by Lance Rubin
I limp in, and it’s empty except for Mark Hofner, from my cross-country team, checking himself out at the sinks. He notices me in the mirror and turns around.
“Denton! Hey, man!”
“Hey, Mark, good to see you, dude.”
“You, too, man. Love that suit.”
“Thanks, thanks a lot.”
“Is your skin, like…okay?”
“I don’t really think so, no.”
“Oh geez. Also your shoes have some…”
“Yeah, little mishap.”
“It happens. Aw, so sorry about your death. I’ll miss you, man.”
“Thanks, Mark.”
“Fantastic that you made it to prom, though!”
“Yeah, absolutely.” I start to limp past him.
“So what else is going on?” Mark asks.
Holy crap, I’m going to die having an inane conversation with Mark Hofner. “Um. You know, not much else. The dying thing is pretty much consuming all my mental energy right now. I’m just gonna take a pee.”
“Yeah, cool. What do you think about the vibe out there? It’s more fun than I thought it would be.”
“Sorry, I really gotta pee pretty bad, so I guess I’ll just…” I awkwardly step around Mark to get to one of the stalls.
“Your legs okay, dude?” Mark asks.
“Yeah, they’re fine, just a little stiff.”
“Could be a buildup of lactic acid.”
“Maybe,” I say as I walk into the stall. Coach Mueller was always talking about lactic acid during our cross-country season.
I don’t really have to pee that bad. I give it my best shot, which results in this piddling sort of pee stream.
“Are you a shy pee-er?” Mark asks from outside the stall. “I totally am.”
“Yes,” I say. Leave, doofus! “I am the shiest pee-er around.”
Mark laughs. “Say no more, amigo. I was just heading out anyway.”
“Great, thanks.”
“Denton?”
Ohmigod, take a hint, Hofner. “Yeah, Mark?”
“I won’t forget you, dude.”
Something about the way he says it causes a lump to form in my throat. I try to say, “Thanks,” but I can’t.
Mark lingers outside the stall for about ten seconds, waiting for me to respond. Then I hear the door swing open and shut.
I am alone. I take a deep breath. I clean off my shoes. I stare at the off-white stall door. Someone has left a sticker that reads in angular red letters: DEATH BRIGADE.
I cry.
I lean against the stall wall, and I cry. My legs are feeling bad. Numb, stiff, weird. I’d love to sit down, but the toilets in this place—emphasizing the faux in faux-fancy—don’t have lids. I bend over and lift up my blue pant legs to get a better look at what’s happening.
My legs are red.
The area on my right leg from ankle to knee is no longer purple. It’s the same shade of red as the dots that used to be there. The left leg is also red, but it stops about halfway up my calf.
I look closely. The crimson is very slowly expanding up both legs, like a painstakingly deliberate knitting project. It’s so subtle you’d only notice it if you’re really looking for it, but the red dots on the purple are interweaving in this complex way, transforming the purple into red.
Red seems bad.
It’s making my legs all fucked up, I’m sure of it.
Red = dead.
I’m getting panicky real fast.
Breathe, Denton.
Own this shit.
I look down my shirt and peek at my arms. I’m relieved to see they’re still just purple, which has somehow become the new normal.
I hear the dumb DJ making some announcement in the main room, and I wonder what time it is. I take my cell phone out. It’s 10:21. The battery icon is red, like my legs, which means there’s less than ten percent power left. We’ll see who lasts longer.
I am going to die within the next hundred minutes. I don’t want to. I want more time to stand in the woods laughing with Paolo. To kiss Veronica, and to know she’s kissing me back. To sit in my room doing nothing. To get frustrated with my dad’s sweet inability to speak. To feel stifled by my stepmom. To get better closure with Taryn. To figure out how Felix actually feels about me.
Everyone else gets so much time. I don’t want to be at prom. I need to find my parents so we can get out of here, and I can have my Red Death in peace.
I put my cell phone into my suit pocket, and my hand brushes against the unread letter from my mom.
I’d completely forgotten about it.
I take it out and hold the envelope in front of me, staring at my name, written in my mom’s handwriting.
