fifteen minutes, no problem, but show me a dead bluebird, and I lose my shit.

  “Yeah,” I try to say, but I think it sounds more like a grunt. I don’t know if I am okay. I might be very not okay.

  “Dent, Dent, look at me,” Felix says. My dad and stepmom are on either side of him, and it feels like everyone else has gathered, too. Don’t wanna miss the good stuff! This could be IT!

  “Whoa, what’s on his neck?” my stepmom says.

  I feel light-headed.

  I feel nauseous.

  I feel like I’m dying.

  “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 o
f 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?”