My mom’s letter is written on paper ripped from a spiral notebook. I smell it. It smells like paper.
I slide my fingers back and forth along its folded crease.
What if my mom was a bad speller? Or kind of boring? Screw it. I don’t have time to waste worrying. I unfold the letter.
My Dearest Denton,
Hello, Bonjour, Hola, Shalom, Aloha, Hello! (I’d include more, but those are all the hellos I know. Learn other languages besides English, it’s one of my biggest regrets in life.)
I’ve taken a moment away from all the hullabaloo to write to you, the little creature in my belly. It’s funny writing a letter to someone who is, technically, closer to me than any other person has ever been in my whole life. (Besides your brother.) But, in every other respect, I don’t know you at all. And I likely never will. And you won’t know me. I’m making myself get emotional, and I’ve barely started writing. Doesn’t bode well.
First, let me say that I’m sorry. Bringing you into the world, knowing I’ll be leaving you without a mother, isn’t fair. I apologize. Please don’t blame your father for that; it’s not his fault.
And, while on the subject of your father, know that he is a great man. He can be quiet and hard to read, but never doubt his greatness. I love him very much.
I also love your older brother, Felix. Listen to him, learn from him, and if he gives you a tough time, give him a tough time back. He’s the sassiest nine-year-old in the world. I can only imagine what he’ll be like when he’s older.
I’m sure you’re wondering what I was like. Barring some personality-altering stroke, I’m assuming your father hasn’t been very helpful in that respect. (If he has had some kind of stroke, I apologize for the insensitive nature of that last line.) Hopefully, he’s at least told you a few things, and now that you’re old enough (eleven? ten? maybe younger?), I’ll share some more:
—I’m supersmart.
—I’m respected by everyone.
—I’m the most beautiful woman who ever lived.
Are you familiar with the word “hyperbole” yet?
You should also know:
—I’m not perfect.
—I like to laugh.
—When I start a project, it consumes me entirely.
—I hate rude people.
Your father’s mom is outside this room asking people where I am. Your grandma’s a good but occasionally scary lady (which you likely don’t know because she’ll only be with you until you’re two), and I should probably bring this to a close so she doesn’t strangle somebody at my Sitting.
Whoa! You just kicked. Crazy. Either you’re upset at me for not writing more or you’re extremely against strangling. Both are legitimate positions.
I’m so proud of you, Denton. I know it seems ludicrous of me to write that, seeing as you haven’t even been born yet, but I know you’re destined for great things.
Whatever happens in your life, I love you. Feel free to imagine me as a happy angel sitting on your shoulder, if that helps. Or don’t. Happy angels aren’t very cool for boys. So imagine me as a happy truck on your shoulder. Or a happy dinosaur. A happy dinosaur. Please remember that. I’m with you, Denton.
All the love in the world,
Mom
I have no idea how my fath
er could have withheld this note from me. That was the voice of my actual mother. Words written by her for me. She’s funny. I like her.
Wait a second.
Happy dinosaur. Holy shit. Those two emails were from Happy Dinosaur. My mom laid out a code for me before she died. Which I never had any idea about because MY DAD NEVER GAVE ME THIS LETTER. Granted, those were both ads for erection pills, but still. Maybe that’s camouflage and I’m supposed to write back. Happy Dinosaur could be someone my mom knew.
And Blue Bronto. My beloved stuffed animal, with me from my first day in the crib, a gift from my mom: a happy blue dinosaur. She was laying groundwork for a common language people could use to communicate with me once she was gone, but my dad shit all over it. Maybe my whole life I’ve been inundated with mysterious happy dinosaur references that I’ve never understood.
I want to reread this letter at least five more times, but I know the clock is ticking, and I don’t want to die at prom. I pocket the note and unlock the stall, and I push the door outward.
It won’t budge. It’s jammed. I push harder.
“Nope,” Phil’s voice says, directly on the other side. “Sorry, Little.”
No.
“You’ve got to be kidding me, what are you…You’re holding the door shut?”
“Ha-ha, you were so busy crying you didn’t even hear me over here.” I push against the door with everything I’ve got. I get it to open a crack, but then my wobbly legs buckle, and the door slams shut. “Nice try, you smug piece of shit. Going around giving people compliments like you’re some kind of saint or something.”
“Jealous ’cause I don’t have one for you?” I say, looking around, trying to come up with any kind of plan. “Lemme out, Phil!”
“Oh yeah, I’m really jealous. It’s funny. In the end, I won’t even need a gun, just a flimsy bathroom stall.”
I step back as much as I can (which isn’t much) to get some momentum, then ram myself into the door again. It doesn’t work, and I bump my bad elbow.
“OW.”
Phil laughs.
“HELP!” I shout. “SOMEBODY!!”
“Dunno if you noticed, but that music out there is pretty loud.”
My parents are bound to wonder where I am soon. Paolo and Millie, too. And Veronica, if she’s done barfing. It can’t end like this.
“Phil, listen, I’m going to die soon. So you will get what you want. Just let me die not in here, okay?”
“Look, you won’t die in there. I’m just keeping you here till my grandpa shows up. Which should be any minute.”
“Keeping me here for your grandpa? Do you know how insane you sound? And speaking of that, why did you send your grandpa to spy on me and Taryn on the hill?”
“What the hell? What hill?”
“Oh. Never mind.” Guess that had nothing to do with him. “But, I mean, why does your grandfather care where I am?”
“He can tell you himself when he gets here. And then I can stop holding this stupid door.”
I hear the door of the bathroom open. “Hey, help!” I shout. “Help, this guy’s trapping me in here.”
“Yo, who is that? Denton?”
It’s Rick Jackson. My Facebook football buddy.
“Rick! Yes! Can you get this guy off the door?”
“Why’re you doing that?” Rick asks.
“Hey, man, please,” Phil says. “It’s really important that we keep him in there. It’s, like, official business.”
“Official what? That’s my boy in there, Denton Little. Move.”
“No, man, sorry, I can’t. Get off me!” There are sounds of a struggle.
“I said, MOVE!” I hear a loud bang, and then a body thuds to the floor. “Oh shit.”
I push the stall door and it swings open.
Rick is staring at Phil’s body, which is slumped underneath the electric hand dryer. Phil’s fedora is still on his head. He looks peaceful.
“Yo, I did not mean to throw him into that thing.”
“No, Rick, thank you so much. Thank you.”
“Do you think I should get a teacher or something?”
“I dunno. I’m sorry, just blame it on me!” I hustle away, wanting to get out before Phil regains consciousness. “Say I pushed him, say whatever! Much respect, Rick!”
I fling the bathroom door open, ready to find my family and leave, and I hobble right into Paolo.
“Oh, thank you, mother-of-God-lord-ball-sack, thank you!” Paolo says. His face is half purple, half regular, with the midway line exactly where a mustache would be. “You’re okay!”
“Hey,” I say. “We should go.”
“Whoa, you gimpin’ out on me?”
“Yeah, I don’t know what’s up. My legs are turning red.”
“Holy…The STD is getting stronger or something? Can you walk?”
“More or less.”
“Good. ’Cause, dude: you just won prom king!”
“What?”
“Yeah, man, he announced your name, like, a minute ago, and everybody freaked the eff out, went nuts. But then everyone realized they didn’t know where you were, so people freaked out harder.”
“Is Veronica okay?”
“Dude, did you hear me? You’re prom king! That’s insane! And awesome! You gotta claim your crown! And also show your mom you’re still alive, ’cause she’s starting to lose it a little bit.”
“Starting to?” I say.
“Ha, yeah, your mom’s crazy. Come on, Limpy.”
We head away from the men’s bathroom, Paolo leading, and everything feels unreal, like moving in slow motion underwater. My stepmom embraces me, my dad is low-key but concerned, you know the drill. Felix pats me on the back and congratulates me on winning an arbitrary award.
It isn’t long before we’ve been noticed by everyone else. Soon the entire room is resounding with cries of my name and wooing and applauding as all my peers move to opposite sides of the dance floor to make way for me. I’d like to leave, but instead I limp up this newly created pathway toward the DJ’s podium, high-fiving people.
Winning prom king is great, I guess, but at this moment, it feels more like an inconvenience.
I’m moving incredibly slowly. The celebratory wooing gradually diminishes into the awkward sound of concern. I finish my pathetic walk to the winners’ circle or whatever it is. Standing there, smiling in a tiara, is Chantel Prescott.
“Hey, King,” she says.
“Hi,” I say. I’m not gonna call her Queen.
Standing next to her is Lindsay Feldstein, the class president and someone I’ve known since first grade. I’m assuming she was the one who read the ballot results. “Yay, Denton!” she says, her tiny hands making fists in the air.
“Thanks, Lindsay,” I say.
“We ready?” the DJ asks Lindsay, who nods. “And here he is, ladies and germs,” the DJ says into his microphone. “Your prom king!” Raucous cheers are back as Lindsay places the plastic crown on my head. The DJ holds the microphone to the side and asks me what my name is.
“Seriously?” I say.
“Um, yeah, kid, seriously.” He seems confused. “I want to announce it for all your friends.”
“You don’t remember doing my funeral yesterday? You messed up my name, like, eighteen times?”
Heavy DJ Man looks at me, sweat dripping down his face, the sequins on his vest reflecting the room’s neon lights. “Oh yeah, sorry about that, didn’t recognize you with the…” He gestures to my purple skin. “You’re still going, that’s great, kid. Darren, right?”
“Are you joking? I feel like you’re doing a comedy bit.”
“It’s not Darren?”
“DENTON. All right? My name is Denton Little.”
“Isn’t that what I said?” the DJ asks, followed by a quick wink.
“No,” I say, even though he’s stopped listening.
“Your prom king,” the DJ repeats into his microphone. “DENTOOOOOOOON LITTLE!” People cheer. A low r
umbling chant of “SPEECH! SPEECH!” begins and quickly grows louder.
“We get to speak?” Chantel says to Lindsay.
Playing to the crowd, the DJ puts the microphone in front of my face, and everyone goes nuts. I don’t take the bait. I smile and wave, trying to keep my balance as my legs shake beneath me.
The crowd turns on me in an instant, and the booing begins.
“Give him a break!” I hear my stepmom yell over the boos.
I take the microphone out of the DJ’s hand. “All right, all right.” The boos die down. “I, uh…This is really nice. I guess. Thanks. Even if it is just a pity vote.” I pause for a second, in case someone wants to shout out that it’s not a pity vote. No one does. “I’ve been lucky enough to make it this far in the day, but I’m gonna die any minute now. Well, lucky might not be the right word. I’m scared. I’m losing feeling, like, in my legs, and I’m very scared. You guys are the lucky ones, Livin’ It Up at prom. I’m…Well, I should go. Take care, everyone.”
Did I just tell my classmates to “take care”?
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Paolo says, blocking my path. “Stay right there, Mr. Little.” He gestures to the DJ, who shrugs back at him. “What we talked about!” Paolo says.
“What did you talk about?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t you like to know…,” Paolo says.
A high-pitched organ resounds from the speakers, followed by the familiar opening lyrics: “Bone Bone Bone Bone…BONE Bone BONE Bone BONE.” Everyone on the dance floor is looking at each other, most with an Uh, what is this? look. But it’s definitely familiar to me and Paolo.
“Dude,” I say.
“What, man? If there’s not gonna be any spontaneous dance numbers, we gotta make our own! Louder, DJ guy!”
A long time ago, when we were in eighth grade, Paolo’s love of old hip-hop led him to this song called “Tha Crossroads,” by a group called Bone Thugs-n-Harmony. The song is all about death, about a rapper named Eazy-E who died, with a chorus that goes, “I’ll see you at the crossroads, crossroads, crossroads, so you won’t be lonely.” Since Paolo and I knew we’d be dying right around the same time, we imagined that we’d literally be able to see each other at these proverbial crossroads, which cracked us up, and was also genuinely comforting. It unofficially became our song. (I know, we have a song.)
